Hekaterine
19th Nov 2006, 18:10
I've written this as part of my creative writing class, so would be interested to hear any thoughts and feedback.
I died in a car crash in 1980. My sister was driving; we were doing about 50 in a 60 limit and a woman in a white Vauxhall pulled out from a side road. I learned all of this afterwards – all I remember at the time was Sue shouting “Jesus Christ, she’s not stopping!” followed by the scream of metal against metal as we scraped the railings at the side of the road and the crunch of the bonnet against the stone wall ahead. I remember opening my eyes; they seemed to be filled with blood but I could still make out the quivering shape of the bonnet, crumpled like the foil round a Christmas turkey and Sue in the driver’s seat; still and staring.
I knew that she was dead and that I must be dead too. No-one could have survived a crash like that. I heard the fire brigade say as much when they were cutting us out of the mangled bodywork. Even the papers, on reporting the case of the other driver (causing death by dangerous driving – two years suspended sentence) said so.
The problem for me has not been coming to terms with my death. I have been resigned to being dead every day of the 26 years since it happened. My problem has been convincing anyone else of my demise.
My psychiatrist tells me that I’m delusional and perhaps I am.
“Do you think you are a ghost?” he asks me.
Stupid man.
The hardest part is trying to talk to my husband about it. I need so much reassurance and he really doesn’t know what to say. He has aged more than a quarter of a century’s worth since it happened and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know how to stop asking.
“Did you cry when they told you I was dead?” I ask him.
“I was very worried when I heard you were in hospital, you know I was.”
“But did you cry? What was it like organising my funeral? Did you cry? Do you miss me?”
“You were in hospital Jane. You were unconscious for 3 days but you didn’t die. You’re here now. I don’t know how to tell you in a way that you can understand.”
See what I mean.
The reaction of other people is varied. I don’t always volunteer the information, you understand, but sometimes it’s necessary to explain. At a dinner party a couple of years after the accident, someone asked Jim if we were planning on having children and, seeing his hesitation, I felt the need to explain why that wasn’t possible.
We haven’t been invited back.
Jim works long hours. Sometimes I think he needs to be away from me. I don’t blame him; I know I’m hard to be around. He looks tired and pale and I wish I knew how to make things better. He has to entertain clients for work but he doesn’t take me with him any more. I don’t know what he tells them; perhaps he says he is a widower, or that his wife is sick or mad. I don’t know which is true.
There are many ways of being dead. This is just one of them.
I died in a car crash in 1980. My sister was driving; we were doing about 50 in a 60 limit and a woman in a white Vauxhall pulled out from a side road. I learned all of this afterwards – all I remember at the time was Sue shouting “Jesus Christ, she’s not stopping!” followed by the scream of metal against metal as we scraped the railings at the side of the road and the crunch of the bonnet against the stone wall ahead. I remember opening my eyes; they seemed to be filled with blood but I could still make out the quivering shape of the bonnet, crumpled like the foil round a Christmas turkey and Sue in the driver’s seat; still and staring.
I knew that she was dead and that I must be dead too. No-one could have survived a crash like that. I heard the fire brigade say as much when they were cutting us out of the mangled bodywork. Even the papers, on reporting the case of the other driver (causing death by dangerous driving – two years suspended sentence) said so.
The problem for me has not been coming to terms with my death. I have been resigned to being dead every day of the 26 years since it happened. My problem has been convincing anyone else of my demise.
My psychiatrist tells me that I’m delusional and perhaps I am.
“Do you think you are a ghost?” he asks me.
Stupid man.
The hardest part is trying to talk to my husband about it. I need so much reassurance and he really doesn’t know what to say. He has aged more than a quarter of a century’s worth since it happened and I don’t know how to help him. I don’t know how to stop asking.
“Did you cry when they told you I was dead?” I ask him.
“I was very worried when I heard you were in hospital, you know I was.”
“But did you cry? What was it like organising my funeral? Did you cry? Do you miss me?”
“You were in hospital Jane. You were unconscious for 3 days but you didn’t die. You’re here now. I don’t know how to tell you in a way that you can understand.”
See what I mean.
The reaction of other people is varied. I don’t always volunteer the information, you understand, but sometimes it’s necessary to explain. At a dinner party a couple of years after the accident, someone asked Jim if we were planning on having children and, seeing his hesitation, I felt the need to explain why that wasn’t possible.
We haven’t been invited back.
Jim works long hours. Sometimes I think he needs to be away from me. I don’t blame him; I know I’m hard to be around. He looks tired and pale and I wish I knew how to make things better. He has to entertain clients for work but he doesn’t take me with him any more. I don’t know what he tells them; perhaps he says he is a widower, or that his wife is sick or mad. I don’t know which is true.
There are many ways of being dead. This is just one of them.