"I couldn't say goodbye": the moment of communicating the death of a father in an accident

Reus / SabadellWhen the doorbell rang, Mar Capdevila thought it was her son, who had left his keys. It was two Mossos d'Esquadra officers, accompanied by three other people. She was surprised, but she hadn't imagined the worst. They entered, sat down, and after a brief silence, broke the bad news: her partner, the father of her children, had died in a motorcycle accident. "I tuned out. They were talking, but I wasn't there. He had left," Mar describes. "I told them to leave, that I wanted to be alone, that I wanted to cry alone. I was in shock, in a daze," she continues. They didn't leave her alone.

It was the spring of last year, and she remembers many questions running through her head. What had happened? How had he died? Had he suffered? And a remorse that still haunts her: "I couldn't say goodbye." Her son, Daniel Yeste, utters exactly the same sentence, adding that he only wanted to see his father's body. They're talking from the family hardware store in Reus, and the grandmother is listening to the conversation a few meters away, sitting in front of a fan.

These are the first thoughts that most often recur in the face of such traumatic news. "They want to know if it was a slow or quick death, what the last words were, what it was like, if it was their fault," explains Inspector Elena Martínez Moreno, deputy chief of the Mossos d'Esquadra's Road Investigation Division. They are in charge of going to the homes—always in person—of the victims' families to announce their passing. This is usually done by the shift manager, accompanied by psychologists from the Emergency Medical System (SEM). The inspector admits that they can't always answer all the family members' questions: "If we don't have some information, we don't tell it. We can't deceive them, even if it means they'll take it more easily," she insists.

The moment of saying it is complex, and officers are trained to do so with the most empathy possible. "It's shocking news that shatters lives; it requires truthfulness and sensitivity," the inspector points out. "It must be direct, we can't beat around the bush. We ask to go inside the house, so it's more comfortable for the family, and we say it directly: Víctor has died," notes Sergeant Esther Morillas Vallès, a commoner, to exemplify this.

Responses can vary greatly. They've even had reactions of joy in cases where the victim assaulted their partner. But above all, the recurring reaction is disbelief, emotional devastation, and denial of an imminent death. They recall the case of a girl who died in an accident and her father, after being told the bad news, called her ten times anyway. He couldn't believe she was gone. Mar sometimes feels the same way: "I'm still waiting for him to arrive. I can feel him coming up the stairs. He hasn't left yet," she admits.

She says that since that day, she's lost track of time. Before, she used to watch the Catalan Traffic Service's accident prevention campaigns and think, "This won't happen to me." "But it has, and I want to light a light inside people and say that it happens, that it's not something made up," she laments. The inspector insists that "behind every accident, there's a family." "Every time someone dies on the roads, we feel like we're not getting the message across to make this stop. Tomorrow, you could be the family member of a dead victim," she says.

Follow-up

The relationship between the Mossos d'Esquadra and the victims' families doesn't end with the delivery of the bad news. The officers leave a phone number so they can discuss the progress of the investigation, and they also facilitate contact with the Traffic Victim Information and Assistance Service (SIAVT). "Sometimes, the relationship goes beyond professional terms," the inspector notes. Mar echoes this sentiment: "You don't see a waiter, you see a person who understands you." It's a "long grieving process," she admits, which "you never fully get over," but with help, the "sorrow fades."

But grief sometimes returns when you least expect it. A few weeks ago, Mar and Daniel received the police report explaining how their husband and father died. They've skimmed through it; they can't look at it all. He went off the road on a winding road in Vilella Baixa, a tricky route, but one he'd ridden before and with many years of experience behind the handlebars. "I'd like to know what I was thinking at that moment," says Mar, who can't help but get emotional. The family regrets that the area wasn't well signposted, and the Mossos d'Esquadra report also suggests that it could be improved. Now, these recommendations have been sent to the road's owner, the Tarragona Provincial Council. However, the family regrets that nothing has been done since then. "Wasn't his life important?" asks Mar. "I won't get my father back, but we can prevent it from happening again," Daniel also laments.

Photographs

In the hardware store in El Mar, there are several family photos. The Mossos d'Esquadra who deliver bad news pay attention to them. When they enter an apartment, they see photographs that "will never be the same." On the way to the house, there are nerves, silences, and also the need to know as much as possible about the family they will see in order to try to put themselves in their shoes and treat them as equals. "Experience helps, but you never really get used to it," explains the sergeant.

After seeing so many lives cut short, their emotional baggage, that of the police officers, also "gets heavy," admits the inspector: "It makes you think that you should never leave home angry because you don't know what will happen outside." That's why they hold emotional emptying sessions within the force. "It's important to communicate well, because they will remember it for life," she concludes.