I’m haunted by what happened on this patch of grass nearly a decade ago.
When I fly by there on my bike while out on a long training ride to the west of town I can’t help but think of what happened, but it doesn’t affect me that much. A pinch of memory, a flash, then it’s over.
But last night while watching the movie The Namesake on DVD with my wife, the way the Indian characters had been speaking in their sing-song accents, at a sudden turn the story tookit hit me all over again so strongly we had to pause it for a while.
I looked up and told my wife: I’m thinking of the hockey game.
It happened on a sunny Sunday in July, 2000.
We were about 10 minutes into a game of grass hockey when all of a sudden there was a stoppage in play for longer than the usual few seconds to retrieve the ball from the side bushes or let a player walk off an injury.
I remember not being too focused on what was going on at first. I recall swatting aimlessley at the grass with my stick, bending over to adjust my shoelaces, then standing up straight to look over to the far side of the field to see what was holding up play.
A few from our team were standing around near a player lying on the grass. I started to walk slowly over, feeling a bit annoyed that a game which up ’til then had been going really well was being held up for so long.
Approaching the other players I looked down at the figure lying flat on his back and got this sickening feeling.
It was our Indian team-mate, a newcomer who’d only recently moved to Hamburg to work at Airbus and whom I’d gotten to know during post-game drinks the last time out. A jovial man with a round, softly beared face, I remember how at one point he said to me in his Indian way: My gosh, you run around like a deer out there. You’re very fit, you know. Not like me – patting his stomach, smiling and raising his glass.
He was now lying there motionless. Utterly still. In a flash I remember thinking: what the hell are you idiots doing standing around like this doing nothing?
I knelt over him, put my face right close to his, and waited for any sign of breath. There was none.
This is what haunts me still: the sight of his lifeless eyes staring up at me as I looked into them from inches away.
Almost immediately I pinched his nose, cupped his jaw and started to give him mouth-to-mouth respiration.
After a few breaths I stopped to give his chest four or five thrusts with one hand over the other, hoping that was the proper way to do it. When you get your German driver’s license you have to take a course in first aid including CPR, or cardiopulmonary resuscitation, and I was almost in a panic that I was either doing it wrong or not in a way that would do any good, especially since he wasn’t responding.
Someone else started alternating with the pressure pumps onto the chest while I did the mouth-to-mouth for as long as I could. I don’t know how long I lasted, but I started to feel sick to my stomach, rolled away and asked someone else to take over.
By now we could hear in the far distance the first siren wailings of the ambulance approaching.
I got up and stumbled away from the scene. I couldn’t stand to look at what was happening. That face, so close to mine. Those eyes, so lifeless.
I walked a few metres more toward the clubhouse, got to the centre of the field, collapsed to my knees, fell with my forehead on the ground, clenched my fists, clenched my jaw, tried to fight it, but I couldn’t help weeping, bawling like a fucking baby as I rubbed my hands over the spikey blades of grass.
The ambulance seemed to take forever to arrive and even longer to get our teammate onto the stretcher and on his way to hospital. All in vain, of course. Although they say he died the next day, I could tell he was probably dead before he hit the grass.
His family lived in Holland and that’s where they held the funeral, but I don’t think any of us made it. We sent flowers and a card. One of the things they said in thanking us is that he died doing what he loved best: playing hockey.
The sight of those eyes. It haunts me still.
Wow. I’m so sorry. What a terrible experience. I’m glad that you were there and were able to do something and I’m sorry that you were there and the conclusion was so sad.
very sad story Ian. sending you a hug….
My father died that way; mid-sentence, mid-laugh, mid-sail… and yes, for him and your team mate, the way of dying was a blessing, if not tragically too soon. For his family, as yourself, the death lingers hauntingly all these years. I hope that writing the post will, in some way, shine some light into the shadow of your memory.
That was a very heartfelt post.
I was just wondering what happened. Cardiac arrest?
Very much a cardiac arrest, Cathy. Heart problems can go undetected for a long time, and then – boom. A friend’s wife passed away a couple of years ago at 46 the same way. Like Lilalia said – mid-sentence.
Wow, heavy. You did your job matey, that’s all anyone can ask. Hope it doesn’t haunt you too much. Hopefully he is happy where is and is looking out for you.
This is so beautifully written, Ian. You are a brave writer, even including your annoyance at the beginning for the game being held up. You portrayed the anguish of trying and trying to resuscitate this poor man, and then how you felt afterward, with such immediacy I almost felt I was on the field with you. Quite a few years ago, now, but the tragedy seems so very fresh.
Thanks, muse. I hesitated a day before posting it – wrote it and then thought what if it’s too.. I don’t know – is intimate the right word?
Yes, this is an intimate post, but that’s exactly what makes it wonderful. Why stand back from the intimacy? This is a beautiful post, so alive, and the pictures are perfect for it. Wonderful work here.
My father died suddenly (in an accident, not heart attack) on his way to doing what he loved best. That is a comfort, knowing he died doing what he wanted to be doing. He wasn’t with family when he died, an I am eternally grateful for the last people who were with him and who treated him well as he departed. Thank you for doing the same with your friend.
SBW
Ian. The way you write always moves me, but now I’m a little weepy here. I have CPR as well (hand over hand but don’t clench the knuckles as they break ribs with the force is how I was trained). They also told me that it’s a person’s discretion to use the skill because of trauma it can be for the person, as you described. However I work in an environment that if someone needed it and you didn’t react almost instantly people would think there was something wrong with you.
That being said…people have been known to sue people for doing it wrong and unintentionally hurting them. So it a quick decision and one that can be upsetting. A hearbreaking experience for you which I’m sorry to hear. Thank you for sharing it.
Thanks, girl. The possible consequences of doing it wrong never even entered my head at that moment, and when we received the training for the license the question of what effect it might have on you emotionally wasn’t mentioned.
beave – if we could only know whether that was true or not. Hmmm… or maybe it’s better we can’t?
SBW – and thank you for those words of encouragement! I really appreciate it.
We don’t write enough about such intimate events on blogs. People shy away from confronting it so openly. In the end we want to be distracted from it. Yet it’s important to not neglect it.
It’s a struggle deciding if one should post about a very close friend’s death from cancer or a partner’s decline from Parkinson and heart disease. Once in awhile, though, these things need to be talked about openly.
Ian: I realize I may have been very technical in my answer…sorry. Habit partially.
I hope you understand that I really am sorry you experienced such an event. My point was that they can teach you all these technicalities, they can mention to do it this way or that, view it this way or that, but even people that are medically “trained” still have a human reaction to it. So being an average person with such a skill to help someone we just are not prepared to cope with it. It’s a shocking situation to find yourself in, especially when it’s not the outcome you hope.
I really appreciate you sharing your raw emotion and being “intimate” in that way. I’m very vocal about things myself and I know that’s it not easy to talk about some things. But we all learn something from it and it can help to just let it be heard. Thanks again.
What a horrible experience, I cannot imagine what that would feel like.
But what a well-written post.
You never shared this with me. That says a lot.
It is so like you to immediately jump in and help.