Three weeks ago, Kim Foale dropped dead. 5th June, 2026. And I say dropped dead, not to be dramatic, but because that’s exactly what she did.
She had a minor heart attack in the days preceeding her death, and was ensconced safely on the Cardiac Ward when she collapsed and died. I mean, if the actual cardiac ICU team cannot save you, there really was no hope. Dropped dead indeed.
There had been a clear angiogram the day before, discharge was planned, and I was photographing her war wounds as we chatted the night before.
Knowing what I know now, having talked to her team, and having had them look at her electro-magic-tracings, I think her coronary artery dissected. She presented like a massive STEMI (blockage based heart attack) but with a clear angio, plus heparin and her regular blood thinners on board, a coronary dissection makes the most sense. Without an autopsy we will never know for certain, and they didn’t do one. So.
This of course means her death was EDS related, which, ha, please insert some sort of maniacal laugh track here.
She was 60.
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My brain is full of static. You know, that lovely white noise from the old TVs. That’s my brain. And my chest is frozen solid, just one block of immovable ice and anxiety.
People keep asking me what I want and what I need, and honestly, if I knew that, I could probably thaw out this ice and make my brain work.
But y’know. bbbbzzzzzzzzz
There’s a stillness and a silence to this kind of death. Because what do you mean they’re just GONE. What do you mean? No surely that’s not right, that’s not how any of this is meant to work.
There it is. Nothing grand. No platitudes to whisper about suffering and peace and no relief.
Because there’s a tinge of relief to expected death. The waiting is over. You’ve sat the vigil and driven a million kilometres backwards and forwards. You’ve eaten grief meals and rung everyone who needs ringing and then you’ve held your breath for however long it takes.
Death is an exhale, inhale. Breathe again. Run the motions, ring the funeral home, keep yourself moving forward.
It’s not easier. Please don’t think I mean that it’s easier. The million kilometres and the exhaustion of a death vigil are not easier.
But there’s a tiny bit of relief to knowing the person you loved is no longer suffering, or that they had a good long life, and we can all breathe again. And I am PRACTISED at death vigils and holding my breath while I wait for a phone call, or an exhale and no inhale after.
I can’t breathe with this kind of death. What do you mean we’re just HERE now, grief island, a block of ice in our chests.
Surely that’s not how this is supposed to work.
It has been three weeks without my mother in this world and I cannot breathe yet.
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