Death (Part 2)

There is a very defined procedure for what is called “a sudden death in the community” and it kicks into gear very fast. 

Fiddian’s death was recorded at about 12 minutes past 11pm on a Friday night. I wasn’t paying close attention, but I reckon the three air ambulance people and the first responder were packed up and gone within 10 minutes, leaving the two paramedics who originally attended the scene, myself, my neighbour and Fiddian’s body. 

I remember being in a daze as the packing up of equipment occurred, and being quite shocked to hear the air ambulance people and the first responder having a friendly catch up as they worked. I wasn’t angry or upset by this – I just remember how incongruous it seemed that normal life was going on for others while mine was collapsing. This, it turns out, is a recurring theme after a sudden death; one that I am already getting used to.

After the others had gone the two paramedics, who had previously been either struck dumb by the situation or working furiously to administer CPR, turned their attention to me and became very gentle and kind. Both of them gave me numerous hugs, as did my neighbour, and made sure I drank a lot of hot, sweet, tea. The tea was actually very welcome, as I hadn’t had anything to drink for hours and was quite dehydrated – another thing that would keep happening over the coming days and keeps on happening now. 

Their first task was to call the police, which is routine procedure after a sudden death. The police will come out if there is anything suspicious about the death, but as the ambulance crew had been present throughout, and Fiddian had been under investigation at the doctor’s that week, the police decided not to attend and handed responsibility back to the paramedics. At that point a clunky-looking iPad was produced and I had to sign a form. I have no idea what the form was. It was explained to me, but all I can remember was how difficult I found it to form my signature. In the end my neighbour had to help me.

After this I was given two leaflets, both of which still remain unread, and a lot of verbal information, very little of which I remember. The more senior paramedic kept telling me things about how to cope – She said something like “this will grow around you” which didn’t make sense at the time and which I still think about. I thought about a callous, or a scab growing around a wound. Was that what she meant?

My dear neighbour kept reassuring me and trying to help me. At some point I realised I needed to call both of Fiddian’s children. Looking at my phone it seems I did this around 1.10am. No one should ever have to tell children that their beloved parent has died. I still remember the sound of my step-daughter screaming and collapsing in the street. I’m so grateful her friends were with her and were able to take her home. I was able to speak to both children, and to get them to speak to the paramedics, who explained more coherently what had happened. I was also able to hold the phone up to their dad’s ear so they could say their last words to him. I know this may sound strange and nonsensical, but they both immediately wanted to do it. Both kids then immediately dropped what they were doing and began to prepare to come to me in the morning, with a small army of their friends and family supporting them. 

At various points I also spent a lot of time sitting with Fiddian, cradling his head, stroking his hair, crying and speaking to him. “I’m so sorry,” I said again and again, not because I believed there was anything that could have been done, but because he’d been cheated of the life he so loved. “You are in our cells and in our bones. You’ll never leave us.”

At another point I also brought both dogs down from the bedroom, where I had locked them once CPR had started. Both were frantic and scared. I still remember Monty’s face as he sniffed around Fiddian’s body and recoiled. There is no question in my mind that owner death can be deeply traumatic for dogs, too.

I returned and sat with Fiddian again for a long time, believing this would be the last time I spent with him. His hands were freezing, and the warmth had begun to drain out of his face. His mouth was slightly open and his eyes closed, making it seem like he was sleeping. The ambulance team had placed a very medical-looking blue blanket over him, like a shroud. I kept that blanket for many days afterwards, wrapping myself in it at times.

At around 2am two undertakers turned up, dressed in black trousers and sweaters. This is another part of the machinery around sudden death. The coroner appoints a firm of undertakers, who are on call 24/7 and will turn up, even in the middle of the night, to take bodies away to the place where a post mortem will be carried out. The men were very calm and respectful. They asked me to remove any of his rings, which I did, then suggested I move away rather than watch him be loaded onto a stretcher. I took their advice, although at this point I already knew that not much about death would ever shock me again.

The men drove away with the body of my husband, and I stopped myself from feeling anything about it. Both paramedics hugged me one last time and drove off themselves. I went and surveyed the room where he had died. Despite the best efforts of the paramedics, it was still chaotic in there: discarded wrappers from medical equipment, stains from bodily fluids, furniture shoved hastily out of the way. The air smelled foul. In my mind I knew I would be back first thing in the morning to sort things out. I didn’t want the kids to see any of it.

My neighbour took my hand. I gathered the dogs and a few bits and pieces, locked the door behind me and went to her house to stay in her spare room. She made me tea and got me settled in. It was around 2.30 and she was exhausted. Her poor son had also waited up, very worried himself. Both of them had known and liked Fiddian.

I lay in bed with the lights out, trying to get the dogs to settle down. Both of them were on hyper alert and took a long time to start breathing slowly and normally. My heart had begun a marathon session of beating fast and erratically which would not subside for the next 10 days and which still sometimes reoccurs. I knew there was nothing I could do about it, so I just sat there, propped up on the pillows in this strange room, my mind churning. “I’ve been a widow for three hours.” “This is really happening.” “He’s dead. He’s dead. He died in front of me.” Did I cry? Yes, I think so. Did I doze? I don’t think so. During the night one single comforting thought occurred to me: “I have an opportunity now, to set up my life in a way that perfectly suits me.” It flashed across my mind at one of my darkest moments, and I held onto it. I’m still holding onto it, although it doesn’t provide much comfort.

At 7.30 I gave up trying to sleep, got up, made myelf a cup of tea, gathered my stuff and the dogs, and went back to the house. The first thing I did was to drag the heavy hessian rug on which Fiddian had died, out of the house and onto a pile of logs for burning. I didn’t want the smell or the physical traces of his suffering to linger in the house or be there to greet the children when they arrived. Several days later I watched it burn away on a bonfire.

Where does it come from, this urge of mine to clean things up? I cleaned up that room and put the furniture back, texted my neighbour to tell her I was ok, threw out the salmon and tahini sauce that Fidd would never get to eat. At one stage I think I bent down in the garden and did some weeding. It was a beautiful day, with strong direct sunlight pouring onto the house. 

When I could face it, I called his father and then his brothers. The worst worst phonecalls – almost as bad as the children. They wept. I wept. We sobbed and moaned together. The calls were short. When you break news like that people can’t stand to talk for long. I tried to call my parents and my brother but they were out. I was glad. Couldn’t face more of it.

What was I feeling at this time? Physically sick. Constant nausea. Hammering heart and the most disgusting, metallic taste in my mouth. I kept having to brush my teeth. Flashbacks of the night before replayed constantly. I was exhausted but couldn’t sleep; kept pacing around, or rocking on the sofa, wrapped in the disgusting blue blanket the paramedics had left behind.

What I hadn’t realised was that, almost as soon as I had told the kids, they had told others, who told others. My neighbour, too, had begun to let people know. Some people were angry about this on my behalf, believing I would want to break the news to everyone myself, but I was extremely grateful. Every time I had to tell someone about it it meant reliving the agony, which I would be forced to do over and over again for the next 10 days. Fortunately, many people were told by others, saving me the pain.

People began to arrive around midday: first Sam, a carpenter who shared Fiddian’s workshop, then James, another carpenter who had been working closely with Fiddian for months, and then Charlotte, one of our oldest friends and the reason we moved to the village in the first place. One by one they hugged me, not letting me go, and then they started to do practical things to help. Sam drove to Exeter to pick up my stepson and his girlfriend. James and Charlotte made me yet more tea and sat outside with me in the sun for hours, talking and talking, until other family and friends arrived to replace them.

Jack, one of the children’s friends, drove my step daughter all the way from London to Cornwall with three other friends, stayed to chop some wood and give me a brief hug, before driving straight back again. He was to make the same journey twice more over the next three weeks. 

I remember very little about the next 36 hours except snapshots of people: friends and family who dropped everything and flew or drove to Cornwall to put their arms around me and the kids, sometimes staying for weeks, sometimes just a few minutes. My normally quiet house became a thoroughfare of visitors; voices and footsteps filling the rooms and stairwells, cigarette butts littering the outside step; the door constantly open. At some point I printed off my favourite recent photo of Fiddian, taken just five weeks before he died, and stuck it under the window of the living room where we could all see it. In the photo he is sitting at an outside table in a bar in Sardinia, smiling a gentle, contented smile as the evening sun lights his beautiful face. 

That night my step-daughter slept in his place in our bed, her presence comforting enough to allow me a few hours of sleep. But I woke again in the middle of the night and lay there for hours, starting to understand that everything had changed.