10 Years on

Ten years ago today, I woke up as normal.  I got up, got ready and caught the train – I met my dad and we did some Christmas shopping.  I was aware that my two brothers, Peter and Robert, were out spending the morning together, I thought about them, and got them some gifts.  My dad walked me back to the station, he was due to be going away for a few days, he gave me a hug and said, “I’ll see you on Christmas Eve”.  On the journey home I remember thinking that life was going well, things felt settled and I had even whispered to myself, “Thank you God, things feel good”.

In the months and even years that followed, I’d play this moment over and over in my head – tortured by how oblivious I was that my world was about to be torn apart.  The shock and trauma would make me irrational at times, I’d ask if I had somehow jinxed things, and be furious with myself for not knowing what was coming.

I saw my dad much sooner than Christmas Eve…I saw him the very next morning.  He stood at my front door, unable to get his words out, horror and pain visible on his face.  The panic of that moment still makes my stomach flip over – knowing instantly that something was terribly wrong, and then the stuttered words, “It’s Peter, he’s been knocked down by a driver…he’s been killed”. 

I think of my brother on this morning ten years ago, going about his day, unaware he was in the final hours of his life.  It feels so unfair.  Even now, my heart breaks for him.

There will be people out there who will wonder why, ten years on, I need to write about this.  I’ll address them in detail below.  But, the truth is, the build-up to this anniversary has been tough and the only way I can try to handle it is by somehow mentally processing the last decade.  Writing has always been my therapy – I know it will help me, and maybe it might help someone else that reads this.

Peter was killed, and I changed forever

This is a hard thing to acknowledge, and in a way, I almost feel selfish doing so.  My brother had his life taken, and I have grieved so deeply for the future that was stolen from him; but I have grieved for myself too.  I share this because so many people I have had the privilege to support also struggle with feelings that their own identity was taken from them, along with their loved one.  My siblings and I had never had a sheltered life, and we weren’t from a picture-perfect family, but we had core values.  We knew right from wrong.  We knew the importance of hard work.  We believed most people in this world were good people, trying do their best in life.

Suddenly, all this was gone.  Everything was bleak, I had a constant feeling that I was drowning.  My mind focused only on a driver that broke the law and left a man to die in the road; actions that went against all those core values.  When I sought counselling, I was told, “Most people will experience something in life that will rock their foundations, you have experienced something that has completely destroyed them”.  And, that is how it felt.  Venturing out of the house became terrifying, facing everyday tasks was exhausting, putting a mask on to go to work each day utterly draining.

I have a photo taken the week before Peter was killed – it is of my group of friends on a night out.  At the time, I thought it was a lovely picture.  I now can’t bear to look at it – because when I do I see a person looking back at me that I no longer recognise.  A young woman who was naïve and silly, whose worries in life were actually very minor, who thought she had a big brother who would be beside her for many years to come.  She no longer exists.  I’ve had to work at learning who I am now, and what makes me tick.  The things that matter to me are totally different.  My work changed. My social circle changed. I changed.

One of my RoadPeace Siblings’ Group members recently described those of us bereaved through road death as “the people you read about in the news”. It is a perfect way of putting things - our normal, average lives thrown into something so completely opposite. It is no wonder we can’t be the same as we were.

About a year after the court case concluded, I decided I needed to watch the CCTV footage of that night. My best friend went with me and we sat together in the Serious Collision Investigation Unit. After the impact, the police let the recording run on for a few moments. The driver left the scene. But, others stopped. People jumped out of their cars and came running. One person, visibly distressed, held his hands to his head. They tried to help Peter. It was the first time since his death that I felt hope. There are good people in the world.

With time and support, there are less days that I feel like I am drowning – but life has never returned to normal, instead I live a ‘new normal’. When I speak with bereaved families for the first time, they often want some indication from me as to when things will feel better. I tell them the pain will never lessen. But, that very, very slowly, pain and joy will start to co-exist.

Forgiveness is optional

After the collision, my family worried for the driver. My dad, in particular, often spoke of him probably having a family too. We’d think about how his life had been ruined. In May 2015, the police sat us down to brief us on the findings of their investigation. This man we’d be so concerned for had been doing 93mph, over a prolonged distance, in his girlfriend’s rental car, which he was fully aware he was uninsured to drive. He had hit my brother as he crossed the road he lived on. He didn’t stop. He didn’t call an ambulance. Even as he left the scene, with a badly damaged car and shattered windscreen, he continued to speed. About a third of a mile away, he pulled over, and made his girlfriend switch seats with him. They concocted a story, and she rang the police to say she thought she had hit an animal. The police said that the manner of driving meant it was a miracle it was only my brother that was killed.

As is the case with Causing death by dangerous driving, the first hearing was at Magistrates’ Court, before being referred to Crown Court. The driver’s girlfriend was dealt with for obstructing the police. She had no family with her. She looked like she would pass out. She had lost her job – ironically, as a health and safety officer. I could see her regret. The driver showed no sorrow. At the Crown Court hearings that followed I would stare at his face, searching for any hint of remorse. It never came. He only pleaded guilty after the third hearing when it was clear the evidence was stacked against him – until that point he lied, maintaining he had been doing the speed limit. On the morning of the sentencing he submitted a letter to the judge saying he was sorry (standard practice). When the sentenced was passed (originally for 3 years and 3 months, later increased to 4 years and 6 months) his family celebrated in court. He never apologised to us.

I didn’t know I was capable of feeling such anger and hatred. And I couldn’t tell anyone I felt this. We attach such shame to anger, as though it always unjustified. We see ‘hate’ as such a strong word – surely, no decent person would feel this. I hope the families I work with at RoadPeace know they can always be honest with me, I will always tell them their feelings are valid, they should never beat themselves up for their emotions.

As a teenager, I had suffered with and recovered from an eating disorder. This came back with a vengeance, the inner turmoil destroying me. Very few people around me understood, and some of those that did would talk of needing to forgive. I appreciate that for some, forgiveness is so important, and I admire it. It might be they have a strong faith, or it is their way of finding peace. We all cope in different ways.

For me, the path to rebuilding my life came when I accepted I wouldn’t forgive and stopped trying to force this from myself. RoadPeace know the importance of remembrance, of talking of our loved ones. I realised I was so consumed by my feelings for the driver, he was taking more of my thoughts than my brother was. I told myself this man had taken my brother’s life, he wasn’t going to take my health too. Instead, I remembered Peter, I thought of his humour, the silly songs he would make up, his love of Neil Diamond, his pig-headedness. I remembered our days out, times spent together, even our arguments. I think of my brother every single morning, every single evening, and multiple times in between. The driver gets an occasional fleeting second of my time. I will never forgive him, but I no longer feel hatred or anger, there’s no point wasting my energy on that. I simply feel nothing towards him – which is all he is worthy of.

Grief has no expiry date and ignorance is bliss

Back to the beginning of my words – I mentioned there will be those who won’t understand my need to write this. They won’t understand that grief does not come with an expiry date, that the trauma of my brother’s death wasn’t just for that Christmas, it was for life. Perhaps, they won’t even believe that those of us bereaved in this way are traumatised – maybe they will view this as dramatic or over-exaggerated, part of a now ‘snowflake’ culture, when instead, we should shut up and get over it. Many of us at RoadPeace have encountered these views. It is easy to feel frustrated, to desperately want to open people’s eyes, to make them understand. I have realised that actually, maybe we should feel happy for people like this. Maybe their ignorance is bliss. We wouldn’t want our worst enemies to feel our pain.

A quick google will give you a definition of trauma as “a severe and lasting emotional shock and pain caused by an extremely upsetting experience”. Road death is traumatic. With most significant moments in life, there is usually some kind of gradual build-up. This could be falling in love, falling out of love, having a career change, moving house, losing a loved one to an illness. These moments are still huge, and sometimes very difficult to navigate – but there has been some preparation before they happen. Our loved ones left home one day, fit and healthy, thinking about their plans for the rest of the week, but they never got to see them out. No warning. No goodbye. Just gone.

Over the years I have heard some real clangers. After Peter was killed, the defendant was given the option of having a second post-mortem – something that is unfathomably cruel. Due to this, his body couldn’t be released for 6 weeks. All we wanted and all we had left was to lay him to rest, to return him some peace and dignity. Someone said to me, “Never mind, at least if you have to wait until January for the funeral there might be snow, imagine how pretty it could be”. Honestly, speechless. Even now, I have no words for this. Once, at a work event, an observer was heard musing why RoadPeace had to keep going on about road death. Yes, really…

One of my group members refers to those who haven’t experienced traumatic loss as the ‘muggles’ (from Harry Potter). It is true, those of us that have had this kind of experience seem to enter into another world – with an entirely different frame of reference. My tolerance levels have changed hugely since Peter was killed. I get so frustrated with people that complain over tiny things, or people that aren’t true to their word, or make promises they don’t keep. I find people like this painfully disappointing. I can be very quick to cut them off. I have learned, sometimes, I have to step back. We all have different life experiences, and different pain thresholds. I can’t blame people for not seeing things as I do.

This is where my RoadPeace family become so vital to me – they are the people I run to when I need to be vulnerable and real, when I need to vent, and cry, or scream. And, they help me to set my boundaries. If one of my ‘muggle’ friends is going through something really tough, I’m there for them. If they want to moan that someone has taken their favourite parking space, or that it’s raining, it’s better they call someone else.

Challenging something does not make us ‘difficult’

I cannot tell you how many times I hear bereaved people say “sorry”. They are sorry for crying, sorry for being emotional, sorry for getting confused, sorry for not understanding, sorry for needing something repeating. They are sorry when they need to question something, sorry for bothering the police, sorry for wanting to meet the Crown Prosecution Service, or sorry for needing support. They are sorry for losing their temper. Or sorry they don’t feel up to socialising.

They have no need to be sorry.

After Peter’s death, my friend, Elaine, and I, campaigned on the issue of second post-mortems. We wrote to every coroner in England and Wales; the responses we received showed that there was confusion as to how long a defendant should be allowed to consider a second post-mortem, and when a body should be released. We collated everything we had found, and emailed the Chief Coroner. We had an acknowledgement which promised to get back to us further within a set number of days. This didn’t happen. So, we emailed again. And again. And again. Each time we were apologetic for chasing this up, appreciating how busy he must be. Radio silence. We wrote a letter, and sent it recorded delivery – it was apologetic in tone, but explained we had received no response to our emails. Finally, we wrote to the Victims’ Commissioner, Baroness Helen Newlove. We had a response from her within 24 hours and a telephone call with her the following week. She asked us to forward her the email chain which had been ignored by the Chief Coroner. Within days, we received a date to meet with him in-person. After that meeting, he issued the first guidance on post-mortems in over 20 years, and named Elaine and I in it. Thank goodness for Baroness Newlove. But, it shouldn’t have needed her intervention, and it shouldn’t have been that hard.

In the wake of a road death, the last thing we want to have to do is complain, challenge or call something out – there is already enough to cope with, without this. There are some amazing people who work for the various organisations we might come into contact with – dedicated police, highly-skilled medics, incredible prosecutors, empathetic counsellors, politicians that work all hours. Respecting those with a genuine aim of helping those in need, uncovering the truth, and delivering justice, is the right thing to do.

Yet, there are also some who fall short of providing the service we should be able to expect, and we should be able to query this without labelling ourselves or being labelled by someone else as ‘difficult’. Nobody gets everything right all of the time; most people want feedback so that they can improve things for the next family they will sadly have contact with. Occasionally though, someone will get defensive, simply ignore concerns, refuse to listen or close ranks. It is they who are the difficult ones, and they who should be sorry.

I will always be Peter’s sister

I went through a phase where I was almost afraid to talk of my brother, feeling like I had passed the amount of time society deemed reasonable to remember him, and share my grief. I told myself I should be quiet, or start refusing requests to do interviews. That I should stop campaigning, and simply accept what had happened. That Peter had been my brother, but he was gone now.

And then I imagined what he would say. Peter believed in me, he believed in those he loved, he believed in his friends. He would tell you anything was possible, that there was no harm in trying, that if you put the work in you could make whatever it was you wanted, happen. He was so determined, and he was always unashamedly himself. He was loud, sometimes borderline offensive – and he had no filter. This could make me despair…everyone knew exactly what Peter thought, whether they liked it or not.

I had 27 years of my big brother being in my life. I wish it had been longer. But, I will always, always, be his little sister. If I am lucky enough to live to old age, I will live longer without my brother than I did with him. And writing this, on this anniversary, has made me realise that I don’t care if it’s ten years, and I won’t care if it’s 50 years, I will never stop talking about him.

It might seem that throughout this blog, I haven’t written that much about him, or who he was. But the fact is, in his lifetime, Peter taught me the importance of being resilient, direct, loyal and of wearing my heart on my sleeve. And even ten years after his death he continues to teach me these things. He would tell me to write about what I feel, campaign for change, advocate for others – and never, ever be ashamed for doing so.

I will always remember my brother, and I will always fight for my RoadPeace family – because this is what he would have done.

RoadPeace is the national charity for road crash victims. You can contact them by emailing helpline@roadpeace.org or calling 0800 160 1069.