Some moments stay with us forever. Princess Diana. Michael Jackson. The Twin Towers. I can still remember exactly where I was when I learned what had happened.

Last Friday, another moment was added to that list.  My wife looked at her phone, her face suddenly changed and she said, “Jason Arday is dead.” I felt a deep sadness that did not leave me for the rest of the evening, maybe because I had feared this might happen.

Much has already been written about him, so there is no need for me to add anymore.

I remember when my sister-in-law Sonia died of cancer over twenty years ago, leaving a huge void in our family.

During the wake, I spoke with her sister-in-law about my brother and their two children. She said something that has stayed with me ever since.

Morton, after the funeral, when the attention and visits have faded, that is when they will need you most, once everyone else has gone back to their lives.

Visit them, take them out for dinner, just be there. That is when they will need you. She was right. I did exactly that, and I still do.

I don’t know Jason or anyone in his family, but when the dust has settled, and things quiet down, that is when they will need support, the occasional call or visit.

Jason’s experience and treatment over the past few years since his appointment and even more so in recent weeks, since the plagiarism claims,  has been horrendous.

I keep thinking that the next time someone is hounded by the media, we as a community must find a way to shield and protect them from such intense media scrutiny and nefarious behaviour.

I don’t know how it can be done, but something needs to change because whatever the circumstances, this was too high a price to pay.

There was a vigil on Monday in Leicester Square, and the turnout was impressive. I expect that those who should show remorse and take responsibility for their contribution to what happened to Jason will not be there.

But that matters little compared to what will happen three weeks from now, two months from now, when all the fanfare has died down. Christmas will come, and with it the family rituals that have shaped his forty-one years.

When Jason’s family gather at the table at Christmas (if they spent that time together), and see his empty seat, they’ll remember conversations, and the  jokes. Those will be difficult moments.

His wife and children will never hear his key in the door again. The children will never run into their parents’ room to find dad sleeping, or just relaxing. There will be no early morning chats he may have with his wife, no more laughter no more of those small intimate family moments.

The phone will never ring with his voice on the other end and  that familiar “hey, it’s me.” Not to his parents, not to family, not to friends. I expect will be hard.

That is what I grieve for: that he will never know the pain and impact his passing has had on those close to him and no doubt extended family and friends. Why does take situations like this for us to realise the impact we have had on people’s lives

His wife and children will never hear his key in the door again. The children will never run into their parents’ room to find him sleeping, or just relaxing. There will be no more early morning chats with his wife, no more laughter, no more of those small, intimate family moments.

The phone will never ring with his voice on the other end with the familiar “hey, it’s me,” not to his parents, not to family, not to friends. That, I expect, will be the hardest part.

That is what I grieve for: that he will never know the impact his passing has caused those close to him, and no doubt on extended family and friends too. Why does it take situations like this for us to realise it?

That said, in the end we will move on with our lives, dealing with our own present-day emergencies.

But theirs will continue, as it often does, with grief by their side.

I will leave this here.

Until we meet.

Morton