It was the day after my last ever exam at Reading University, in May 2014. I had come home to Birmingham for a hen party, and on that sunny Saturday evening I was travelling into the city centre with my childhood friend Beccy, looking forward to a fun time catching up with old friends.
At about 7.30pm, Beccy and I were rushing through a busy park, heading to the bus stop on Hagley Road. We were running late. As we stood waiting for the bus, a man, who I later learned had previous drink-driving convictions, ploughed his Mitsubishi into the two of us at 101mph. He had been racing another driver on the road. Beccy and I were thrown into the park in front of crowds of people, some of whom stayed with us until an ambulance arrived, by which point, my parents later told me, Beccy had passed away. She was 21.
The accident meant I lost my memory of the six weeks running up to it. I have been able to piece together what happened only through what others have told me and the resulting court case.
Six weeks after the accident, I woke from a coma to the worried faces of my family. When I opened my eyes, everything was so white, I thought I had died. My parents tried to tell me what had happened, but I had suffered multiple bleeds across my brain, making it very difficult to retain information or even to stay awake. I couldn’t place where I was in my life or what I had been doing. I was exhausted.
It was a while before I found out what had happened to Beccy, but I had a feeling that something was wrong, because she didn’t visit me during the three months I spent in hospital. I wondered why, but didn’t have the energy to ask. When my parents eventually told me, I didn’t really understand. I don’t remember any point at which the news sank in. It was more of a gradual realisation, which I think made it easier to handle.
I wish I could remember spending time with Beccy on the night of the crash. I feel as if I can remember standing in the kitchen with her just before we headed out, but it’s hard to tell whether that’s a real memory or just a figment of my imagination.
During my time in hospital, I was recovering from a multitude of injuries that have baffled medical professionals: they can’t understand how I managed to survive. I had new bones growing from my broken bones; fractures in my neck, tailbone, collarbone and ribs; I had shattered my hip and severed the sciatic nerve in my left leg. I’ve had 60 hours of surgery so far, the latest involving the amputation of my little toe, and there is still a risk I could lose my leg. I used to do 12-hour shifts as a waitress, spending all day on my feet; I’d go running and on long walks with my family. Now, it’s unlikely that I’ll ever be able just to potter around the shops without the aid of a wheelchair or crutches.
I have never wondered why I survived and Beccy didn’t; I’m just grateful every day that I did. Since the accident, I’ve worked as a receptionist, I’ve volunteered at Heart Research UK and the British Red Cross. I’m dating, I’ve taken part in a photography course, I write a blog about my recovery, and I am planning to move into my own flat. I want to be self-sufficient; I can’t just sit at home and be sad. I’ve always loved working, and now I want to get more involved with helping other people who are disabled.
The driver who hit us at first claimed he was innocent, but finally admitted causing death and serious injury by dangerous driving; he was jailed for eight years. I feel he should have been charged with manslaughter instead: killing someone with a car is not a lesser crime in my eyes. Whatever sentence he got, it would never have been enough for what he did to us.
I’ve learned that there is life after trauma. It won’t be the same as my old life, but I want to move forward. I really miss Beccy, but in the past three years, I’ve gradually come to terms with losing her. It’s important not to look back and wish things had turned out differently.
• As told to Laura Dennison
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