Waking up on July 10, 2011, I was sure I’d heard a voice in my room.
‘You’re going to see Tony at a funeral,’ it said.
That’s strange, I thought.
After a silly fight, my brother, Tony, then 46, and I hadn’t spoken for 15 months.
Shortly afterwards, my husband, Andrew, then 60, and I got out of bed. That’s when he found our son Dan, 27, in the backyard.
‘Dan’s passed out!’ he cried, calling the ambos.
‘I’m sorry, he’s passed away,’ a paramedic said when they arrived.
Dan had been out with mates the night before and when he’d got home, he’d collapsed in the backyard.
The autopsy showed he’d died suddenly from severely damaged lungs.
He’d been hospitalised with pneumonia two years earlier, but made a full…