I don't know what to do with myself and at the same time I can't commit to anything. Tonight I was going to a friend’s house for dinner, but on the way I got upset, turned around and decided not to go. On the way home I drove past the site of the crash. It's the S bend on Sir Donald Bradman Drive. I know it well; it's only two minutes from my house. I got home, but I don't want to be here either.
Normally I'm heralded as a strong person, but I'm depleted, below empty. I have no reserves. I can only hope that a magical pair of arms will pick me up and take me - where, I don't know. Anywhere but here.
After the crash, when Dad was in intensive care, my two-year-old nephew David ran around with his toy petrol can. As we sat emotionally drained, he pretended to inject our arms with petrol. I'd never seen him do it before, or since. Shock, combined with emotional exhaustion, really takes its toll. We waited for doctors, waited for operations, and waited for time. Mostly, we waited for him to wake up.
We concluded that he was wearing his seatbelt and it must have saved him. We reached this conclusion too soon.
We filled the hours with words about the future, the past, what ifs, whys, and whens. When he wakes up, we can make a plan, he can tell us what happened… We don't wait any more. We just plod. Plod through every day. Mindlessly filling time, miserable. It's hard to believe that at seven in the morning you can be minding your own business, driving on a suburban road, a road which you take every day in your life, and then bang. Like a flying UFO, someone coming the other way - 'A bloody woman driver', Dad would have said - decides to intercept and change your destiny forever. Gracelessly flying over a tree and grass covered median strip. They hit you head on. You fight death for 11 days to become a mere number, number 23 in the South Australian road toll for 2004. Thanks for coming.
Written on 05 Apr 2004
Over 8 years since incident
Tags:
Intensive care, mindlessly, waiting, Sandra's story
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