Remembering Sam
One year on
This time last year my husband, Guy, and I were on holiday in Cornwall. We’d almost reached the end of a beautiful walk along the coastal path at The Lizard on a warm, sunny Wednesday afternoon. The sea shimmered in the light; azure and turquoise. My eyes were drawn towards a single magpie sitting on vegetated rock near a cliff edge, and I stopped for a moment to look at it. ‘That looks ominous,’ I said, giving a half-hearted salute. A few minutes later, I stopped to photograph some flowers and looked up their name: delosperma, their pinky-purple colour so vibrant they looked artificial.
I noticed a message on my phone from an unfamiliar number. As I read it my heart sank and a sickening ache gripped my stomach. The message was from a friend of my cousin Jo. Jo’s 24-year-old son, Sam, had suffered a catastrophic head injury in a car accident. He was on life support, but the doctors had said there was nothing more they could do for him, and they had started the protocol for organ donation.
Sam was adopted by Jo and her then-husband when he was six months old, and we met him for the first time soon after that. I remember the first time I held him, a wild bundle of energy just four months older than my son, Liam. Although they lived far apart, Sam and Liam shared a special bond, always excited to see each other and getting up to mischief together.
A fortnight before our Cornwall trip, we’d spent a lovely weekend with Jo and Sam at my brother’s wedding. Sam had been brilliant company – hilarious, full of life and aspirations for the future. We’d made loose plans to get together again over the summer. ‘We love you, Sammy,’ I’d said as we hugged goodbye. Sam was a strong lad and he
gave the best hugs. We came away talking about him, already looking forward to the next time. He had that effect on people.
Sam and Liam had spent much of that weekend in each other’s company, laughing and chatting non-stop. ‘Our boys’ had grown into fine young men. I felt so far away from Liam when I had to call him from a car park in Cornwall with the devastating news.
Guy and I barely spoke on the hour-long drive back to our holiday accommodation. We stopped for a walk in the lush gardens of St Just in Roseland, next to the River Fal. Vast gunnera, palm trees, ferns, rhododendrons and azaleas towered above the weathered gravestones. A cacophony of crow calls rang out from the huge pine trees overhead, shattering what might otherwise have been a peaceful silence.
Shortly after we got back to our cottage, a buzzard came and sat on our wall just feet away from us, later flying across to perch on top of the patio doors which opened out from the kitchen, apparently unperturbed by our closeness.
At some point our attention must have been diverted because suddenly the buzzard was no longer there. I felt restless, unable to sit still, and we walked to another church along the lane from our cottage: St Anthony’s in Roseland. We’d visited on the night of Sam’s accident a couple of nights earlier, unaware of what was to come. I don’t believe in God but I wanted to sit in that space again – to seek solace in its quiet and beauty.
We entered the church and wandered around it slowly, alone in our thoughts. I left Guy standing at the front of the church gazing up at the stained glass and went and sat on a pew, leaning forward onto the next row with my head resting on my hands. After a while, Guy came and sat beside me, putting his arm around my shoulder and pulling me gently towards him. As the light began to fade, my tears fell for the first time since reading the awful message, the weight of it sinking in. Then, as darkness descended, we felt something darting overhead: bats, emerging from behind the church beams. We left the church and the bats behind and walked back to our cottage in the dark, heavy in our shock and grief.
Sam was a nature lover and a free spirit. He died in the season of abundance – when the birds are singing louder, plants grow faster, and flowers reach peak bloom. There was a terrible contradiction in his life being cut short at a time of such lushness and growth.
After his death was announced, thousands of tributes poured in from people who’d watched him and Jo take part in Race Across the World and fallen for his charms. He’d inspired others with his condition – Foetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder – showing all that could be achieved despite this challenging diagnosis. There were even messages from people who said Sam and Jo’s bond had inspired them to adopt. Jo has never been far from my thoughts this past year. She was, and is, an amazing mum.
Hundreds of mourners attended Sam’s funeral in Manchester last June. He was remembered as someone who seized every day, who lit up every room with his infectious enthusiasm, and who got good value out of his short life. In a heartfelt tribute, his friend said he’d taught her the importance of embracing life and not caring what people think of you. It made sense that he loved to travel, she said, ‘because his soul didn’t fit in one place’. Those words really struck me.
Today, one year on from his death, I’m thinking of Sam and his legacy. He made more of an impact than he ever knew.
Loved and very much missed.
‘Sam Gardiner – Never a dull moment.’
I can feel the emotion you must have felt on that coastal path. It’s strange how nature comes into its own at times like these. The universe is a strange and magical place indeed.
Sam sounds like an incredible young man who brought a lot of joy. A loving tribute Sophie x sending love to you and your family.
Such a touching tribute to Sam.