On Sunday we had lunch with my Mum and Pp's Dad. Pp's Dad was late (very unlike him) and accidentally went to the wrong cafe, and when he finally found us, wasn't hungry and seemed under the weather. He'd been visiting relatives and complained that their guest bed was too soft and had given him a bad back. But he perked up a bit talking, and drove home OK (Pp phoned to check he'd got there, and to chivvy him to make a doctor's appointment.)
On Thursday Pp phoned again to find out about the doctor's appointment: no answer. Oh well, he's probably out picking up shopping or something. We went out for a paddle in the evening, stopped at a cafe for food afterwards, then phoned again. Still no answer. Starting to worry just a little, we decided to pop in on our way home.
Got there, house was dark, curtains were open. 2 newspapers stuck in the door. We hadn't brought a key, but the next-door neighbours were in, so we knocked on the door. They had a spare key, and let us in. Pp's dad was upstairs on the bed, dead, poor sod, and it's going to take a while before I get his face out of my head. Called 999, the operator pointed out what we should have remembered, that one should always try CPR. The neighbour, an astoundingly competent and helpful woman, started that, with Pp assisting, I drove for the village defibrillator. Couldn't find it at first, but a group of people sitting outside the pub helped me.
The ambulance - two ambulances, actually - arrived not very long after the defibrillator. Some of them went in in full PPE kit, practically a space suit, others were just wearing standard uniform with a mask. They tried to revive him for 20 minutes before everyone agreed that he was dead, and we all sat down in Pp's Dad's astonishingly tidy livingroom to complete the formalities, which they did very kindly. One of them thought he had a clot in his lung, the other that it might be a clot in his stomach. They thought he probably had not been dead very long. His mobile phone was on the table downstairs, and it looked like he had sat/lain down on the bed and never got up again. I hope it was quick.
Then the rescuing-live-people ambulances went away, and we waited, in a state of considerble wide-eyed shock, for the taking-away-dead-people ambulance, which arrived at ten past midnight. Still keep running up against the fact of death, and feeling slightly punched in the stomach.
Just to make life more complicated still, Pp's dad used a solicitor who was recently struck off for corruption, so his paperwork is probably (we hope) somewhere in the depths of the vast national law firm that took over the corrupt solicitor's archive recently.
And today, though hardly a comparable event, our house buyer decided to drop out. House is 'not for them' apparently: something they could probably have decided before making an offer and having us take the place off the market.