Young Sudden Cardiac Death: A Father's Grief

for the post mortem. In the days between her death and her funeral the sun never shone.

It felt appropriate. We live in a small tightly-knit village who rallied round. Christmas that year was suspended for the whole community. The choir spent it rehearsing for the funeral. Although Catholics, we live very close to the local Anglican church and knew the Vicar well. He allowed Madeleine’s funeral and burial to be at his Church. I dealt with the things you have to do - funeral directors, orders of service, trying to feel useful. My parents were quietly keeping an eye on things.

The funeral was a transition out of the awful un-Christmas that year. It had snowed and on a frosty, cloudless day the sun shone brightly – for the first time since Madeleine had died. Hundreds of friends, family and colleagues came. Madeleine was too young for it to be the celebration of a life well lived. It was a profoundly sad occasion, punctuated by the sobs of the congregation. Monsignor Morgan led the service with the Vicar at his side. The music was dignified and formal and I felt this was the first day of getting to grips with Madeleine being gone. I focused on helping Jane and William. Someone remarked it seemed like a film as we processed in silence to the grave-side, crunching through crisp snow. It was all too real to me. She had finally gone.

Immediately after came the support of friends and letters from people I hardly knew, often sharing previously unknown loss. Later was the emptiness. The thought of getting on with life without my beloved daughter was sometimes overwhelming. A household who loved music didn’t listen to music for months. It was a long time after before I allowed myself to laugh.

The conclusive post mortem of dilated cardiomyopathy meant there wasn’t an inquest.

She had had no chance of survival. The failure of numerous doctors to identify her illness did not contribute to her death. The pathologist, Dr Gould, was a brilliant, compassionate man; the single most important person in helping me deal with my loss. He explained Madeleine’s condition, and the possible family implications.

The main impact Madeline’s death has had on me is to realise how fragile life is. Live it while you can! I have worked as a bereavement supporter for CRY and am now Chairman of the Board. Initially, Madeleine’s death had a profound impact on our family and friends but I worked hard at making sure people knew it was OK to talk to us. Now I don’t really notice any difference except when close friends comment on an anniversary.

It is impossible to say whether our loss has changed our relationship. Jane and I treasure our son Freddie (now 8), think life is for living, and share a deep-down pain that cannot be explained to anyone who has not suffered the same loss. I’m not sure whether that makes us any better or worse or our relationship weaker or stronger.

Until Freddie was born I felt we were objects of pity but now I mention Madeleine to keep her memory alive. Jane is better at talking about Madeleine – she’s not British. Freddie, who never knew Madeleine, likes occasionally to look in her “treasure” trunk and ask questions about his older sister.

At only two Madeleine was wise well beyond her years. She was a beautiful red-haired child with an impish sense of fun and an unquenchable curiosity. Her zest for life remains an example to those lucky enough to know her.

She is missed not just because she was so young, and is gone, but because she was Madeleine. © Cardiac Risk in the Young 19