He died in my arms

Halloween isn't to teach us about sugar, face paint and pseudo-sexy goths.

How comfortable are you getting up close and personal with death?

Rain was pounding the pavements so furiously it was hard to keep my head up, even with a hood. I was swaddled in my new black waterproof Michelin-man winter coat, taking a long route home from yoga through the underpass to avoid as much of the storm as possible.  This Saturday morning, I made a series of spontaneous decisions that took me out of my usual locations on a Saturday before 11am: yoga, not Park Run, refill shop for organic dates to put in the afternoon's cacao ceremony and bunches of flowers from the store I rarely visit.

All these steps conspired to see me come out of the beach underpass opposite my home to see two men facing away from me in the downpour.  One stood still, and the other was slumped on the pavement, leaning against the standing man's legs. I thought they were drunk, or intoxicated. I walked closer to see if they needed help...

It was then I saw there was a cheap blue mountain bike lying on its side in front of them.  I thought they had been hit by a car. As I asked what was wrong, the standing man, who couldn't have been more than nineteen, replied (bewildered); he had just seen the guy resting against his legs fall off his bike whilst cycling on the road and not get up... He'd been cycling on the cycle path and came over to help him, not knowing what to do, he sat up. Then I arrived.

Bending down, I saw he was vaguely conscious but not coherent, drooling but unable to focus on my eyes or reply to my questions. A man pulled up in a car and jumped out, asking what was wrong. I told him, 'I think he's had a stroke; we need to call an ambulance.' No one moved.

I called, got through to 999, and after lying the man down and doing a series of tests, I was told to start CPR.  Pumping into the guy's chest, I had to ask the car man to hold the phone to my ear to hear the instructions, but the storm was too loud, and so he had to listen and relay what the call centre woman was instructing.

Shortly after, a paramedic in a car drove up and told us to continue the compressions whilst she cut his clothes off to get a machine attached.  The beeps showed he had no pulse. I was getting tired and so the men began to swap in and out with me, pumping for a minute each, then rotating.  When it was my turn, I asked if they prayed, and both said no. I said it didn't matter - now was a great time to start. The second silence. I began praying, and when the ambulance arrived, I was able to drop in and sincerely pray with a man putting his hands in prayer behind me.

Having seen both my parents die in front of me, I know what a corpse looks like. I believed this man was crossing over but prayed that if it was not his time he would be brought back. I prayed for his gentle crossing if he was passing over. I prayed for all his family and loved ones. 

He looked around 50. He was going somewhere, he was cycling.  He didn't get dressed, thinking this could be his last day. 

The most striking image was of his open eyes blankly staring at the sky whilst raindrops pounded onto him and little pools of water gathered around his unblinking eyes. The police called me a few minutes after he had been lifted into the back of the ambulance to inform me he had been declared dead. I wasn't surprised ; I knew he was crossing. Standing dripping in a pool of water in my front room, holding soggy brown paper-wrapped flowers and dates. I looked at the stationary ambulance containing his body sitting opposite my flat. And once more, prayed again... I prayed to find out why I was there. It felt designed. And I realised it was a great privilege...

A privilege to be so close to death to remind me of the preciousness of life. 

A privilege to have deep faith that supports me. 

A privilege to be able to use the lessons learned from my rich (and at times very painful) experiences which have equipped me to hold space and have a container for huge shifts in our everyday bandwidth and a secular, consumerist culture doesn't provide a framework for. 

A privilege to be needed.

A privilege to live in a land where there are emergency services and people working to help. 

Thank you to all the people who came to the cacao ceremony I held 45 minutes after this experience, allowing me to hold space. Focusing on you gave me a purpose and a powerful contrast to the beauty of life and how important it is to live fully.

In the divine plan, it also aligned that seven hours after chanting over my Mum's corpse the morning she died, I was holding a cacao ceremony for thirty people in Covent Garden. Ceremonial Grade cacao really is a potent plant for keeping us in our hearts.

And when in our hearts we don't fear death, we can serve, support and process with grace. We can be more than we ever thought possible and enjoy and be nourished by the art of living. 

The day after this man died, I was at my friend Jamie's memorial service in London. The same age as me, he died in the summer.  The actor’s church was full to capacity and ceremony was being streamed to all the other lives he touched. He had a huge heart; he lived fully and is now off to his next adventure. 

This was all in one weekend, and it has given me more fuel in my tank and a deep reminder of why I choose to do what I do with my life. I want to help you live fully. I want to support you, to feel the greatness of your heart and live a life fuelled by love, not ruled by fear. 

I hope this reminds you to savour the moment and take whatever action is needed to unlock your blocks.

Love,

Helen