Twenty-eight years, a lifetime gone,  
Yet grief still wakes with every dawn.  
A father’s smile, a voice so dear,  
Now echoes faint, but always near.

That fateful night, the world stood still,  
Two hearts chose chaos, a reckless thrill.  
Their joyride left a trail of pain,  
And stole the light we’d hoped to gain.  

The crash, the chaos, lives upturned,  
A fragile hope as months burnt.  
We watched you fight, we prayed, we cried,  
Yet fate was cruel, you slipped, you died.  

Your battle waged for months on end,  
Each breath a whisper, a fight to mend.  
We watched you suffer, helpless, bound,  
While silent screams became our sound.  

Yet through the pain, your courage shone,  
A strength so fierce, your spirit known.  
Even as the darkness grew,  
You gave us love, a light so true.  

Now in the silence, I still hear  
Your hearts song, so bright, so clear.  
Your lessons linger, your wisdom stays,  
A father’s love in endless rays.  

But oh, the ache, the bitter truth,  
A shattered heart, a stolen youth.  
Their careless choice, a heavy cost,  
A life so precious, forever lost.  

I hold you close in every thought,  
In memories, the love you brought.  
Though gone in form, you’re always near,  
A whispered hope, a fallen tear.  

I often wonder how you'd be,  
What wisdom shared, what dreams we'd see.  
Would your hands still guide, your laughter sound,  
In moments where I need you around?  

But though you're gone, you’re not erased;  
Your love remains, your life embraced.  
In every tear, in every smile,  
You walk with me, each weary mile.  

Twenty-eight years, and still I grieve,  
For all you gave, for what we believe.  
That love endures, beyond the pain,  
A bond unbroken by joy or strain.  

So today I sit with thoughts of you,  
A heart still heavy, yet strength renews.  
For in my soul, you’re rooted deep,  
A love eternal, a flame I keep.  

Though stolen by their reckless night,  
You shine within, my guiding light.

💔💔💔

On this day, December 4th, 1996, our father, Christopher Newell, a devoted dad and the embodiment of strength as an United Kingdom Ironman, was taken from us in the most devastating and senseless way. 
He was en route to a charity triathlon in Saudi Arabia when two reckless teenage joyriders slammed into the car he was traveling in. The vehicle spun out of control, rolled countless times, and our dad was hurled through the back windshield with unimaginable force, his body colliding head-first with a tree. To this day, we do not know what injuries he endured in those horrifying moments, but we do know this: Dad never had a chance. He lost a quarter of his brain on impact and died instantly.

But the tragedy didn’t end there. In an attempt to do what they thought was right, Dad’s friends performed CPR until emergency services arrived. For over five minutes, he had no oxygen to his brain, a fact that sealed his fate. If this had happened in the U.K., resuscitation would never have been attempted, sparing him months of unimaginable suffering, and sparing us from the soul-crushing memories that haunt us to this day.
When he was rushed to the hospital, doctors already knew he was brain-dead, yet they persisted in trying to save his body. Our mum and older sister were flown to Saudi Arabia the following morning, leaving my twin sister and me, just 18 years old at home, desperate for any news. The hours stretched into an eternity of fear and pain, but the horror awaiting Mum and Kerry was worse than we could ever have imagined.
Upon their arrival, the hospital staff assured them Dad would be “sitting up in a few days, good as new.” This cruel optimism shattered when they saw him: a man who had been so full of life and strength, reduced to a shadow, now missing a quarter of his brain. The intensive care unit was squalid, cockroaches skittered around the room. It was revolting and disgraceful, but even worse was the humanity stripped from the situation.
One of the most harrowing moments came when two young boys entered Dad’s room, laughing and mocking him. We later learned they were the joyriders who caused the crash, the monsters who robbed us of our father, our childhoods, our future. They stood over him, gleeful at the destruction they had wrought. Their cruelty is a wound that will never heal. Our dad would never see us grow up, never see us walk down the aisle, never meet his grandchildren. They didn’t just take him; they destroyed the life we were meant to have together.
Finally, after weeks of agony, we managed to bring Dad back to the U.K., but he wasn’t really there anymore. His body, fit and strong from years of training as an Ironman, endured, but the man we knew, the father we loved, was gone. We spent the next four months at his bedside, clinging to hope that he would show some flicker of recognition, some sign that he was still with us. But there was nothing. Day after day, we were forced to witness his suffering, the haunting sounds of his tracheotomy, the bubbling of mucus in his throat, the helplessness etched into his face. 
The pain of those months is seared into our souls. We lived through a waking nightmare, hoping each day it would end, only for our hearts to break anew. The death rattle echoes in our memories, an unrelenting reminder of the unimaginable loss we endured. When Dad finally passed after four months of torment, his suffering ended, but ours had only just begun.
Even now, decades later, the grief is a constant companion. We relive those horrors in our minds, our dreams, our hearts. We lost not just a father, but the chance to know him as adults, to have him by our sides as our rock, our best friend. The world lost a remarkable man, but we lost our hero. 

Dad, you are at peace now, but we are forever broken. We carry the weight of your absence every day, and the love we hold for you will never fade.

💔💔💔