'Til Death, did we Part

TRIGGER WARNING: this post contains very graphic detail, which some may find distressing

My eldest son, Lachlan, did not ever meet his biological father, Dean.  Their entire father/son relationship amounted to approximately 3 telephone calls throughout the time between Lachlan's birth in 2010, and Dean's untimely death.  This aside, Lachlan and I were both lucky enough to find an amazing man, who not only loved me more fiercely and passionately than I had ever known, but also loved my son as though he were his own—Chris—the first man I ever truly loved.  

When Chris and I discovered I was pregnant, we were surprised but thrilled.  We had our first ultrasound at 6 weeks and I will never forget the look of sheer wonder, delight and adoration on Chris's face as he watched the screen and listened to our baby's heartbeat.  

I recall thinking, this is how it's supposed to be—it's going to be so different this time around—it's going to be perfect... how soon I would eat those words.... I had thought the circumstances of my first pregnancy and birth were tough; they had nothing on what was to come.

At 8 weeks along, I was hit hard and fast with the first trimester exhaustion.  I'd also recently been sick and my body needed more rest to recover than usual.  I had been going to bed early—between 8pm and 9pm—rather than our usual 11pm.  This was too early for Chris and so he would stay up watching movies or playing his online computer games, making his way upstairs to bed when he was tired.  

On the night of February 4th, 2012 he would not make it to bed at all.  Unbeknown to either of us, when we said goodnight that night, it would be the last time I would ever see Chris alive.  When I awoke to an empty bed on the morning of February 5th, I didn't think too much of it at first.  I thought maybe he had gotten up early or perhaps, had simply fallen asleep on the couch watching a movie.  

I got Lachlan up and we went downstairs to start the day.  Chris was not on the couch as we came into the lounge room—I then noticed the light on in the computer room.  At that moment, I realised something was very wrong.  As I crept closer to the office, the first thing I saw was Chris's legs—I screamed his name but there was no response.  I rushed into the room to find the chair tipped over and my love, face down on the floor, his entire body blue.  Shaking him, I yelled his name several more times... no response.  He was so cold.  I hurried to the open sliding door and slammed it shut in a feeble attempt to keep him warm before running back upstairs to retrieve my phone.

As I lunged up 2 steps at a time, memories flashed in my mind of the times Chris had spoken about his epilepsy.  He had said he hated people phoning the ambulance when he had a seizure and that he was always fine once he came to.  I asked him what I should do if he did have a seizure when he was with me—he shrugged his shoulders and said, "I dunno... not call the ambulance??"  Then we both just laughed.  That was so Chris—carefree and alive in the moment; the future would take care of itself.

  

The knowledge that this time was different abruptly pulled me from my reverie—I couldn't wake him up and he wasn't moving—medical attention was clearly necessary.  He could yell at me for it later but right then, I had to help him.  I bounded back downstairs as I rang "000", unlocking and flinging open the front door on my way past.

I worriedly explained the situation to the operator: "My partner is epileptic!  He's face down on the floor, he's not moving and I can't wake him up or get a response from him!  I don't know how long he's been here for, can you please send help?!"

The woman on the other end of the line took my address, dispatched an ambulance and asked me if he was breathing.

"I don't know!"  I shrieked, bordering on hysteria.

"Okay, I've got an ambulance on its way to you right now," she said, "I need you to get him onto his back for me, can you do that?"

My mind reeled—Chris was 95kg, I was 60kg—my body took on a mind of its own.  Can't was not an option.  It had to be done and there was nobody but me to do it.  Somehow, I got him rolled over... I screamed at the horror that assaulted my eyes.

“His face!" I exclaimed tearfully,  "It’s all purple and bloody—his lips are busted, his nose is bleeding, his eyes are closed.  OMG, I think he’s dead!”  

I heard sobs and glanced up—a 22 month old Lachlan was standing in the doorway.  My heart splintered—every bone in my body wanted to run to him and embrace him; to shield him from this trauma but I couldn't—Chris needed me.  

"It's okay, baby," I choked out, "It's going to be okay—Mummy just has to help Daddy, alright?"

  

Lachlan put his thumb in his mouth and stared with tear-filled eyes, his Cupid's bow lips trembling at the terrible sight before him.

The operator asked again if Chris was breathing: "He's sort of gurgling?" I offered hopefully, "There's vomit on the carpet with blood in it—I think there's still vomit in his mouth."

She asked me to listen closely and tell her each time I heard the gurgling sound to determine if it was in fact breathing.  After 3 or so times the operator delivered the devastating news it was not consistent enough to be breathing.  She instead asked if I had access to a defibrillator—I told her, I did not and she explained we needed to commence CPR and that she would walk me through it on the phone until help arrived.  I put the phone on speaker as I set it down on the floor beside me.  

I was instructed to clear Chris's airway, removing the vomit and blood.  Once that was complete she informed me I needed to start chest compressions: "Count with me, Carla."

After being walked through the first round of chest compressions and breaths, midway through the second round, the phone connection was unexpectedly lost—I was on my own.  There was no time to panic and no time to stop and call back.  She had walked me through it once, all I had to do was repeat those steps and hopefully help would soon arrive.  

It felt like hours—time literally stood still—then, "Hello?!"  2 male paramedics came bustling through the open front door.

"In here!"  I shouted, waves of relief washing over me.  

That relief was very short lived.  They barely made it to the doorway of the computer room before my worst fears were confirmed.  I was still pumping Chris's chest, as I looked up at them and begged, "Please, help him!"  

I will never forget the next words I heard, nor the look of resolute compassion on that paramedic's face as he gently said, "Sweetheart, stop.  I'm sorry—he's gone.  It looks like he's been gone for quite a while."

It was at that point, my phone rang—it was the dispatcher calling back to query whether the ambulance had arrived and to apologise for the disconnection.

"They're here," I said, my voice devoid of emotion, "He's dead."  

I ended the call.

I was in shock—no tears came.  Silently, I removed my hands from Chris's eerily still chest and stared at them.  They were coated in vomit and blood from when I had cleared his airway.  It was like a switch had been flipped and I was thrust into autopilot mode.

"Excuse me," I said to the paramedics, as I exited the room, closing the door behind me, "I need to make my son breakfast." 

I made my way to the sink and washed my hands with soap and water, transfixed by the white bubbles and blood swirling lazily round the kitchen sink and down the drain.  I dried my hands, made up a bowl of Weet-Bix and popped it in the microwave, my son by my side.

"Come on, baby," I said as I took his tiny hand, "Let's get you changed out of that wet nappy."

As I laid my son down on the sofa, one of the paramedics softly placed a hand on my shoulder.  

"Is there someone we can call for you?"  He asked kindly.

"Yes," I answered, "Please.  His mother lives close by.  She's under Gayle in my phone.  Then my Mum—I need my Mum."

I unlocked my phone and wordlessly handed it to him.

"I know this is hard and for that, I am sorry," he added, "But we also need to call the police.  It's just standard procedure."

"I understand," I whispered, "Do what you need to."

Chris's mother, sister and stepfather were the first to arrive, followed by his father and brother.  My own Mum was staying out of town at her partner's place—it would take her a while to get to us.  

I'd just finished changing Lachlan—Chris's little sister ran to us, fell on her knees at my side and hugged me tight, tears streaming down her face.  For the first time, reality partially hit—I wept with her... then I was asking if anyone wanted coffee—my mind was all over the place, desperately searching for some sense of normalcy.  

Chris's stepfather took Lachlan outside to distract him and let him play.  Gayle told the paramedics I was pregnant and they came and sat beside me on the couch.

"I'm sorry it was too late for us to help your partner but will you let us help you?"

I nodded.  All of my vitals were okay but they recommended we book an ultrasound as soon as possible.  I was still in the first trimester and an event this distressing could potentially put my baby at risk.

  
My baby—my last little piece of the man I loved so much—I subconsciously placed a hand on my still flat tummy.  The thought of losing this precious baby terrified me.

"I keep seeing his face like that... so purple... disfigured... bloody...,"  I mumbled, "Every time I think of him, it's all I can see."

The paramedic told me he had been through a similar experience and struggled with this too.  

"You need to keep looking at photos of Chris," he told me, "Keep looking at them as much as you can, for as long as it takes to replace those awful images.  It won't happen overnight and you will never truly forget what you saw today but, with time, it will stop being those horrible images you see when you think of him."

Suddenly, I remembered something else—I hadn't slept the whole night through—at some stage of the night, I had awoken to banging; however, I'd no sooner woken up hearing it, than it had stopped.  I assumed Chris had accidentally knocked something over or maybe slammed the door a bit too hard on his way out for cigarette.

  

Guilt flooded my body—if that had been him having a seizure, I might have been able to save him if I had gotten up and checked on him instead of going back to sleep!  If I had called the ambulance then, could he still be here?  I buried my face in my hands, "It's my fault," I sobbed, "It's all my fault that he's gone!"  

"That is not necessarily true," the paramedic reassured me, "We are often called to scenes like this, as soon as they happen and we still can't always save them.  It looks like he went into cardiac arrest.  Even if we could have saved him, he likely would have suffered brain damage."

"Anything has to be better than this," I said, "Anything..."

The police advised the coroner was on their way and suggested they could lock my front door behind them when they left.  That way we could leave and not be subjected to the confronting scene of Chris's body being wheeled out.

The days that followed were like being trapped in a nightmare—nothing seemed real.  I kept waiting to wake up but I never did... and I never would.  I had no choice but to embark on what would be the most difficult journey of my life—to raise a toddler, carry a second baby to term and give birth, then raise those precious children, all the while grieving, knowing my baby would never meet the incredible man he is one half of.

It would be a long time before I stopped blaming myself for Chris's death and going over all the what-if's and maybes in my head.  I always believed that our time here on earth is predetermined before we are born, that nothing can change the day we are destined to die on.  Then you find yourself in a situation like mine and you question everything you ever believed.  Everything.

Chris's post mortem report was the only thing that brought me solace and took me back to my original beliefs.  For months, we could only speculate on how such a robust and healthy 23 year old's life was snuffed out so suddenly, with not a single warning sign.  

We pondered, had he been taking the correct amounts of his epilepsy medication?  Had he even had a seizure that fateful night?  Seizures themselves aren't fatal though, are they?  There was a container of jelly beans on his computer desk—had he choked on one of those? Or had he choked on his own vomit?  Had he hit his head?  Had the fall broken his neck?  Did he have a heart attack?  

So many questions and not a single answer until the report revealed the cause of death as something none of us had heard of before: SUDEP (Sudden Unexpected Death in Epilepsy).  

Yes, seizures alone apparently can be fatal, even without external injuries or complications related to those injuries.  There was no medical reason as to why the seizure occurred and no real explanation why it had claimed Chris's life.

They say people come into our lives for a reason, a season or a lifetime.  I disagree with this theory and argue that, for me, Chris was all 3 of these—our son (Christopher Jr.) was the reason, our short time together on earth was the season, all wrapped up in a lifetime of him watching over us from afar.  

All these years on, I often look up at the beautiful stars in the clear night sky, always so visible from our back yard in the country, far away from the bright city lights.  I picture Chris up there, shining brightly forevermore, with all who left before him and all who have since joined him there.  From this vantage point in the galaxy, he watches us, protects us, waits for us.  This much I have to believe. ❤ 


"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it."— John 1:5

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