Gillian Jackson - The Accident

The windscreen was shattered, preventing him from seeing out of it and his neck hurt, with a stabbing pain shooting into his head and down through his arm as he tried to look out of the side window. Noises from outside seeped into the car, the grating and grinding sounds of metal, followed by screams, shouting and sobbing and the constant rhythmic drumming of the heavy, icy rain, pounding on the roof of the car.

Joe had no idea how many cars were now stationary, caught up in the tangled web of metal which only moments ago were individual vehicles. Tears ran down his face as he waited, utterly powerless to do anything to help himself, or his wife. It seemed like an eternity until he heard sirens in the distance and he began to pray that they would get to Alison in time.

His eyes struggled to focus and his head swam. Joe wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and drift away into unconsciousness, but he knew he must keep awake for Alison. Talk to her , he told himself, keep her with you!

‘Alison... Ali, can you hear me, love?’

There was silence, not a groan or a sob, just the most frightening silence inside the car, not even the sound of breathing, while outside the noise was building. Suddenly someone was trying to open his side door, a fireman, suited up in black overalls.

‘My wife!’ Joe cried. ‘My wife needs help, please!’

The door opened with a sudden jerk and a strong arm reached in to help him out.

‘Leave me, get Alison please ... she’s unconscious!’

‘It’s okay, my colleague’s working on getting her out now. Let’s get you to safety though, shall we?’

Joe’s legs threatened to buckle beneath him as he was led towards the snow-covered verge. He was in tremendous pain and unable to turn his head to see what was happening back at his car. His body trembled with the cold and an even colder fear.

‘Is she all right? My wife, Alison, is she all right?’

He was becoming increasingly light-headed and almost collapsed into the fireman’s arms, the acrid smell of burnt rubber making him feel nauseous. The next thing he knew he was inside an ambulance, wrapped in a silver foil blanket with his neck supported by a huge, uncomfortable collar. His eyes tried to stay open but it was such an effort.

‘Hi, mate, can you tell me your name?’

Joe was aware of the figure of a man beside him, talking to him, asking him questions.

‘How’s my wife ... Alison?’ He wasn’t sure if he’d got the words right but the man beside him patted his arm.

‘We’re almost at the hospital now; your wife will either be there already or be arriving shortly. Can you tell me your name?’

‘Joe, Joe Parker.’

‘Well, you’re doing fine, Joe. No broken limbs but there could be a problem with your collarbone. They’ll check you out properly when we get to the hospital; an X-ray should show up any breaks. ’

Joe closed his eyes again, tears escaping unchecked, he didn’t care about himself, all he could think about was Alison.

‘Stay awake if you can, mate. Tell me where you were going, can you?’

The man’s voice was quiet and even, but persistent. Joe didn’t want to talk, he wanted to sleep, to wake up and find that this had all been a nightmare. He wanted to see Alison, to make sure she was all right — she had to be all right. Joe couldn’t make it without her.

The death of a child is never easy; it is not the natural order of the world and leaves a void which can never be filled. Timothy Jones was just fifteen and an only child when he left behind his devastated parents, three grandparents and other extended family, all of whom loved Timmy dearly and would always feel the gaping hole left by his premature death. He’d been so full of life and love, touching the hearts of everyone he came into contact with, but it seemed that he was only on loan to his family and even that was for such a short time, far too short.

When Timothy was conceived in 2003, an extra chromosome in the baby’s cells caused him to develop Down’s syndrome, just one of almost 800 babies who are born with Down’s syndrome in England and Wales each year.

Cassie Jones was only twenty-eight when the results of a test in early pregnancy flagged up the potential risk of having a baby with Down’s syndrome, and she was advised to have an amniocentesis test. Her response was immediate and negative. It was an invasive procedure, involving risk to the baby as fluid was taken from the womb to be tested, but the risk wasn’t Cassie’s primary reason for refusing the test. If her baby had Down’s syndrome it would make no difference whatsoever to her and Alan, her husband. They had planned this baby; he was made up of a little part of each of them and therefore loved and wanted from that very moment of conception, even before. There was no way they would even consider an abortion, so the test was unnecessary.

As their baby grew in her womb, so did his parents’ love, unwavering, unshakable and strong. The birth was as exciting and special as every other birth, and when Timothy was placed into his mother’s arms for the first time, her body flooded with love as she gazed into the tiny crumpled features of her perfect son. Down’s syndrome would not define Timmy any more than having brown eyes would, and his parents looked upon him as a gift from God.

There were whispers on the maternity ward and sympathetic looks. Cassie felt sorry for those other mothers. Was what they perceived as perfection the only criteria for a healthy child, for being a happy, fulfilled family? The difficulties the Jones’s faced as parents in the years to come might not be so very different, or more onerous, than those these other parents faced. Who was able to predict what lay ahead, or to define what a ‘normal’ child was?

Timothy brought his parents fifteen years of joy. Fifteen years of laughter and sunshine — tears too of course, but how can you appreciate the light without the darkness? On Friday 2nd March, 2018, Timothy’s school had been closed for the third consecutive day due to the awful weather and the boy had been bored. He loved school and became frustrated and antsy when he couldn’t attend. His parents had fought hard for his place at their local mainstream school, where their son’s achievements surpassed all expectations and Timothy was a popular, hard-working pupil.

It was also the morning of his orthodontist appointment and Alan Jones considered cancelling this too, due to the atrocious weather, but relented to his son’s pleadings and decided to go ahead with the appointment, to give Timothy some relief from yet another day confined to home.

Alan, a veterinary surgeon, had an evening surgery at his practice and so, being free that morning, elected to take his son to the appointment himself, rather than letting Cassie drive in the snow.

Alan would always regret his decision to attend that appointment, one which changed their lives and robbed them of their precious only child. One of the hardest things for Alan to come to terms with was that he had walked away from the accident with only a slight graze to his forehead and a sprained wrist. Why couldn’t he have sustained the greater injuries and his son be spared? Surely Alan didn’t deserve to come out of it with barely a scratch, when Timothy lost his life?

The emotional pain simply wasn’t enough, Alan wanted to feel physical pain too, he felt he deserved to feel it, he needed to feel it. Cassie too was haunted, wishing she had stopped her husband and son from going that day, wishing she’d been with them and then it would have been her in the front seat of the car and she might have survived the impact. The couple comforted each other in the best way they could, but Timmy’s laughing, loving, huge presence left an ache, an enormous vacuum in their lives, one which they had no idea how to fill.