I am re-posting this from last Christmas.. I don’t want to have to write it again.

There was a wall immediately to our left, parked cars to the right, nowhere to go as the headlights sped towards us. “He’s going to hit us.” My husband gripped the wheel of the Rapier, bracing himself in the split second he had before all hell broke loose.

I saw the horror on the face of the man at the wheel, very briefly in our headlights, as his car rammed head into ours and I was catapulted forward. It was odd, all in slow motion in memory, yet it happened with such speed. I saw the front of the car crumple, heard the scream and screech of metal twisting and snapping. Watched the windscreen craze and shatter as my face smashed down on the glove compartment.

There was no pain. Just impact.  I have this odd memory of surveying the scene from above.. the two cars locked in a deathly embrace, my husband standing and gesticulating in the road, the other driver still at the wheel, frozen.. and I looked down through the metal of the car roof at the inanimate figure that was me. Just a husk, a limp doll with no life. I remember wondering, quite dispassionately, if I was dead and being glad I was still around to wonder. I suppose I must have been knocked unconscious.

Then I was back in the car, people screaming at me to move… the stench of petrol and something hot and wet soaking my favourite dress.

My face was still on the glove box. I didn’t want to move. I could taste blood and thought I must have cut my lip. I remember running my tongue around my teeth, terrified in case I’d chipped one, happy that it seemed not.

My husband was screaming at me to get out. The petrol was everywhere. A woman was screaming quite rhythmically. It annoyed me. I tried the door handle but it wouldn’t move.. no, that’s right. There was a wall there. I’d have to crawl over the seats to the driver’s side. It seemed a long way. There was glass everywhere, digging into hands and knees. I didn’t want to cut myself, and there was all the wet stuff. Slippery. Blood. I realised I was bleeding, my lip must be badly cut. I held out my hands and they filled quickly. I started to panic as they overflowed. It seemed important not to lose the blood but I couldn’t hold it all. It kept on coming.  But they were still screaming at me. I wished someone would help. I tried to speak and found I couldn’t. The cut lip must have swollen…

I made it to the door. My husband turned away and his shoulders were heaving as if he was going to vomit. My sister-in-law and her husband had been in the car behind. She was the one who was screaming and her face was filled with horror.

In the dim light I saw my dress was soaked neck to hem with blood and it was still filling my hands. There was still no pain. I wanted to scream to shut my sister in law up. She wasn’t hurt!

My brother in law was banging on the door of the cottage a few yards away. Looking for a phone. The police I imagined.  A woman in a dressing gown came out and looked at the scene. She took charge and took me into her home. In the light I could see the mess I was making, I felt guilty about the blood on her carpet. She shushed and tutted and gave me a clean white towel to bleed on.. I couldn’t move without making a mess and everything seemed smeared in red. I was so ashamed.

She told me the ambulance wouldn’t be long.

When it came they couldn’t give me oxygen because they couldn’t get a mask on my face. They held it in front of me while we drove. They had the sirens blaring and I began to wonder why. I was very cold in spite of the blankets. Very cold.

They wheeled me through the doors… they wouldn’t let me stand. I was glad of that by then; I was so tired. I didn’t have to wait.. there seemed to be so many faces looming over me, sticking needles in everywhere. I wished they would just let me sleep.

There were x-rays and muttered conversations. Someone mentioned a fractured skull. They dealt with that, as I drifted in and out. And sutures. Lots of sutures.

They started cleaning my face. I remember the pain then. I’ll never forget it. Ever.

They dug as much of the obvious glass out as they could. I hadn’t hit the windscreen but it had hit me. I was to get to know that windscreen intimately over the next two years as shards of it worked their way out of my flesh. Then they stitched. It took the doctor hours, leaned in very close above my face. He smelled of spices and it was turning my stomach. But I couldn’t speak. And he didn’t tell me anything.

He re-attached the dangling ear. He dealt with the ‘smaller’ cuts and abrasions. He sewed, beautifully, the bottom lip, severed from the corner to two thirds of the way across, inside and out. He refashioned the space between my nose and upper lip where the lock on the glove box had punched the flesh clean away in a nice neat hole, leaving me with a mouth gone fuzzy round the edges, but which would eventually smile again. He was amazing. In retrospect.

The nurse wouldn’t let me look in the mirror. When she told me what had been done I expected to spend the rest of my life seriously disfigured. I have to say that young doctor was impeccable in his skill and care. It is a tribute to his dedication and attention that I have not. Though it took a very long while to heal and settle. Longer still for the invisible damage to my confidence.

It took two years to heal all told. Bits of glass continued to work their way out over that time. Sensation gradually, though incompletely, came back to the right side of my face. I learned how to work the altered mouth and drink without spilling. Even learned how to whistle after a couple of years too. But my confidence was shattered, and I still have the pain from the neuroma that formed in the scars.

I was 19.

The driver of the other car was a nice enough chap. He’d had his little grandson in the car. Thankfully I was the only casualty. Had been out for the evening, just had a whisky and some wine with dinner. That’s all. But of course, that was too much.

Even worse, a couple of years later, I heard that my husband, by this time my ex, had been out drinking and, coming home, hit a woman on a zebra crossing. She went through the windscreen of his car and he ran, no phoning for help. He tried to report the car stolen and avoid prosecution. He was picked up with traces of her on his clothes. He was prosecuted. She had died immediately.

I write from personal experience and the account is true, though toned down for public consumption. I make no apologies for the graphic detail.  If you are driving, please stay within safe and legal limits.