March 29

Dinner time. It's become a bit of a running joke in our family. Our ideal time to eat is around 7 PM, but I'm always running behind. I start cooking too late. I like to walk the dogs when it's cooler in the early evening. I like to work out later in the day. I've not been grocery shopping yet.

I'm just not very organized, I guess.

Tonight though, I made dinner on time. I'd taken Leon to an orthodontic appointment at around 6:40 PM, and when we returned home, I figured I should get on and make dinner. Chilli tonight. Nothing fancy, but easy enough to leave on the stove bubbling away while we took the dogs for a walk. 

Roddy and I always walk our dogs, Teddy and Charlie, together in the evening. It's been our habit for some time. It's good to step out in the evenings together. We talk about all sorts of things. Work. The kids. Life. Hard stuff. Moaning about stuff. I feel like it makes us better as a couple, the fresh air hitting our lungs, slightly sweaty in the humid Florida evening. We look ridiculous - Roddy with his 120-lb white bounding fluff ball, and me with my tiny 6-lb black angry rat-dog. People always comment on them. Total opposites.

We leave just past 7:30 PM, so dinner is technically late again, but not too bad. No worries, we'll eat as soon as we get back. We take the exact same loop of the neighborhood we always do… down Pinehill, left on Riverside, left again on Tequesta Drive, and left again on Seabrook, then left again back to Pinehill. I don't like to divert too much, and there's a comfort in the familiarity of it. The same 1.83 miles. 

Family life can feel a bit like that. Part of me relishes it. Part of me detests it. The familiarity. The sameness. The routine. Comforting and cagelike all at the same time.

I checked my Apple Watch later. We left at 7:31 PM. But I forget to stop the watch at the end of the walk. It runs until 8:16 PM. I guess that's when the paramedics were there. I can't remember.

My heart rate runs at an average of 117 BPM, but at 8:04 PM ish, it spikes between 153 BPM and goes over 165 BPM until I stop the recording. That makes sense.

As we round back to the house, Louis and Leon are running towards us. I'm short-sighted, so I see their faces, and they look… excited? As the draw closer, I hear "Eliza" "fallen down". They are not excited. They are terrified. 

I start running towards the house, Roddy behind me. I don't remember if I give him Charlie or give him to the kids or run in with the dog. But when I get in, it's chaos. Eliza is on the floor. By the fish tank. Why is she over there? I can't hear properly. Amelie is on my phone. She's asking me for a damp washcloth. Why does she need a washcloth?

The moment I see Eliza, I know she is not okay. She has a large, growing lump on the side of her left eye. She's wet herself. But aside from that, she is clearly dead. 

She is not breathing. Her eyes are open but empty. Glassily looking to the ceiling. She is dead; I know it. But I pat her head with the cool washcloth because Amelie said that's what the woman on the phone said to do.

Roddy is kneeling next to the other side of her body. He can't hear the 911 operator with all the noise, I have to tell the kids to be quiet. Stop the screaming. I'm shouting, "She's not breathing Roddy," and he starts CPR. I reflexively start mouth-to-mouth, but they say not to do that. They tell us to leave the door open. I open the door. Do I? Does Amelie? I can't remember.

How can this be? When we left, she was fine… happy. She asked us to find her little toy radio as we were walking out the door. It's always anyone's best guess if she'll kick off or be content when we say we'll get it when we return, but tonight we were in luck; she was happy. "See you soon!" she chirped happily as we left the house. Phew! We got away easy tonight.

It makes no sense that she's on the floor.

Later we'll be told it takes law enforcement about 1 minute to arrive. I know one officer arrives. Maybe two? He takes over CPR.

More people arrive. Police? Paramedics? Are there 6 people? 8? 10? I can't remember.

I have 2 clothes airers / drying racks by the side of the front door, which they quickly shove to one side. The laundry falls off, and I momentarily feel irritated that all my clean washing is now on the floor.

They want to know what happened. I don't know, and I'm worried in the back of my mind they'll think we are neglectful parents. The kids each submit their versions of events. Louis hears a noise, finds Eliza face down on the floor. Eliza is pretty clumsy, so it's not that unusual. He calls Leon for help as, you know, he's 10, and Eliza is 15, tall and lanky. Hard to move. Leon comes and calls for Amelie. Amelie thinks she's totally fallen over, so tries to pick her up, her whole body… but realizes something isn't right. As she turns her over, Eliza gasps twice, and Amelie, by the grace of God, calls 911 immediately. (I am always worried about this - our Britishness sometimes takes over; I mean, who wants to be a bother and call 911 in an emergency that's not really an emergency? Not only embarrassing but costly too. Our British politeness is not activated this time, thank God.)

They need her ID. I run to the drawer where we keep all that stuff and can't find it. It feels really stupid to be trying to find her passport at this moment. I have to ask Roddy, as it's not where it should be. He finds it, as usual. Even in a crisis, you can count on Roddy.

The dogs are going crazy, so I have to put Charlie and Teddy in Amelie's room. Charlie is in full-on yappy dog mode, trying to bite all the strangers taking over the room.

Everyone is crying - wailing, really. I am very conscious of each of the children. Amelie holds Louis when she needs to be held. Leon looks like a zombie, pale and unsteady. The tall paramedic tells me to get them out of the room as they cut Eliza's clothes off. I go to the room and hug each of them. Louis is hysterical, rocking back and forth, and I am trying not to cry too much and freak them out. But they know me. And they know what they saw. Amelie is saying something about not keeping an eye on Eliza. Trust dear, sweet Amelie to make it her fault. I shut that shit down right away. 

You see, Eliza is very much a creature of habit, and there's not that much she loves. She toddles about a fixed area of the house with her favorite toys and doesn't move from it too much. Maybe she likes the familiarity too. In any case, she's not watched like a hawk. I'll cook, do laundry, use the restroom, etc, and leave her happily - not for huge amounts of time but regularly. She babbles to herself, so we can hear her. Amelie had just showered and was doing homework, and the boys were in the den, playing video games, adjacent to her little area by the dinner table. Just like normal. There's never been a need to sit with her. Until now.

I leave the kids in the bedroom, all of them still crying, the dogs still barking incessantly. Roddy and I are leaning against the sofa, watching. At this point, I totally leave my body. They have moved from manual CPR to machine-assisted CPR, and it is brutal. I am watching from above; Eliza's skinny body, naked from the waist up, jumping up and down on this ugly tile floor. I take Roddy's hand, some part of me distantly aware that we should hold onto each other right now because our child is dead on the floor, and how are we going get through something like this? I am not taking in what is happening, but I know it takes a while for them to get the defibrillator to work, and they eventually shock her. 

Her heart rhythm is restored.

I don't know when they intubate her, and I don't remember seeing it happen. 

At some point, I ask every person in the room, pleading with them, "Just tell me, is she dead?" "is she going to die?" They are good at avoiding the question directly but kindly. I figure if this was straightforward, they would tell me so, and they would seem happier and more positive. They are not acting like they just saved her life. They are subdued. It does not feel hopeful.

The kids come out as she's being taken away in an ambulance. The tall, somber paramedic telling us not to follow but to take our time and gather some things. It's not an option to travel with her. The ambulance will have a police escort and will be going too fast for us to keep up. I think I make a joke that it would be ironic if we all died in a car crash on the way, and Eliza makes it. I'm a bit like that in a crisis. Say something wildly inappropriate. I think it gets an uneasy laugh.

I move into practical mode. Now Eliza is not here and dying in front of me, I detach from it all. I change out of my sweaty shorts into leggings. I pack a hoodie. Cereal bars. Water. A bit of makeup. Hairbrush. Deodorant. Phone charger. I look in the mirror and think about how old I look. Ugly. Puffy. Exhausted. I always have time for some self-judgment.

I want to call my Mum. But she doesn't remember me anymore. My heart completely aches for her at this moment. I would always call her in a crisis; she was a nurse before she got dementia. If only I could hear her calm voice. Her lilting Irish accent. The only person I want to speak to. Oh well. No time to feel sad about that now. I text Eliza's‘ other Mummy' Suzanne, who's known Eliza forever and is like my sister. It's 1:30 AM in the UK. She probably won't see this until the morning. I feel bad for her when she opens it. What a thing to wake up to. I feel totally alone.

The kids come in with Eliza's blankies, the special shoe box she puts her toys in, and her favorite Iggle Piggle boat. Louis is all proud of his little pile of Eliza stuff. They are so amazing. It makes me cry. It's not even a discussion; we are all going to the hospital. I'm not leaving them alone after what they've witnessed, whatever unfolds at the hospital.

As we prepare to leave, the chili still sits bubbling on the stove. "And this was one night dinner was kinda ready on time!" I say mock-cheerfully. I encourage everyone to grab a bowl to eat in the car if they are hungry. Louis seems relieved he's allowed to eat, happy as he's hungry (and I'm not making him eat the rice, he can just scoop the chili with some chips - even better). Roddy scarfs some down. How can he eat right now? I look at him balefully, silently judging him for still having an appetite. I'm feeling nauseous, my mouth dry, like I have just eaten a plate of dry crackers. 

We drive to the hospital. Mostly quiet. I suggest maybe Roddy should cancel his mentorship call tomorrow. The boys have an appointment at the barber, I should cancel it so I don't get charged for a no-show. Text her school teacher. Tell the other schools the kids won't be there tomorrow. What about my gallbladder surgery on Friday? What about Louis' school trip next week? Think of the best people that pray hard, and text them to pray for us. Not too many, because you know… we're British. 

Nothing on social media; let's see which way it goes. I know if she dies, I don't want to see one thing online about her. I don't want to read God picks the best flowers or what a blessing she was for the time she was here. Maybe I'll just shut down my social media? Let's just see what happens. 

Distracting myself with the mundane so I don't have to think about what's happening at the hospital.

We arrive.

I feel sick.