He decides to leave
the dishwasher for Ollie to empty when he gets back from training. He says
that it will be Ollie’s job for the next six weeks, until he goes back to
Plymouth.
7.07pm - The telephone rings, Kevin answers
it. I can tell by his conversation that something has happened at rugby
training. Ollie has put his shoulder out twice in the past year and in my
mind I am already being cross with him for risking it again when he is on
teaching practice. I turn off the cooker hob and say I’ll have a quick
shower before we go. Kevin says there isn’t time, we need to go to the
hospital right away. He tells me it is serious.
As Kevin has had a glass of wine, I drive to the
hospital, which is nine miles away. I stop at the red traffic lights two
miles into our journey, it is at this very moment that I know Ollie has
died.
We arrive at the A & E. The receptionist tells us to go
through a door and we are met by a nurse who is clearly expecting us. I’ve
had three children, I’ve been to A & E often enough to know that you
never get seen right away, not unless you’re dying…….. She tells us the
ambulance is on its way and leads us to a small sitting room. It doesn’t
say so on the door, but I know this is the bereavement room. My mother died
six years ago, I’d been in there before. I am overcome with grief.
Kevin is standing at the window watching them unload the
stretcher from the ambulance. I can see a crowd of medics working as a
team. I hear the commotion outside the bereavement room door. I am sitting
on the settee and the nurse is holding my hand. A Doctor comes into the
room, he asks us to go with him. In the bay outside the door Ollie is lying
on an elevated bed. There are wires and machines and people everywhere. A
Doctor is administering chest compressions. I notice she is standing on a
step. In comparison to Ollie she seems tiny and yet I can see Ollie’s rib
cage caving in and out. His mouth and nose are caked with the discharges of
dying. The Doctor who had fetched us asks us if we want to move closer.
Kevin goes forward. I cannot move. I do not want to see my son this way.
The Doctor is in the space between us. He tells us that people have been
trying to revive Ollie for over forty five minutes.
I
know then that he wants us to say not to go on. It isn’t a difficult
decision for us. We can see he is lifeless. The Doctor says a few words
and all the medics move silently away leaving just the Doctor, Kevin and I
and our nurse. Without the medical paraphernalia, I find my feet work
again. I go over to Ollie and hold his hand. I brush his forehead. I
clutch his biceps. I will him to live, knowing it is hopeless. I hear the
Doctor explaining that he has suffered heart failure. I hear the words, but
it seems impossible to me. Ollie is over six foot tall, strong and
athletic. He has worked so hard on his fitness. He has been determined to
be selected for his rugby team and has spent three years building his
strength. How could his heart fail him?
The nurse tells us she will move Ollie to a quiet room
and make him clean and tidy, so we can say goodbye to him. She takes us
back to the bereavement room. There is a knock at the door, two men walk
in, I recognise them but cannot think who they are. I notice absently they
both have muddy knees. Then I remember they are GPs from our local
surgery. One had been playing hockey on the sports field when Ollie went
down, the other is the first response Doctor and had been called right
away. They had both worked on Ollie. They have come to tell us that
everything that could be done, had been done. They look hopeless, as
if they can’t explain what had happened, or why, which of course they can’t.
The Doctors leave and the nurse slips back into the room
to tell us that some of Ollie’s friends are here. She asks if we will see
them and when we agree she ushers them in. Four friends who have known
Ollie since childhood come into the room. I too have known these lads since
they were little. They had been with Ollie at the training ground, they
are carrying his kit bag with his car keys and mobile phone. They look at
us expectantly, waiting for us to tell them what is happening. I realise
with some astonishment that they do not know Ollie has died. They had been
there, they witnessed his collapse, saw the prolonged and frantic attempts
at resuscitation, they had seen him being loaded into the ambulance and yet
with the optimism of youth, they did not know he was dead.
In the days and months that followed I have drawn immense
comfort from this. If they had seen everything that happened and yet could
not believe that he had died, then I cling to the hope that Ollie would not
have realised he was dying either.
I do not know how long they stay with us, not long I
think.
The bereavement nurse returns and takes us to see Ollie.
He looks cleaner and dead. The nurse has put a flower by his face. A
lovely touch, but incongruous nonetheless. I wrap my arms across his
chest. I remember all the times he has flexed his biceps and told me to
feel his “guns”. I feel them now. The muscles are still rock hard, but he
is so, so cold. How does life leave a body so quickly? His body is there,
his beard growth, rough on his face, the muscles, the closed eyes, but his
warmth has gone and in its place, icy cold. We both kiss his dear face. I
hear Kevin say “goodbye son”. I cannot bear to leave the room.
The nurse tells us that we must stay until the police
have taken a statement. An officer has been called. Whilst we wait we make
some tea and Kevin uses his mobile to telephone our other two sons. Our
eldest, Daniel, lives in London. He is at a restaurant with his girlfriend
Jenny. He can’t hear Kevin’s voice very well above the noise of the
restaurant, so he goes outside to take the call. Jenny can see him through
the window. She sees he is crying.
Joe lives in Bristol with his girlfriend Susie. Susie
answers, Joe is playing badminton.
Kevin rings his youngest sister. I hear his words and
now I can hear her screaming.
He rings a close friend. “You’re joking” our friend
says.
I ring my father on the hospital phone. “Dad” I
say, “Ollie’s dead.”
After a long time a pretty young police officer arrives.
We answer seemingly trite questions and all the while she apologises for
having to ask us for such banal information. After she leaves our nurse
tells us that the WPC knew Ollie, had been out for a drink with him. Having
seen his dead body she had needed time to compose herself before speaking to
us. The nurse adds that his friends have also just left. We are surprised,
she tells us that they had been too distressed to leave earlier. I wished I
had known, they could have stayed with us.
Later, his university house mates ring Ollie’s mobile
phone. They have already seen the news on Facebook. They are ringing to
make sure it’s not true. Now I can hear them shouting and swearing,
screaming at each other. I will remember that noise forever.
Ollie died from an undetected heart defect. Following
the post mortem, we know that he died of Arrhythmogenic Right Ventricular
Cardiomyopathy (ARVC).
He was just 21 years old.
