GRIEF: Learning to Live With Jim’s Absence

Right now, I need to recover from the shocking loss of my best friend, Jim.

For the first time, I think I truly understand people who have experienced this kind of loss—the death of a spouse, a family member, a best friend, a mentor, or simply someone whose presence had become woven into the ordinary fabric of daily life. In one sense, I was never dependent on Jim. Financially, I will be fine. Socially and practically, my circumstances will remain mostly the same. I can take care of myself, and I have done so for most of my adult life. But grief has very little to do with financial or practical dependency.

What I lost was presence. For the past six years, I had grown accustomed to knowing that Jim was simply there. He might be in another room of the house, doing his own thing while I did mine. We didn't have to constantly talk or entertain each other. There was comfort simply in knowing that another human being was nearby and available. Now that presence is gone, and that may be what I mourn most—the disappearance of something so ordinary that I barely noticed how important it had become.

I Have Lived Alone Before

The truth is that before Jim, I was accustomed to living alone. I did it for many, many years. There were exceptions. My sister Ruby and I lived together for about ten years. Joey stayed with me for around two years. And then there was Jim, who shared my home and my life for six years. But Jim's departure is different from all the others.

My separation from my sister was mutually understood, and she lived nearby. I could see her whenever I wanted. Joey's departure eventually came as a relief because living together had become difficult. In both cases, separation did not mean disappearance. The people were still somewhere in the world. Death is different.

This is the first time death has separated me from someone who had become part of my everyday home life. There was no gradual moving away, no goodbye at the door, no possibility of calling later or visiting next week. It feels like a sharp-edged knife suddenly cutting the connection between Jim and me. Yesterday he belonged to the world I knew. Today he does not. And that is terrible to comprehend.

The First Night

I was nearly hysterical after learning of Jim's death yesterday. I didn't sleep the entire night. Eventually, sometime in the early morning, exhaustion gave me perhaps two hours of sleep. Even now, I am badly sleep-deprived. I didn't feel like eating. Instead, I searched for things that might ease the pain, even temporarily.

I wrote. I wrote whatever came into my mind—memories, observations, questions, regrets, anger, logic, anything my brain could produce about Jim. Writing gave the grief somewhere to go. One minute I blamed him for his unhealthy lifestyle. The next minute I imagined completely different versions of the past. What if Jim and I had never crossed paths? What if I had not followed my compassionate instincts when our lives intersected? Perhaps I would have been spared this pain.

But that thought contains its own contradiction. To erase today's grief, I would also have to erase six years of companionship. I would have to erase all those ordinary days when simply knowing Jim was nearby gave me comfort. I cannot remove the painful ending without also removing the years that came before it. Perhaps grief is the price we eventually pay for having allowed another person to matter.

Old Ways and Older Wisdom

Last night, I was tempted to return to one of my old coping habits: getting into the car and driving around aimlessly, hoping movement and changing scenery would keep my brain from thinking about Jim. But it was already dark. I was exhausted and emotionally overwhelmed, and I knew that driving under those circumstances wasn't wise. Age, at least, has given me that much wisdom.

When I was younger, I might have searched desperately for someone, somewhere, or something that could distract me from emotional pain. But those old methods no longer fit the person I have become. So I turned to safer and quieter things. I meditated. I read. I listened to an audiobook. I watched videos. I spent more time than usual on social media and even updated some reels I had withheld from posting over the past few days. I spoke with my older sister and brother, and those conversations helped. Eventually, exhaustion took over and I slept for a little while—not much, but enough to get me through the night.

Getting Out Into the World

Today, I felt that I needed to move. Not necessarily to exhaust myself or somehow outrun the sadness, but simply to remind my body that life is still moving. I checked my blood sugar and blood pressure because I know stress can affect both. They were slightly elevated, but nothing alarming. The sky was cloudy when I stepped outside. I checked on my plants before getting into the car and driving to Starbucks. And now I am sitting here writing this journal entry.

Around me are mostly senior citizens absorbed in their conversations. I don't know them, and they don't know what happened to me yesterday. They are simply talking, drinking coffee, laughing, and going about their lives. Strangely, their presence comforts me. Maybe that is something I will do more often now—place myself among people without necessarily needing anything from them. I don't have to talk to anyone. Sometimes it is enough to hear voices, see people moving around, and be reminded that I am still part of the living world.

After my coffee, I may go to the park or the beach, but I don't want one of my strenuous walks today. I don't need to challenge myself physically to counter the heaviness emotionally. A gentle walk will be enough. Later, perhaps I'll visit the library. In the afternoon, I might go to the theater and watch *The Odyssey*. Small destinations, small activities, one hour followed by another. For now, that is enough.

I Don't Have to Perform My Grief

One thing I want to avoid is turning grief into a performance—even for myself. I don't have to prove how much Jim meant to me by suffering as dramatically or as long as possible. Neither do I need to pretend that everything is fine. There must be a middle ground where I can acknowledge the terrible reality of his absence while continuing to live.

One thought has been strangely helpful. Sometimes I imagine that Jim simply moved away, almost like a tenant who decided not to renew his lease. My mind knows that isn't what happened, of course, but emotionally the image makes his empty room a little easier to understand. He is simply no longer here.

There is also some comfort in knowing that his death was apparently quick. There was no prolonged period of suffering like the painful declines I witnessed with people I loved before him. There were no months of watching him slowly disappear. His departure was sudden, shocking, and cruel to those of us left behind, but perhaps mercifully brief for him. I can find some comfort in that.

Grief Has Its Own Schedule

I know from experience that the sharpest emotional pain eventually eases. But I also know I cannot command grief to disappear within a certain number of days. Maybe tomorrow will be easier. Maybe next week will be harder. A photograph, an empty room, a familiar sound, or an ordinary habit might suddenly bring everything back, and I will allow that to happen.

The goal isn't to erase Jim from my thoughts. The goal is to reach the point where remembering him no longer destroys the rest of the day. Eventually, my routines will return. But I don't want to return to the unhealthy coping habits of my youth. I want to rely on the quieter routines I have developed with age—writing, reading, walking, gardening, meditation, prayer, meaningful conversation, and simply allowing time to do what time does.

The daylight helps me. At night, when the house feels different and Jim's absence becomes more obvious, meditation and prayer can become my anchors.

Returning to a Life I Once Knew

Perhaps what is happening now is, in practical terms, a return to my old way of living: living alone. I have done it before. The difference is that six years with Jim changed what "alone" feels like. Before him, solitude was normal. After six years of companionship, solitude has to be learned again. And so I pray that God will become the safe anchor that Jim's physical presence provided in the house.

I also remind myself that I still have options. I have been thinking about visiting my old home, where there is an abundance of family and company. I am capable of making that trip, and I have the resources to do it. But before making major decisions, I need time.

There are practical matters here that eventually need my attention. I have two properties to manage. My condo is already producing rental income, and eventually I will have to decide what to do with the house. Perhaps I could continue an arrangement similar to what I had with Jim and have a paying roommate. Perhaps I could rent the entire house. Those decisions can wait until my mind is clearer.

The house itself will eventually need cleaning. There may be repairs. And then there are Jim's belongings. I tried to enter his room and begin cleaning today. I couldn't do it. The grief came rushing back, and I felt overwhelmed, so I stopped and walked away. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe next week. There is no reason his room has to be emptied today. For now, the room can remain as it is.

For Today

That is where my mind is today. Yesterday, Jim was here. Today, I am learning what the house feels like without him. I don't know exactly how long this adjustment will take, and perhaps I don't need to know. I only need to get through this particular day without demanding too much from myself.

Drink my coffee. Sit among people. Take a gentle walk. Visit the library. Maybe watch a movie. Eat something. Rest when I can. Write when the sadness needs somewhere to go. Pray when words are no longer enough. These are small things, but perhaps small things are enough for today.

And when I return home, I will enter a house that feels painfully different from the house I knew only a few days ago. But it is still my home. My life is still here. Jim's chapter in it has ended in a way I never expected, but the six years he shared with me have not been erased by his death. They have simply become memories now, and that is something my heart has not yet learned how to accept.

Perhaps that is what grieving really is: the slow process of teaching the heart what the mind already knows.

Jim is gone. I am still here.

And for today, being here is enough.


Right now, I need to recover from the shocking loss of my best friend, Jim.
2026-08-07 21:09:38
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