This summer, I should have been organising an incredible getaway for my family of five — a precious chance to spend time together.
My twins, Clarissa and Ollie, would be 22-year-old university graduates, looking forward to their new lives, and we’d be planning to wave our youngest, Hugo, 20, off on sabbatical to America.
But all that changed on May 7 last year, when my beautiful daughter Clarissa died on a French mountainside. One moment she was happily chatting as she walked up to a summit in the Gorges du Verdon in central Provence; the next she was gone, having fallen back into her friend’s arms.
She shouted, ‘Oh no!’, tried to scrabble to her feet, then went out like a light, a cardiac arrest stopping her heart forever. Nothing could save her. Not CPR, performed by an American woman out hiking; nor a shock to her heart by the medic who arrived by helicopter.
Earlier that day, Clarissa had stopped to take a swim in a lake. There is a picture of her there, drinking in the beauty around her. Looking at that photo, it’s impossible to believe that just a short time later she would be dead.
Clarissa was on a weekend break from her internship at a publisher in Paris, where she was living for her year abroad during her languages degree at Cambridge University.
Clarissa and her flatmate spent weekends rummaging through flea markets, meeting young men for dates in bars and hosting a long list of friends over from England.
The only dark cloud on the horizon was that she had suffered from bloating issues for six months — but that was the only health problem she thought she’d. Clarissa was incredibly sporty, had been a keen runner from an early age and played hockey at Cambridge.
In April 2022, she had a fainting fit, which had lasted 10 minutes, after playing a game of Spikeball — a team game in which four players use their hands to hit a ball into a round net.
Her friends had been sufficiently worried to call an ambulance, and she was rushed to Addenbrooke’s Hospital. But as far as we knew, the ECG of her heart was normal, and when we followed up with a neurosurgeon they could find nothing wrong with her.
She had her whole life ahead of her, full of possibilities and friends. I’d always described Clarissa as being like a lint roller: she was someone who could gather up people wherever she went. She was the light in so many people’s lives.
She loved the sun, too, and would whip out a bikini to top up her tan at the slightest hint of heat in the air.
Back in London, we were getting ready to visit her for her 21st birthday the following weekend. We’d last had a conversation the weekend before. We used to speak once a week.
She was fiercely independent, and had been since she was a little girl, but, unusually, she had rung me twice in two days before she left for her trip, asking me what shows she should wear for the rocky terrain.
I hold onto that now, wondering if she had a sense that something bad was about to happen.
But I wasn’t worried. When I hadn’t heard from her all weekend, it was in the back of my mind that she might call soon, but that was it.
So when there was a knock on the door on Sunday evening, I was surprised. Then, when we opened it and saw the police, my first thought was not that there was something wrong with one of the children, but that I’d done something wrong. Not paid a parking ticket, or similar.
It’s hard to explain the sheer shock and disbelief you feel when a policeman tells you that your child has died. The first word that comes to your mind is “No”. No, this can’t have happened to Clarissa… this can’t be happening to us.
Clarissa had been the light in so many lives
My husband Simon burst into tears, but I froze. Your next thoughts are of your other children: how are we going to tell them that their sister has gone? Our life has been ruined in an instant, and we were about to ruin theirs as well.
Mixed in with those emotions was a sense of urgency. We needed to get to Nice as soon as possible because, under French law, they seal the casket of someone who had passed away after 48 hours. So it was not just a question of breaking the news to the two boys but also getting them on a plane.
That was more straightforward with Ollie, who was in Oxford and about to take his Finals. But Hugo was in Ireland, reading business and economics at Trinity Colege, Dublin.
The police blue-lit Simon to Oxford, where Ollie’s reaction to the news was like mine — a struggle to believe what had happened.
Meanwhile, I had to video call Hugo, making sure first that he was surrounded by friends. He said, “Oh no!” and fell to the floor.
It’s no exaggeration to say that that call was the hardest I have ever made. I wanted to be there to hold him, as Simon could with Ollie. Instead, I had to rely on his friends to do that for me.
It was hard to persuade Hugo to come to France with us. I think he didn’t want to be confronted with the pain. But for me, it was important that we all went as a family. I didn’t want anyone to regret not saying goodbye to Clarissa one final time.
The flight to Nice was awful. Then the tears came for me as well. I don’t know what the people around us thought, but I will never forget the kindness of one woman who silently handed me her handkerchief, without the need for explanation.
At 7.30 pm we saw Clarissa, so beautiful lying there, at peace and without a mark on her. You expect there to be some sign of death, some reason why; but there was none. We hugged each other and cried.
The following weekend, instead of visiting Clarissa in Paris to celebrate her coming of age, we went to pack up her belongings. She bought a deckchair in a flea market so she could sit on her balcony and soak up the sun, and it’s now at our home. It’s those small things which keep the connection.
We took Ollie, who’d decided to delay his Finals, with us. It was still his birthday, too, so it was important to all go out to dinner together, even if there were a lot of tears. Clarissa was flown home the same weekend and we started to organise her sending off, on June 27 at Farm Street Church in Mayfair, where Simon and I had got married.
But as well as making sure we said goodbye and celebrated her life in the way she deserved, we also wanted answers. So first, we had her heart checked by a pathologist, who confirmed that she had an undiagnosed heart condition called arrhythmogenic cardiomyopathy.
A normal athlete will strengthen their heart, but in someone with this condition, exercise will make it worse — like straining a pulled muscle. We’ve learned since then that more than 600 young people die from sudden cardiac arrest each year (that’s at least 12 a week) and 80 per cent of young people have no symptoms at all.
Many are found dead in their beds by their parents. We have to bear the fact that Clarissa did have a warning sign: a cardiologist confirmed her Addenbrooke’s ECG did show signs of the condition. We don’t blame the hospital: it would have taken a cardiologist to spot the signs.
However, Addenbrooke’s has now changed its processes to make sure that someone presenting with the same symptoms will have their ECG read by a trained cardiologist. Had we discovered it in time, Clarissa would probably have had a defibrillator implanted and not been able to do more than essential exercise.
Losing a child can put a marriage under strain. I’ve experienced moments with Simon when he’s grieving and I’ve been getting on with things, and then the reverse happens. But I’d say our marriage is the strongest it’s been. He’s never wavered from being by my side, and I see the goodness in him like never before.
Together, we want to create a legacy for Clarissa. We are mindful of the fact the country is losing a secondary school’s worth of wonderful young people to sudden cardiac arrest every year. t affects not only their families but all their friends.
I’ve thrown myself into campaigning for the charity Cardiac Rish in the Young, lobbying the government to extend screening to all 14- to 35-year-olds who participate in sport, rather than just those with a family risk.
Her friends fundraise for Clarissa’s campaign for Cambridge eHearts, getting sponsorship from businesses so we can screen young people in the city.
More than 600 young people die from this each year
Clarissa’s death utterly destroyed us, and every day is difficult. But we find a way to put one foot in front of the other for Ollie and Hugo, who have their lives ahead of them.
We’ve tried to gather Clarissa’s friends around On the anniversary of her death, we did a tour of the trees we planted in her memory — an oak at her school, St Mary’s Ascot, and a magnolia at Trinity Hall, Cambridge — and we went out with her friends.
For the anniversary of her funeral, we’ll have an annual celebration with a theme chosen by a different cohort of her friends. This year it’s 70s Groove.
That connection is important for us and our boys. I’ve left no stone unturned in my bid to understand her life — and as a result, I’ve met dozens of people who were close to her.
It keeps Clarissa’s memory alive for us. I truly my hardest not to fear for the future, for Hugo going to California or for Ollie as he steps out into the world. It’s now just for four of us, but Clarissa will always be part four lives.