Anthony Died

I hadn't spoked to Loli for quite a while, so it was nice to hear from her. I forget what we talked about to start with, as pretty soon into the conversation she asked,

"So how is it about Anthony dying?"

"I'm sorry," I said. "Anthony?"

"Your... Anthony," she said.

"What do you mean he died?"

"Jules told me when he called the other day," said Loli. “You didn’t know?”

I was in shock, I am sure. "When did he die?"

"Recently. I don't really know the details, as I said Jules mentioned it during a call the other day. Apparently, Matt told him."

Anthony was the first boyfriend I had when I first came out onto the gay scene. He was the first boyfriend I got to hold hands with out in public, well, gay public, at a club, on the scene. We were young and handsome and cute together and we got to lead each other by hand out drinking at pubs. It was a first for me. I assume it was a first for him. He was the first guy I liked when I came out. I still remember sneaking looks at him and we sat and drank our beers and observed the people around us. It was exciting, exciting new times.

I was in my first house, having moved out of home, and he was the reason I came out to my housemates. He was lovely.

But, as a boyfriend, he proved to be elusive and hard to pin down. And eventually he never seemed to be available when I wanted him to be around and I came to accept the idea that I had to give up on the idea of he and I, eventually. There was some pain in that letting go. The idea of what could have been had to go.

And we lost contact. 

I met Mark after that, and life moved on

When I went out with Mark, Mark reintroduced Anthony and I, after a chance meeting.

And Anthony became one of my circle of friends. He was a part of our partying days, dance parties, drugs, all of us having far too much fun.

Anthony always got me. I never had to explain anything to him, he just understood. We’d laugh so much together. We had the same dark sense of humour. He and Tom (both dead now) were my two great friends. Everybody loved Anthony for his smart, cool, witty ways. He rolled great joints, he and Fergus (also dead) And no one made bigger lines of speed than Anthony.

“Isn’t that a bit much?”

“No, get it into you,” Anthony would say.

And then when we’d all survived our partying days, Anthony began to display mental health issues and he disappeared and we lost contact again.

Fast forward some years, and one day I got a hand written note delivered in my letterbox. I was very pleased to hear from him.

Then he came to visit, a bloated wreck of his former self. (I was shocked)

When he withdrew from all of us, he decided to change his life and he went back to uni. Unfortunately, he took out a 150 thousand loan against his mortgage free house (sadly in the fog of mental health decline) and, apparently, pretty soon after that he began to display signs of serious mental health issues. To cut this bit short, he dropped out of uni, defaulted on his loan and lost his house. He spent a considerable time in mental health facility.

When he came out, or was released, he had no choice but to go and live with his mother.

He was disappointed with his life, he’d lost everything, and he started drinking.

He started to suffer from pancreatitis and spent several periods in the Maroondah hospital because of it, during which time I visited him. I don’t think ever really accepting that his drinking was to blame.

One day, after I had questioned him about how much he drank, he replied, “I never have anything before lunch, um?” He smiled something reminiscent of that cheeky smile to which I was first attracted. “Well, certainly never before morning tea.”

“Every day?”

He laughed. “Most days.”

“Every day.”

He smiled nervously.

I thought we had some special connection, despite it all? Always. He and I. Lovers. Then friends. Always on the same page. Always knowing what the other was about. But, apparently not, we didn’t.

I called Jules. “I thought I was the last person to know,” Jules said. “I thought you’d have all know long before I heard.”

“No, I didn’t know.”

“I’m surprised,” said Jules. “I never thought you wouldn’t know."

“No.”

“You’ll have to call Matt, he was the one who told me.”

I called Matt. Apparently, he’d seen someone mention Anthony’s death on Facebook, even if he couldn’t really remember who.

“It was cancer,” said Matt. 

I assumed, pancreatic cancer.

"He'd turned into such a nasty drunk at the end that I stopped communicating with him," I said.

"Yeah, you're not the only one to say that," said Matt.

"I mean really awful stuff. Just abusive."

"He'd given up drinking at the end." Matt told me that Anthony had been calling people up trying to make amends for his past behaviour, I think that is what hurt. “He was trying to make amends for his bad behaviour.”

I heard myself mumble, "He never called me."

I wasn't worth a fucking phone call?

Clearly, I was wrong about our relationship.

I've thought about it, and unless a letter was delivered to me by one of his sisters stating he couldn't face me, then this can't be fixed. There is a part of me, not a main part, not a significant part, but a part deep down which is hurt and can't be placated.

David will give me all sorts of reasons, (he is arriving immanently) but it can't be fixed now, no, it's brutal, sure. Death is brutal. There is no going back for explanations. I wasn't one of the people Anthony cared enough about to give a call to at the end, that is just the cold hard truth I am left with.