This week's Changing Track is for Simon.

In early 2005 I went to our local soccer club to watch the boys in a pre-season friendly. I arrived and leaned against the fence next to a friend and team-mate, Nick, who said very casually, "did you hear about Jase? He was hit by a car on Friday night. The doctors have him in a coma. Broken arm and some other stuff but he's going to be okay." As one of Jason's best mates, Nick didn't seem worried, so I wasn't either.

Jason was only 20, 8 years younger than me. We'd put him up for a few months in Geelong to help him out, and he'd only been in Melbourne a couple of months. He was everything young guys often are; energetic, funny, optimistic and sometimes useless (using a clothes drier on a 35 degree January day!)

Soon we heard that Jason was actually in a lot more trouble. His body was badly hurt, but his brain was the worry. Things weren't good at all. A few days after that weirdly casual conversation at the soccer club, I was working and my wife called. "They think Jason's going to die. They think he'll die soon. We have to go to Melbourne to say goodbye." My mind caved in, unable to make any sense of it. The night Jason was hit he was meant to be at our house playing board games. He took a raincheck to go out for dinner with mates. This couldn't be real. I got into the car and turned the radio off. I knew then that I didn't want any song to forever remind me of that trip to the Alfred.

We arrived an hour later to a weirdly buoyant mood in the intensive care unit. There'd been some movement; a finger twitched or something. Jase's friends and family, some who'd never met each other, hugged, cried, laughed and assured each other that "he'll be okay."

But he wasn't. Over days and weeks it was an awful ride of false hopes and the lowest lows. Eventually, agonisingly, it became obvious this vibrant young man's light.. was out. We'd never see our beloved friend wake up. He was moved to palliative care... Machines would be turned off and feeding would end. Cruelly, Jason's body wasn't relying on the machines to keep him alive, so he would have to starve to death. Knowing this would take many days, and knowing I wouldn't be able to cope with being there until the end, I made one final visit, to say my last goodbyes. Sitting alone with my friend, who slept in front of me, I made my peace as best I could. This would be the last time I would see him. I said goodbye and left.

A week later I took a call I'll never forget, and wish I never had to receive. It was Jason's mum. "Simon, Jason's not going. He's a stubborn bugger. Can you please come and tell him it's okay to let go?" I desperately didn't want to. I'm not strong, and being from a small family, had never lost a loved one. I couldn't do this. I couldn't. Jason's mum knew this and yet she still asked, so I had to do it.

My wife and I went to the hospital the next morning, a beautiful April Saturday. I met Jason's mum in the hallway outside his room and we hugged. She and my wife said they'd leave me alone with him.

Jason lay on his bed with the covers neatly resting over his chest, arms by his side. His arms were frighteningly skinny, his cheeks sunken, his eyes deep set in the hollows of his eye sockets. He was so thin I thought he might break when I held his hand. This was why I'd already said my goodbyes. I didn't want to see Jason like this, I couldn't handle it. I sat crying silently trying to compose myself to say what I needed to say. Minutes passed, that felt like hours, and then I managed to speak. "Hey Jase, it's me. You're mum says you're being stubborn. You need to let go, mate. It's okay. There's nothing to be scared of. I'm here, mate. Just stop breathing. It's going to be okay." I sat there as Jason breathed low and slow. At times the gap between breathing out and breathing in was so long I thought he'd died in front of me. "It's okay, Jase, you can stop breathing, I'm here, it'll be okay," I lied, again and again.

Those lies still haunt me. That night Jason died.

A few days later I helped carry Jase to his final resting place on a gentle hill with views of the estuary. It was a classic autumn day on the south-west coast of Victoria; cold and windy, but clear. It was beautiful. Music played as we carried Jason from the hearse, up the damp grass and placed him next to his grave. I stepped into the anonymity of the crowd, closed my eyes, turned my face to the sun, and listened. The pessimism at the start of the song had given way to strength; in the vocals, and in the music. I remember thinking that although life had just been invaded by something awful, somehow, in time, everything would be okay again. Standing there I knew I'd never hear this song the same way and through the pain I could feel it making me stronger.

Ten years on, I am still grateful to whoever chose that song.

So this week's Changing Track for Simon, is Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve.