Tag: reallifestory

It was my friend Anne-Marie’s bridal shower, and I was officially on duty. She had called me earlier in the week with a rather desperate plea—please look after her at the shower. Now, this wasn’t your average “don’t let me spill wine on my dress” kind of request. No, Anne-Marie was about to enter the lion’s den.

She was marrying Richard, a lawyer in the shipping industry, much like herself. As an English barrister dealing with high-stakes shipping insurance, her stress levels were through the roof. In fact, both she and Richard had taken to calming drugs just to survive their relentless workloads. Add to that the monumental task of planning a wedding, and you had one very tightly wound bride-to-be.

Now, Richard’s family? Oh, they were ex-Rhodesians (from what was now Zimbabwe), and if I’d learned anything, it was this—these country folk could drink. And I don’t mean a casual “let’s sip some champagne” kind of drinking. No, they drank like it was an Olympic sport and they were going for gold.

To make matters even more interesting, Richard was a very large man. We’re talking “could probably bench press a small car” levels of big. Anne-Marie, on the other hand, was tiny. The contrast between them was both adorable and slightly comedic. But the real danger that night? Richard’s three sisters, who were hell-bent on making sure Anne-Marie was as slaughtered as humanly possible.

I had a bad feeling about this…

The evening began at a charming Italian restaurant in Durban’s social hotspot, Florida Road. It was a delightful night filled with laughter, conversation, watching Anne-Marie open gifts, and indulging in delicious Italian cuisine.

After dessert, I could sense the sisters were gearing up to take the evening to the next level. They started ordering shooters, enthusiastically insisting that Anne-Marie join in. She shot me a desperate look—a silent plea for an escape plan.

Thinking quickly, I loudly suggested we move the party to a nearby club where we could dance and drink at the same time. The group loved the idea, and we all agreed to meet at the entrance. My real plan, however, was to get Anne-Marie inside the club and steer her straight toward the exit—a strategy I executed flawlessly.

On the drive home, I had to pull over several times to let Anne-Marie recover from the effects of the alcohol she’d already had too much of. By the time we got back, we wasted no time changing into our pajamas and putting the kettle on for some much-needed coffee.

Just as we settled into the lounge with our steaming mugs, we noticed headlights in the driveway. Anne-Marie squinted at them, confused—until recognition dawned on her face. It was her soon-to-be brother-in-law, Richard’s best man.

The plan for the night was for Richard’s stag party to be held on the same evening as Anne-Marie’s bridal shower. Since heavy drinking was expected, Richard had arranged to stay at his brother-in-law’s place, as driving all the way to Umdloti Beach would be out of the question.

That’s why Anne-Marie was surprised to see his car in the driveway. Worried that something had happened, she rushed outside. As she reached the car, Richard’s brother-in-law stumbled out, swaying and slurring his words. “All Richard wanted was to come home,” he mumbled. We were too confused and shaken to even process how this man, in such a state of inebriation, had managed to survive the drive back to Umdloti Beach. The thought hit us only later—how easily he could have killed himself, or worse, taken the lives of innocent strangers on that winding coastal road.

Anne-Marie peered into the backseat and found Richard lying there, completely unresponsive. She opened the door and gently told him he was home and could get out now, but he didn’t move. Eventually, his brother-in-law had to climb into the car, grab him by the arms, and drag him out. Given Richard’s size, this was no easy feat, but after some effort, he stirred just enough to steady himself against the car.

Even in the dim light from the house, it was obvious—Richard was the drunkest man I had ever seen, and I had seen plenty! As the only sober person there, I suggested we get him to a bathroom to see if he would vomit. I had heard stories of people choking on their own vomit in their sleep, and I wasn’t about to let that happen.

With his arms draped over our shoulders, we half-carried, half-dragged him to the bathroom. He collapsed next to the toilet, rested his head on the seat, and shut his eyes as if ready to pass out again. That’s when I wondered—how exactly do you make a drunk man vomit? There was no way I was sticking my fingers down his throat.

We tried to keep him awake, hoping he would throw up on his own, but it quickly became clear that this was a losing battle. I then suggested we move him to bed—but on his stomach—so that if he did vomit, he wouldn’t choke.

Getting him off the bathroom floor was yet another ordeal, but eventually, we managed to lift him up and walk him a few unsteady steps to the bed. The moment we let go, he collapsed face-down, sprawled diagonally across the mattress. At least this way, I thought, if he did throw up, he wouldn’t ruin Anne-Marie’s entire bed.

We left him there and went back to the lounge, making a cup of coffee for his brother-in-law while we chatted, waiting for him to sober up enough to drive home. As we watched his tail lights disappear down the road, a sudden, thunderous crash shattered the silence. It came from the bedroom.

Heart pounding, we ran inside to find Richard sprawled on the floor, wedged between the bed and the large wooden side table he and Anne-Marie had bought in Bali and shipped home. We rushed to lift him, trying to rouse him, but this time, he wouldn’t wake up. If he had passed out again, there was no way we’d be able to get him back onto the bed.

We managed to shift him just enough so that his head rested against the wall, slightly elevated. In my mind, this was better than having him lie flat—at least if he vomited, he wouldn’t choke. It was a stiflingly hot evening, but Anne-Marie insisted on draping a light duvet over him. Then, exhausted and uneasy, she suggested we share the guest bed and let Richard sleep it off.

Neither of us slept well. I had a nightmare about a funeral and woke up at dawn, drenched in sweat. Anne-Marie was already awake, clutching her head, groggy from a hangover. She suggested we get up and make some tea. As I boiled the water, I suggested she take a glass of water to Richard. She agreed it was a good idea.

I listened as she walked into the bedroom, coaxing him awake. Moments later, just as I was about to pour the tea, she returned. Her face was pale.

“Something’s wrong with Richard,” she said, her voice unsteady. “He won’t wake up.”

Dread coiled in my stomach as I followed her to the bedroom. The moment I saw him, a wave of nausea hit me. The sight was horrifying—Richard was so lifeless, so still, that all the blood had drained to the lower half of his elevated face. The top half of his skin was an ashen gray, while the lower half was stained with dark, blood-red blotches.

I must have gasped, because Anne-Marie immediately panicked. She grabbed Richard’s body, shaking him violently. “Wake up! Wake up!” she screamed.

“Call an ambulance!” she shrieked, her voice raw with desperation.

We didn’t have 911 in South Africa, and for the life of me, I couldn’t remember the emergency number. My mind was spinning, my hands trembling. I could hear Anne-Marie sobbing, pleading with Richard’s lifeless body.

Panic swallowed me whole. I had never seen a dead body before, let alone someone I cared about. I needed to escape. I bolted for the door, fumbled with the lock, and wrenched it open. I ran through the garden, reaching for the gate, desperate to get away from the nightmare unfolding inside.

Then I heard Anne-Marie’s screams—raw, guttural wails that sent a fresh wave of terror through me. I turned and ran back into the house.

By the time I reached her, she was on the phone, shouting at the emergency operator. “He’s not breathing!” she cried. I realized she was in complete denial, frantically trying to save a man who was already gone.

The operator instructed her to check if something was lodged in his throat. With a wild desperation, she straddled his chest, clawing at his rigor-mortised lips, trying to pry them open. “I can’t!” she sobbed. “His mouth won’t open!”

The operator gave another command: “Lift his legs.”

Anne-Marie scrambled off him and turned to me, her eyes wild with urgency. “Lift his legs!” she ordered.

I hesitated. I wanted to scream at her, to make her see reason. But she was beyond logic. Her grief was madness, and I was powerless against it.

“LIFT HIS LEGS!” she screamed.

Shaking, I grabbed Richard’s ankles and lifted. His body moved like a stiff ironing board—rigid, unyielding, lifeless. Anne-Marie hurried to the suitcase she had been packing for their honeymoon—just a week away—and shoved it beneath his feet. Then she climbed back on top of him, still desperately trying to pry his mouth open.

Tears streamed down her face as she sobbed into the phone. “I still can’t see anything! He won’t breathe!”

That’s when I snapped.

“HE’S DEAD!!!” I screamed, my voice breaking under the weight of reality.

Anne-Marie collapsed into wails, her body shaking with grief. I yanked the phone from her trembling hands and told the operator, “Her fiancé is dead. I’m sure of it.”

The voice on the other end was calm, gentle. “An ambulance and the police are on their way. Please stay on the line.”

Then there was a knock at the door. For a brief moment, I thought it was the emergency responders—but it was the neighbor, drawn by the screams. His face fell when I told him the news. He went into the bedroom, gently pulled Anne-Marie off the corpse of the man she loved, and led her to the lounge.

I followed, gripping the phone like a lifeline, thankful for any excuse not to go back into that room.

The whole time, one thought gnawed at me—this was my fault. My worst fear had come true. Richard had drowned in his own vomit, and I had failed to save him.

And that’s how I stayed for the better part of the day—frozen on the couch, gripping Anne-Marie’s hand as though letting go might make it all more real.

The neighbor took charge, asking for the numbers of Richard’s family. I listened numbly as he made the calls, his voice hushed but steady, breaking the worst news anyone could deliver.

We sat in a daze until the first car pulled into the driveway. The moment Anne-Marie saw them, she tore from the house, wailing with such raw grief that I thought my heart might shatter. This was surreal—like watching a nightmare play out while trapped inside it.

Richard’s sisters and their husbands hurried past me, eyes glazed with shock, and went straight to the bedroom where he lay lifeless on the floor. They took Anne-Marie with them, and the sounds that followed—deep, animal sobs, choked gasps, desperate whispers of his name—were almost too much to bear.

Eventually, they came out, pale and trembling, ready to whisk Anne-Marie away. But the police had arrived, and she had to give her statement before she could leave.

I was asked to stay behind, to recount what had happened to the emergency workers and later to the police. Reliving that horror, again and again, felt like some twisted form of punishment. Dark thoughts clawed at me: Was this my fault? Should I have done more to keep him from choking? Would they blame me? Prosecute me?

After Anne-Marie had sobbed out her broken, stumbling account of the night, Richard’s family insisted on taking her home. She needed clothes—we were both still in our pajamas. One of his sisters turned to me, her face red and swollen, and asked if I could get some clothes from Anne-Marie’s cupboard.

I wanted to scream, to run out of that house and never look back. The idea of stepping back into that room—where the weight of death lingered, suffocating—made my skin crawl. But I couldn’t refuse. So, with my heart pounding in my ears, I forced myself down the hall.

I kept my eyes locked on the cupboard, refusing to glance at the bed or the cold, still body beside it. The suitcase she’d used to prop up his feet was lying near the open wardrobe. I dragged it over and swept handfuls of clothes inside—anything I could reach—then dug for some underwear with shaking hands.

I backed out of the room as quickly as I could, gripping the suitcase like a lifeline. The atmosphere in there was indescribable, as if the very walls had soaked in death and despair.

When I stepped into the lounge again, Anne-Marie was clutching Richard’s sister, her sobs quieter but no less heartbreaking. I handed over the suitcase and stood there, hollow, not knowing where to look or what to feel—only that I would never forget the way that room had felt, thick with the memory of a life suddenly and brutally cut short.

By around 3 p.m., I was finally told I could leave. The house still swarmed with police, as if it had become a crime scene. In many ways, it had.

I threw on the clothes from the night before, eager to escape the suffocating weight of tragedy, and slipped out as quickly as I could. The drive home was a blur, my mind heavy with the grief of my poor friend, who had just lost the love of her life. A deep, aching loneliness settled over me. I felt broken.

Several weeks after the funeral—held on what should have been Richard and Anne-Marie’s wedding day—I received a call from their next-door neighbor, who, by an odd coincidence, was also a doctor. That Saturday morning, I had confessed to him my deepest fear: that Richard had died because of me, that I had failed him while he drowned in his own vomit. Now, he was calling to share the coroner’s report. Richard had suffered an enormous coronary, one so catastrophic that not even seven heart surgeons working together could have saved him. The combination of alcohol and antidepressants had triggered it.

Hearing this brought a strange relief—I hadn’t failed him; there had been nothing I could have done. But that relief was quickly overshadowed by a chilling realization: when he fell off the bed, it wasn’t just a collapse—it was a testament to the sheer force of the coronary, strong enough to lift a comatose man who had been lying diagonally across the mattress and hurl him to the floor. Every desperate effort I had made to lift him, to keep him upright, had been an attempt to move a body already claimed by death. The weight of that thought, of having tried in vain to save a life that could not be saved, sank into me like a stone.

That night etched into me a truth I could never shake: alcohol and stress are a deadly partnership. Richard’s death was not only about how much he drank; it was about the weight he had been carrying long before the first glass was poured. Both he and Anne-Marie were professionals stretched so thin by their careers that they lived on calming medication just to keep going. Their wedding, which should have been a joy, had become one more layer of expectation pressing them down. In that state, alcohol was not harmless fun—it was fuel on an already raging fire.

I had always thought of drinking as a way to let off steam, to loosen up when life felt too tight. But what I saw that night forced me to confront a darker reality: when stress has already weakened the body and frayed the mind, alcohol does not relax—it destabilizes. It numbs awareness, dulls instinct, and steals the body’s last line of defense. Richard wasn’t the first person to use alcohol as an escape, but he was the first in my world whose escape became permanent.

It left me with a lingering question I carried for years: how many of us live in the same cycle—too stressed to cope, too desperate not to find some way out—and how close are we, without even knowing it, to the same edge? Stress will always demand an outlet. The world offers alcohol, pills, distractions, and busyness, but they are only shadows of relief. They cover pain for a moment, but they never heal it.

What I’ve since learned is that there is a healthier outlet, one that doesn’t mask or destroy but restores. It is a life anchored in Jesus Christ. In Him, the pressure of this world does not crush, and the weight of stress finds release. Where alcohol numbs for a night, His presence gives peace that endures. Where the world offers escape, He offers rest. Richard’s story became a sobering reminder to me that the only true refuge from stress isn’t found in a bottle, but in the arms of the One who promised, “Come to Me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest.”

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