The Soulmate

Phil was the soulmate I had almost lost hope of ever finding. 

I think everyone goes through life trying to find that special someone. You just live in hope that there is someone out there that just understands you, someone out there with whom few words are needed, but conversation flows naturally. 

Previous relationships happen for a reason, children are born out of some of them, but at times your life doesn’t quite flow along how you expected it to.

Relationship breakdowns happen, people grow apart, they realise that their expectations for the future are actually heading off in different directions. Some people accept these changes more readily than others, some will fall apart completely, others choose to go forward with anger at the perceived failures of their former partner. What Phil was experiencing in the years before we found each other I had already been through and come out the other side.

I went through it with the breakdown of my marriage, second child syndrome I call it. 

Even though I call it that, it’s important to realise that it’s absolutely nothing to do with the children themselves.

You meet someone, you smile, you laugh, you feel what you want to hope is unconditional love, you go on adventures, you have wild times, no complications, no responsibilities beyond earning enough money to pay for the life you lead, and checking in with relatives and friends. You have time to go out, time to have duvet days recovering from the night before. Any fractures can be brushed over because at least you have a partner with which to share life.

Me and my ex-husband were like that, it worked great as long as we were out and about together. We planned our first child, we did everything together, sharing the excitement at bringing our awesome daughter into the world. 

Days and nights out together took more planning but we were a team, nothing mattered more than our newest team member and sharing the delight in watching her transform from a tiny baby to a feisty toddler with her own personality.

It was important to both of us to ensure that she didn’t grow up as the ‘only’ child. My dad passed away during that first year, as did his step mum. It brought home to us that everyone should have someone with whom to share the happy memories of a lost parent. We both had siblings and the plan for our second child, a new team member, was put into place.

Excitement, tinged with sadness at the parental figures we had lost, those who would never get to know these gorgeous children we managed to produce.

Our team of 3 became a team of 4, and the teamwork was essential in those early weeks after our son was born by caesarean. 

Our family team had to divide for his first week. I was in hospital with the baby while Johnny was at home with our daughter. We spent as much time together as we could, but that second child syndrome (as I began to call it) definitely started to wreak havoc and expose the fractures in our relationship that had been papered over during simpler times.

People outside the relationship start to exert an influence, you are pretty much living a parallel life to your partner because there are just so many things to be done. For either to have a breather, the other has to take the strain. Going out separately in a relay system became the norm, going out together became more and more stressful. Your joint focus has gone, there is no longer one plan, one aspiration, one team. 

It’s just a process of adjustment, some couples thrive, while others are left privately devastated that it’s just not working. 

It’s not really anyone’s ‘fault’, you grow to realise that as the years go by, but at the time emotions are shredded and everyone is pitching in with their own view on the hows? and the whys? and the blame .... oh the blame game.

When me and Phil stumbled across each other we immediately knew that the other was someone we could trust with our heart.

We had spent a few weeks chatting excitedly on the phone several times a day, it all felt so relaxed and so natural and gave us both the strength to get through anything going on in our separate lives.

I knew Phil’s background from our hours on the phone, I knew he was separated with two young daughters. I knew that he was banned from driving and that alcohol had been a major problem in his relationship and his life in general. I knew that this had led to a serious car crash, which resulted in him spending several months in prison the previous year.

I knew that he was an incredibly talented blacksmith with his own self built forge at home. 

I knew that the house he called home had been built by his father and uncle in the decade before he was born there. 

I knew that his father had died suddenly and that Phil had thrown himself into a lifetime of hard work and responsibility from that point. A slightly lost boy found himself having to emulate and honour his father by keeping the business going, with little time to grieve or acknowledge the impact such a loss would have on him.

I knew that he had a horse, a very big ex racehorse called Briar. I knew that he was a daredevil who used to go eventing on his first horse, another ex racer called Grooby. 

He wasn’t horsey in the way that had intimidated me in the days I used to go riding, he was just a man who loved his horses. 

Phil was in absolute bits when I first got to know him and didn't know who to turn to at times because it was like his ex-wife had some sort of influence every way he turned. 

She had made it very clear in a letter sent to him while he was in prison that she had no desire to rebuild their relationship. 

They had been attending mediation sessions, in preparation for what she had pretended would be an amicable divorce. 

The mediation sessions ended with no resolution, the mediation service was no longer available, the last session he attended left him visibly shaking with fear at the realisation that the amicable approach had suddenly been replaced by some form of determination to exact revenge for past behaviour by taking away anything else precious to him.

Mutual friends of theirs had suddenly become very distant with him, I clearly remember one incident when we were at a village fete. Phil spotted a woman who had not only been what he thought was a friend, but had also benefited financially from him through his support for her therapy business. We had only just arrived at the fete and hers was the first familiar face he spotted. He excitedly told me who she was and led me over to say hello. This woman, manning the charity book stall at a village fete, glared at him, shook her head and then turned her back and walked away. There were no words, no explanations, just a steely glare and a very obvious display of rejection. Phil was embarrassed and shocked, I was absolutely furious that someone would behave in this way. It demonstrated to me what he had been going through, every brave attempt of his to spend time in the community where he had been born was at risk of becoming a public rejection. Little stabs in the heart from every direction, at any time, all born out of a story being put forward by people that he had once loved and trusted.

All I could do at that time was to give him all the support he needed to stay calm, stay rational, and give him the confidence that there were a million reasons to be positive, a million adventures to be had, untainted by the events of the past.

Live in the moment darling, take it hour by hour and day by day. Focus on what you have now, nothing is fixed, focus on your gorgeous goofy horse, focus on the business that we are gradually rebuilding, focus on the people that smile when they see you. 

You can’t change what has gone before but you can change people’s perceptions by the way you seize the day each day that you wake up.

This wasn’t an encouragement to forget everything that had gone before, we talked every day about his daughters. We talked about adventures he had been on in the past. We laughed about his good memories. He was honest and open about past events, the dark side, things that had gone on. 

His daughters will always be his daughters, he adored them and lived every day in the hope that they were doing well and would one day come back to him.

He had to live in hope and optimism, because the alternative option that constantly crossed his mind was inconceivable. Plans had been made in the days and hours he spent alone, plans that were almost ready to be put into action. 

I don’t refer to the girls much when I write about Phil, their absence in our life together was out of his control. All I can say is that they were present in his memories and in our day to day conversations. It is out of respect for both girls that I write about who daddy was in those last years. Tell his story from his side, maybe answer some questions for them as they emerge in the future.

The focus had to be on the future to help him to find the strength to keep going, to focus on being there when they became old enough to choose to come and find him. To just be there. 

I was shuttling between Hertfordshire and ‘home’ (as Phil was very insistent I called it) every few days. Working freelance in film and TV worked out really well, I could leave Hertfordshire to go and work on set somewhere else in the country, then go home to the Cotswolds at the end of that day.

I have always had a nomadic streak and love to adapt to any place I find myself. Working on location takes me to some amazing places, and Phil loved the updates I sent him from wherever I was (and whoever I was pretending to be that day).  

I adored him from the minute we first spoke on the phone. I took him exactly as he was, and my god we had some hilarious adventures. I knew how precious and lost he was, we talked about everything and I mean everything. Our lives made sense from the day we finally got together, we used to joke that fate kept us apart until after our breeding days were over - because if we had been allowed to meet any earlier in life there would have been a pack of very charming feral children roaming the village with big hands and killer smiles.

We found each other when we were meant to. Some of the stuff we had both survived was like we had lived parallel lives, prison (me working in one and having the total understanding of how traumatised he must have been following his own time inside), ptsd, sudden deaths, relationship breakdowns.

We just GOT each other, and he knew that I adored him for who he was just as he adored me for who I am.

There is a video that sums up the life we had together. I had injured my knee and was feeling really low one day. Phil suggested we go and sneak into Blenheim Palace grounds through the secret free entrance that only a local boy would know.  I had never been in there before and it was a beautiful sunny day. We walked around slowly with Phil supporting me. We got to the iconic bridges over the lakes and Phil told me about the best spot to take a photo from this secret spot at the waters edge. There was an incredibly steep slope covered in nuts from the trees above.

I couldn’t get down there so off he went to get the photo for me. This beautiful hilarious moment on video as he tried to get back up the bank is one of the thousands of treasured memories I have. The laughs, that lovely soft voice, that adventurous spirit and that smile.

He was safe, he was loved, I tried my best to protect him when the relentless digs and arrows came at him, trying to provoke a reaction from him that had actually been born out of whatever had gone on in the past.

I was so so proud of him, it was like a light switch came on and he decided that yes he did want to choose life. He stopped drinking alcohol but realised he still had friends and people were pleased to see him when he went to the pub. No alcohol required and they still loved his company.

We built the business back up. He created some amazing commissions last year that no other craftsman working alone and with health problems would have been able to do.

All he wanted was to know that the house his dad built was safe, the little boy wanted to be at home. Tragically he did find out the house was safe at the divorce hearing at the end of February when the judge openly stated that he was being fair, he shouldn't have to sell the precious house and go live in a one bedroom maisonette in Witney (her suggestion at what he needed to afford to live in).

Every divorce hearing, form to fill in or letter to read took a little bit more out of him. But he was excited about our future, optimistic about the plans we had. He had stuff to look forward to. 

Then the unimaginable happened.

There was one of the series of unrelenting storms during early 2020. A branch had been blown into the road near the field we lease for the horses. Phil had been undergoing outpatient treatment for liver disease, and was feeling much better than he had for months. No alcohol for almost 10 months, good diet and exercise, liver starting to compensate and recover. 

The day the log came down Phil was feeling so much better. He hopped over the post and rail fence, pulled the log out of the road by himself.

Unfortunately he slipped climbing back out of the field, twisting his ankle in the process.

Everything was doomed from that point, although there was a 2 week recovery period where Phil was able to walk short distances, something was never quite right.

His body had no fight left to withstand the sepsis that built up through that ankle, even the senior consultant and his team at the hospital were visibly upset when Phil was admitted for his final hospital trip.

The Hepatology team at the John Radcliffe Hospital, along with the endoscopy and paracentesis teams, had seen how hard he had worked to rebuild his health and his life. He trusted them intently and this made things easier in a way when we received the news that the bacteria that was ravaging his system may not be stopped in its tracks. 

The lovely consultant spoke to both of us. He explained which organs had already been knocked out of action and worded it that “they are called vital organs for a reason and we don’t have many left to work with”. He made it clear that the team would keep actively trying to halt the sepsis in its tracks until there were no options left. He made sure Phil understood that he needn’t be scared of being whisked off for some brutal intervention such as ventilation , they would be keeping him safe and keeping him comfortable surrounded by the team that he knew.

Phil told the consultant that he trusted him with his life 110%, we both understood what the reality of the situation was, we had the time together to acknowledge what we had just heard. As the days went on it was so clear to see the upset on the faces of the nurses, doctors, physios and domestics who had got to know this genuinely funny, dignified man. He was slipping away, they made sure I was checked in on, the domestic team brought me the tea and biscuits he was no longer conscious enough to need or notice. 

On Phil’s final day the lead consultant held my hand, he told me what I already knew wouldn’t be far away. I sat and held Phils hand and chatted to him. Family members and old friends came in to say their goodbyes while I went home to check on the horses. That last day he was never alone. 

The final evening, the gastrointestinal consultant popped into the room we were now settled in. She had come onto shift and came to see how I was doing. She helped me make sense of the contradictory emotions that I, and anyone else sat with a loved one at this stage, was going through.

You sit with your loved one, I was like a protective lioness, you want to keep them safe, you want more than anything for them to open their eyes and meet your gaze one last time, you yearn for the chance to have one last conversation. You watch their chest rise and fall, unsure whether you are waiting for them to wake up or waiting for that chest to be still.

You don’t want them to suffer any more, but you don’t want that moment to come when you have to get up and leave for that final time.

The consultant gently let me know that it wouldn’t be long, that they would ensure he was comfortable, she arranged for the cannulas and monitors that were no longer required were taken out of his battered arms.

The lights were dimmed and we were left alone. I snuggled up spooning him, holding his hand and very gently scratching his back, as we did so often at home in bed.

The window was ajar, there was a light breeze, as we lay together listening to the songs we used to dance and sing along to while playing pool on our nights out. I shut my eyes and held him, reassured from the pattern of his breathing that for an hour he had been relaxed and genuinely asleep in my arms. A specific song came on at random, one I hadn’t heard for about 35 years. I resisted changing tracks to something more familiar. I listened to the words of this beautiful song that was playing and realised that this song was being left for me to think of him. He was going, with one last deep sigh he crossed over. My whole body shook uncontrollably, I was shivering cold. 

That connection was so strong as he left because we truly are soul mates. 

He was beautiful and he was totally at peace on that night that he passed xxx