An Ordinary Kind of Sadness

                    Picture credit: HBO

Some years ago, I spent Christmas Eve in the living room of an elderly lady’s one-bedroom flat. The Wizard of Oz was playing on the TV. The lady sat bolt upright on the sofa, neatly dressed, eyes glued to the screen. On her lap was a Yorkshire Terrier, growling and snappy. Perhaps he didn’t care for the Wicked Witch, or Toto was setting him off? Or maybe he was upset about the lady being dead.

The telly was on a high volume. That was the giveaway. When it stayed on all night and all morning, neighbours called the police and I turned up to force entry.  

I was twenty-two years old and had been a copper for about a year. My colleague was even fresher out of the box, yet to deal with his first body – a sudden death, as they’re known. I’d already encountered a few, so it was my job to show him the ropes.

When people think about policing and dead bodies, the first image might be a murder scene or a car crash, but many of the deaths I dealt with were just... ordinary.

First things first - procedure. Check for signs of life. Administer first aid as required (not required). Secure the scene. Search for signs of foul play. Preserve evidence. Identify next of kin. Account for valuables. Make calls. A doctor to pronounce life extinct. An undertaker to... undertake. An emergency locksmith to fix the mess I’d made of the door.

And then... wait... and wait... and wait for these people to arrive. Mid-afternoon on Christmas Eve... no one was coming quickly. Whilst waiting, write notes. Complete paperwork. Update sergeant. Complete more paperwork. Doctor advised they were ‘snowed under’ and the living would take priority. Fair enough. Undertakers don’t come until the doctor’s been. The only locksmith still on call for miles had an estimated delay of twelve hours.

Meanwhile, the deceased was still on the sofa (obviously), the telly blared, doggo growled, and my inexperienced colleague was finding death to the tune of ‘follow the yellow brick road’ a little bizarre. With many hours of waiting ahead of us, I briefly wondered if we might entertain ourselves by leaving the TV on, but it seemed a little disrespectful. Anyway, I’d seen the film before. I know, I know... please forgive the dark humour of the emergency services (that’s nothing).

Eventually, in the wee small hours of Christmas Day, all was done, except... the dog. The neighbours didn’t want Growler, and the next of kin had a turkey to stuff, so off to Battersea it was. I felt sad about that. That loyal pooch protected her to the end, and his reward was a trip to the pound. Of course, the whole thing was sad. Dying alone at Christmas is sad. No cards on display, no festive food in the kitchen, no invitation to spend the holidays with anyone.  

Several hours after my shift, I drove home to snatch a few hours' sleep before rising to eat, drink, and be merry with family. I didn’t mention Christmas Eve. No one likes a party pooper, so I did what coppers always do - I filed the event alongside many others in my mental folder of sad things and left it there. There was nothing remarkable or traumatic about this death. It was just another ordinary sadness, highly likely to be repeated on my next shift.

What’s the relevance of this story now? I’m about to start a voluntary role as a Police Chaplain, and that’s made me look inside my old and tatty file of sadness, which I now realise is fuller than I remembered. I don’t recall anyone being around to talk to about these ordinary things, but I hope to be a listening ear to those still doing it.

It’s good to talk. Even better to listen.