Death

Death is a solitary journey, counterpart of birth. The only two instances during which we cannot share our experience with others. It’s my idea that the first cry of babies is not only due to the pain experienced by them when lungs inflate, but due to fear.

I don’t have ideas on death, other than it can be terrifying. Fifteen days ago I witness the death of a man; I’ll never be able to overcome this.

His name was William, aged 51, travelling on his motorcycle only God knows where. It seems a car cut his way whilst he was taking it over; he crashed straight into it. I was reading a book near my lounge window, which faces the main road. It was sunny and warm and despite some traffic the noise outside wasn’t loud as it could have been. In that semi-silence I heard the sounds that led me to peer out: clack clack clack, swoooooosh. Sounds I never heard before that immediately alerted me. When I looked out I saw a well built man, dressed in biker’s gear, laying on a side in the middle of the road, right below my window.

In less than a minute I was at his side, checking on him: I knew then it was very bad. He was uncounscious, had no helmet on, a huge wound showed on the nape together with a smaller cut on the left eyebrow, and from undeneath him a trickle of blood was running. I got closer to assess if he was dead or still breathing, and then it’s when a shiver shook my spine. He opened his eyes and gurgled; I cringed. I won’t go any further with details, beside saying that in trying to comfort him from the excruciating pain he told me to be feeling, I held his hand, gently stroking his fingers.

He kept repeating he couldn’t breathe and I kept repeating him that he had to stay as still as he could, to bravely bear the pain as breathing would slowly get back to normal, to not worry, he would have been alright. All this whilst paramedics – arrived in five minutes by the watch for once – frantically worked on his body, unaware of the terror I could read in his eyes, or the tight hold he had of my hand.

There were so many people around him, and yet I had the feeling he felt alone and scared. At some point I had to let go of his hand, reluctantly, as the paramedics began to cut his clothes and needed space around him. I reached the side walk and stood there, shocked and powerless, until a police constable approached and took my details, then accompanied myself and boyfriend – whom came after me to see if he could help – back to our door, going round the cordon they had set up. My mind spinned so fast it gave me nausea. I cannot recall what about. When I finally got inside, I wanted to ensure he’d be fine and reached again the same window from where I first peered out. An helicopter had arrived, carrying surgeon and assistant, an open theatre had been set up and from behind the glass of our window we saw the man’s chest being cut open and the hands of the surgeon massaging something inside it: his heart. At that point it hit me that he was either dying or was already dead; a loud cry parted my lips and soul.

Despite evidence of his death – firefighters putting down drips, doctors removing tubes, police officers building up a tent around the stretcher where the man’s body laid – I kept praying for a miracle. I didn’t want him to die. As a matter of fact, I did not want to believe he could die. How could it be that moments before he was talking to me, holding my hand, and the next he was laying lifeless in the middle of the road, under a plastic tent?

And yet, death took him and nothing we did to prevent it worked. When I think of death – often – I imagine peaceful last moments during which one can gather to memory the most treasurable experiences he made. Make peace with the past, laugh of the struggle, be happy of what had been. But this death brought me back to reality, to the logical place where everyone can figure how fragile a thing a human being is, how easy it is for all of us to pass away, be no more part of life’s motion.

William’s death brought back sad memories of two very good friends of mine whom died prematurely. Somehow I managed to lock them away, somewhere far from my will to process them as due.  Then, once engaged in this trail of thoughts, memory called me to face the many deaths occurring daily around the globe, the many human beings whom might have gone – or be going – through the same pain, fears, without no one there, as we go on about our lives.

Suddenly my view took a different angle: I really, really need to make the most of my time here. Before it’s too late. Before losing chance of doing it.

It’s ironical that although I myself almost died a couple of times, I still can’t hold onto life as I should: giving it meaning, living it to the full, sharing it with those that truly matter and filling it with moments instead of things. I wish I had a chance to thank William, for having held my hand and for the things he, unwillingly, reminded me.

To live and rest in peace should be human beings motto; I just hope many more could see this.