A Life More Ordinary

It was a totally and utterly unremarkable Monday in November, 1994. The remarkable ones only come along so often, so it was no surprise. The day before, I’d received a call from my eldest sister, Carole, who was visiting my youngest sister, Ellie, in Horsham and they were planning on a night out. Carole asked if I wanted to tag along. And I lied.

I said that I was tired, which wasn’t really a lie, but in all honesty, I could have mustered some energy from somewhere and made the short trip into town. The lie itself felt inadequate, so I embellished it with suggestions of ‘important things to do’. Nothing so far would have troubled the ‘Top 10 untruths ever told’, even those of my own telling, but little did I know what fate had in store for me as penance for my deceit. Ultimately, as I said to Louise after hanging up the phone, I just couldn’t be doing with any drama and drama had a tendency to cling to Carole’s coat tails wherever she went.

That unremarkable Monday became Tuesday, as it always does. We’d not long been home, in our cosy mobile home in Colgate after an evening coaching gymnastics. The sun had long since bid the day farewell and there was a chill in the air that crept in through the rickety front door, but things were generally good. Outside the confines of our humble abode, The Beautiful South’s ‘One Last Love Song’ had entered the UK charts at number 14, royal assent was given to lower the age of consent from 21 to eighteen for gay relationships and lesbianism was recognised in English Law for the first time. My beloved Argyle had just slumped to a 3-1 defeat at Rotherham and England’s cricketers were in Australia for an Ashes tour that would once again end in defeat. But I digress. Again.

The phone rang again. These were the days before mobile phones dominated our lives, so I crossed the kitchen and picked up the receiver. I think that it was Ellie, who made the first call. It might have been mother, but I’m not entirely sure. Anyway, whoever was on the other end of the line told me that Carole was in hospital, which in the past had often been a regular occurrence. So it came as no surprise and a fairly straightforward conversation followed, probably something along the lines of ‘keep me updated’ while not really taking in what was being said. Or perhaps none of us really understood at that point how serious the situation was. I hung up and told Louise what had happened, sounding very blasé about the whole thing, perhaps even explaining why nobody really seemed that bothered, an air of ‘here we go again’ very much prevalent throughout the conversation I’d just had. Life continued as normal. We ate dinner, we probably watched a bit of television until around 10.30, when we were about to go to bed. The phone rang again. It was my mother, this time.

‘Carole’s in hospital,’ she said, with a pause. ‘And she might not make it…’

I think I found this difficult to take in. Maybe all of those previous dramas were clouding my judgement, but it was suggested to me that we should make our way to Epsom Hospital, where Carole was currently in intensive care. We drove into Horsham first and picked Ellie up before disaster struck. Outside Horsham train station, our exhaust fell off and we dragged it noisily behind us as we parked up in the nearby taxi rank. After a hasty call to Louise’s parents in a nearby phone box, we waited for her father to arrive from Pulborough (I think, if my memory serves me well) to take us on to Epsom. The wait and the journey to the hospital were torturous as Ellie filled us in on what had happened. From what I remember, Carole was on medication for her epilepsy and was supposed to avoid alcohol. I don’t believe that she drank a lot on that evening out with Ellie (the one that I had lied to avoid) and I suspect that what happened may well have occurred regardless, but at some point after their night out, Carole had a fit back at Ellie’s flat and was taken into hospital. To be honest, even after all this time, I’m not sure that I want or need any more details than that.

We arrived at the hospital and were met with grim silence as we took the lift up to the intensive care unit. Carole’s boyfriend, Mark, was already there and we were shown into a small room that had been set aside for us. Over the next few hours, my parents arrived (separately, each armed with a lifetime’s supply of ill-feeling and resentment towards each other) along with Rachael. We had little to do but stare at the peeling paint on the walls and stride up and down melancholy corridors as we waited for information. I felt trapped in what I still consider to be one of the loneliest places I’ve ever encountered and that’s up against some stiff competition. I wondered how many brothers, how many fathers and mothers or husbands and wives had paced these silent passages before, how many ghosts wandered in the darkness, desperate to communicate with someone, to tell their story before they could move on.

Eventually, I was allowed in to the ICU to see Carole. The first thing that I noticed was the sound of the ventilator, wheezing like a grampus to emphasise both the seriousness and the absurdity of the situation. A twenty-six-year-old woman clinging to life by the finest of threads, her fate in the balance. Every sound seemed disrespectful and there were numerous noises that in any other situation would go unnoticed, but in that strange, new environment, my senses were suddenly and unexpectedly attuned to everything. Every beep and whisper, every aided breath that my sister was taking was important and terrifying. Somebody tried to explain what was happening, but I couldn’t take it in. What had been so difficult to grasp during the earlier phone call hit me abruptly like a sledgehammer. Carole was in intensive care and she might not make it.

I walked over to the bed and took her hand in mine. Her skin was warm but there was no response. I talked to her for a while, the words feeling awkward in my mouth, almost embarrassing and pointless now, because if she died, nothing would ever matter again. I prayed to a god that I didn’t believe in for a miracle that I never expected to arrive. Hope, that most precious of emotions, was lingering by the exit, pulling its coat on before taking its leave from our small and bitter group. I think that I maybe had a sense of what was going on, but I didn’t want to believe it. However difficult life had been, this wasn’t supposed to be a part of it, not yet, not here…not this night.

And it wasn’t. At least, not this night. Maybe Death had other scores to settle, maybe demons of our own making wished to feast on our collective torment and pity. There was plenty to go around as we discovered over the next few days and nights, in the small, terrible hours when you’re so sleep-deprived that it’s hard to discern what is real and what’s not and the truth becomes a pill that is almost impossible to swallow. Old grudges resurfaced and blame was bandied about with an absence of responsibility. The truth is that arguably, we were all to blame in one way or another. Some more so, but we all had a share of responsibility for the life decisions that had led Carole to this moment. We’d all let her down and we’d all let each other down. Promises that could and would never be kept were brokered during those long nights, desperation clawing at a hope that had long since left the building.

To top it all off, I had an additional concern and one that I’ve never gained clarity on, but those instincts of mine that were and are so often reliable picked up on something. The thing is, when you are a victim of abuse, you learn to read the room, to read people. You are always waiting for the next bad thing to come along. You learn patterns of behaviour, you become adept at reading body language. Among all of the comings and goings in that small room at the top of the hospital, there was a period of time when Louise was talking to Carole’s boyfriend, Mark. The rest of us, well, we might have been in the hospital canteen eating food that tasted of nothing and raking over memories that made us laugh and cry, we might even have been stalking the corridors in search of that ever-elusive hope again. But when I got back to that room…something was off. It probably sounds bizarre, if not a little paranoid to suggest that something had happened between the two of them given that actual situation, but for a good few hours later, Louise was different, very different to how she had been with me up to that point in our relationship. Sometimes, in extreme circumstances where emotions are highly charged, things can happen. I’ll never know, but I’ll never forget that feeling of uncertainty and it wasn’t the last time that I would come to feel that in our relationship, but that’s much further down the line.

By the Friday afternoon, tempers were becoming frayed and the room in the hospital had become poisonous. I needed to get out, I needed a few hours or normality, so Louise and I returned home. She went to coach and when she came back we shared some time together, which made me feel incredibly guilty. My sister was dying in hospital and I was, well…you don’t need details. Again, I think it was symptomatic of the raw emotions that were surging through all of us as we tried to navigate an impossible situation. Afterwards, I lay in Louise’s arms and I cried. The shadow of what was to come was looming over us with a grim certainty as we dressed and gathered ourselves ahead of the drive back to Epsom. That night, was the longest night as the medical staff told us to prepare ourselves for the worst. There was nothing more that could be done. No miracle, no answer to our prayers. Carole was dying, the official cause was apparently bronchopneumonia, of which I knew little then and only a fraction more now. Ultimately, the cause didn’t matter, it wasn’t going to be cured and it wouldn’t change the fact that I would never see or speak to her again.

Saturday morning arrived and as the sun came up, I made a decision. I went into the ICU and held Carole’s hand once more. I told her that I loved her and that I was sorry and I cried more than I had ever cried in my life. I told her that I didn’t want to see her die and I asked for her forgiveness and understanding. I don’t know that I ever received either, I don’t know if she even heard me, but we are told in those situations that talking to patients is important. So, I talked. And then I kissed her forehead, I cried again and I walked out of the room. By now, I had noticed that there was a distinguishable smell in the room, something different, something new and something that I didn’t like. It appeared that Death was becoming impatient.

Louise and I went for a drive and Ellie chose to come with us. In truth, I don’t think any of us wanted to be there at the end. I still don’t know if it was the right thing to do. When we returned to the hospital, we saw my father downstairs by the lifts and he gave us the slightest shake of his head. I totally lost it, all of my pent up fury and rage unleashed as I pummelled the walls with my fists. Ridiculously, I’d bought a teddy bear to give to Carole upon our return, still hoping against hope that my miracle would arrive and I sank to my knees, cradling the bag containing the bear as hot tears spilled down my face. The anger eventually subsided, leaving me bereft and numb.

During the afternoon, I was asked if I wanted to visit Carole in the Chapel of Rest. Louise offered to come in with me, but I felt that it was something that I had to do alone. This was my grief at its most raw, my loss becoming tangible and the fear that I felt was mine to face. As I eased open the door, fully expecting a creaking of hinges to accompany my entrance, memories of far too many horror films crept out of the dark recesses of my mind. As I saw Carole laid out peacefully a few yards in front of me, I understood what was meant by the saying ‘deathly-pale’. She was there, but not there. I forced myself to cross the room towards her, quite literally dragging my feet across the carpet. More tears cascaded down my face, when previously I thought I might never cry again and as I finally stood next to her body, I reached down and kissed her forehead, her skin colder than anything I had ever felt before and that same smell clinging to her, despite the best efforts of those who had prepared her in the Chapel. Once you have experienced the smell of death, it never leaves you and you never forget it. I sobbed an apology to her and I begged her to come back as my heart broke into a million tiny pieces. I couldn’t tell you how long I stayed with her, it felt like forever, yet no time at all. Eventually, I said goodbye to her again and I left the Chapel.

Outside, the world carried on and the sun shone, brilliant and stark against my feelings of despair. I wanted the world to be miserable and to share my grief through driving rain and stormy clouds. I wanted everyone to be sad forever, but people strode past, laughing at jokes that suddenly weren’t funny anymore and smiling at beauty that I could not see. My fragmented family, already damaged beyond repair before this tragedy, slowly drifted back to their own corners of the country to brood on our loss.

I returned home to well-meant sympathy but I felt nothing, just a horrid, deep emptiness. We were told that we would have to wait for a post-mortem and as the nearest next of kin, I had to return to the hospital later in the week to sign the death certificate, which left me angrier than ever at my parents. Why did it have to be my responsibility? It shouldn’t have been down to me, I should never have had to do it. But I did, because there was nobody else who could or would. I wonder how many times that’s been the case…

Almost two weeks later, on Friday 25th November, Carole’s funeral took place. I was grateful that I’d been to see her in the Chapel as I was well prepared for seeing her in the coffin, but it didn’t really make it any easier, it was just less of a shock for me than it was for anyone else. I held it together reasonably well until the poem that I wrote for her was read out during the service and the floodgates opened. The service itself was simple and I think that we travelled to Gosport Crematorium afterwards, which was equally traumatic. I was acutely aware of how people stare at funeral processions, which irritated me even though I suspect most of the attention was sympathetic. At the end of the second part of the service, a pair of curtains slid silently across in front of the coffin as Carole’s chosen song (Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’) played and I blew a kiss at the coffin to say goodbye for the last time before everyone traipsed outside to wait for someone, anyone to come along and tell them what to do. These were some of my darkest days and although there were more to come, I had no idea how to go about moving forward from here.

Copyright Alec Hepburn, 2026.