On the 4th of September, 2016, around 4 a.m., the house phone rang. Instantly, my gut dropped. I knew something was wrong—an overwhelming sense of impending doom filled the air. Just eight hours earlier, I had stood in awe of my 18 year old twin brother, Ruairidh. He had transformed from a quiet, timid boy into a confident, proud young man. He was home on leave from the Royal Navy, having just completed his Phase 2 training at HMS Raleigh. He was glowing, radiating a new confidence within himself.

I had just come back from a surf trip and was so excited to see him. He took my hand and said, “I love you, Meggie. I’ve missed you.” It was almost like we knew that would be the last time we would see each other. He went out with his friends to celebrate his last weekend at home. He always wanted to leave our small town and explore the world with the Royal Navy. He had so many ambitions and dreams.

At about 4:10 a.m., I got in the car with my parents, and we headed to the scene. We had been informed that Ruairidh had fallen and split his head open. It was still dark, and the streets were so quiet—not a soul or car could be seen. I remember the look on my dad’s face as we drove over Banff Bridge: a complete and utter blank stare, lost in space. I hoped and prayed that when we arrived, I would see Ruairidh sitting upright with a cloth over his head, laughing at himself.

But when I saw him lying on the ground, unconscious, my heart dropped. The paramedics in Banff carefully placed him on a stretcher and braced him in. I had no words. He was still alive, but barely.

He was out with his friends and fell from a 6ft wall while trying to climb it. We had planned a cycle to Pennan that day, and I knew then that I would never get to go on that ride with Ruairidh again. I realized instantly, when I saw him on the ground, that he would either be severely brain damaged or… he wouldn’t make it.

I remember walking into the ICU in Aberdeen and seeing him just after his emergency brain surgery. My confident, kind, caring, and determined twin brother was lying there, lifeless, attached to a machine to help him breathe. His hair had been shaved off, and a string of staples ran across his head from the surgery. We were put in a room with the neurosurgeons, and they informed us that if he pulled through, he would never be able to breathe on his own. He would be blind, unable to walk, and have no quality of life. I collapsed to the floor when I saw him like that and couldn’t believe it. "Why him?" I thought. My caring, sensitive, and thoughtful brother, with so many dreams and aspirations, had it all ripped away in a split-second fall.

Ruairidh was one of the fittest people I knew, and he was humble about it too—never boasting about his talent. Growing up, we would never walk anywhere; we would always run. We would go jumping off the rocks into the sea after school with our friends, cycle around the countryside and by the coast, play “code” around Macduff (you Macduffers will know this game!), and play “ding dong dashers.” Ruairidh had no chance of getting caught because he was so fast. It was always me or my friends that would get caught.

He was always very grippet with his paper round money and would run all the way home from school (Banff Academy to Macduff) just to save a pound on the bus fare. He’s save up his pounds from the bus fare to buy himself a new XBOX game. We used to bet on who would make it home first—me, taking the bus, or Ruairidh, running like a gazelle. Guess who made it home first? Ruairidh.

I remember once being out on my bike in Macduff and seeing someone in the distance running up a big hill with a collie dog, wearing big black boots. I thought, “Who on earth is running up that hill? That poor dog must be knackered!” As I got closer, I realized it was Ruairidh, running in his Royal Navy steel-toe boots to break them in. Bloody madness!

One of my favourite stories about Ruairidh in the Royal Navy was when he entered a cross-country race at HMS Sultan. His friends told us he showed up with an old pair of running shoes and a packet of “Space Raiders” at the starting line. Out of 600 people in that race, Ruairidh, the young lad from Macduff, came in 3rd.

I was by his side every day in ICU, replaying these stories and memories, hoping that his strength and fitness would help him survive. I played his favorite Scottish tunes on my phone, wondering if he could hear them. The last sign of awareness I ever got from him was when he squeezed my hand as I spoke in his ear. After that, he declined rapidly and eventually caught sepsis. It was his final goodbye to me.

Our lives were shattered in such a short space of time. There was no preparation for this. How could someone so fit and healthy end up in ICU with severe brain damage in the space of 10 hours? I couldn’t comprehend it, and I never will. But I hold on to the hope that this experience has taught me that life is precious and unpredictable. Hold your loved ones close and appreciate them as much as you can, because you never know what can happen in a single day.

The staff in ICU were utterly amazing. They supported my family and me through the darkest and most traumatic week of our lives. When it was time to say goodbye, even the nurses were crying. I’ll never forget one of them holding my hand and crying with me as we said our final farewell. The nurses and doctors were on their feet all day, trying their absolute best to keep people alive, likely without even a break. I will forever be thankful for their support. The paramedics from Banff also came in to check on Ruairidh, a gesture I’ll always be grateful for.

I’ll be running the Inverness half marathon on the 9th of March in 2025 in memory of my twin brother and my best pal, a young lad with a brilliant character and strength. He was his own person who just did his own thing, didn’t bother a soul and was kind to everyone. I’ll be raising money for Brain Injury Grampian which is a small, local charity that supports individuals who have suffered brain injuries and works to raise awareness of brain injury and the devastating effects it can have.

Hug your loved ones tight and appreciate the small things in life, like being able to eat and drink, and watching the sun set over the sea.

Megan x