'Cradling a dying man saved my life'
Saturday 23rd May 2009
Slowly pulling a plastic brush through my brittle hair, it felt more like lifting a dumbbell. In the mirror, my reflection was white, and I had ash-grey bags under my eyes. Soft hair covered my arms and back, while my chin and collarbone were sharp and pointed. I hated how I looked. Hated it. I knew I could change if I wanted to. All I had to do was eat. But that seemed impossible. It had started in May 2004, when I was 19. I'd gone to teach music in an American summer camp. Suddenly, I was alone, thousands of miles away from home, and responsible for all these kids. I'd already been watching my weight for a while, but over there, something inside me snapped. I managed to avoid the macaroni cheese or burger and chips for dinner, and survived on fruit. By the time I came home to my mum Sherry's house, six months later, I'd gone from a size 12 to an 8. 'You look, err, great,' Mum said, knowing I'd been dieting. But I still felt huge.
I tried to settle in, and even met my girlfriend, Emma Laird, 26. It was hard to get away with not eating, with Mum keeping an eye on me, so six months later, in March 2005, I got a job abroad again, as a holiday rep in Salou, Spain. Soon I was down to seven stone, then six. Five-and-a-half, five… Even Emma moving in with me couldn't stop me. 'Can't you see you're killing yourself?' she cried. I wouldn't listen. Then, in October 2005, I was sent home, too ill to work. Mum dragged me to the GP, but I still didn't see I had a problem. As for Emma, she spent all day with me, acting as a carer. That was our relationship over. And now, two months on, at 5ft 4in, I weighed a tiny 4st 7lb. I wore clothes for 8 to 10-year-old girls, but still spent hours in the gym each day. All I would eat was a bowl of fruit, even then leaving the skins of apples or grapes, terrified of the 10 calories that they contained. 'You're killing yourself, Candice,' Mum sobbed one day. 'You'll die if you keep this up.' And now, looking at my withered body in the mirror, I knew I couldn't carry on like this.
Just then, I heard a loud thump, and the sound of tyres screeching along the road at the front of the house. Emma and I ran into Mum's room to see what had happened. 'Call an ambulance,' Mum gasped, before legging it downstairs and out the door, barefoot and in her nightie. Emma ran after her, as I peered out of the window into the street. A man lay sprawled at the bottom of our drive. I grabbed my mobile. 'I need an ambulance,' I said. 'Someone's badly hurt.' While telling them the address, I thundered downstairs to join Emma and Mum on the drive. 'Stay on the phone,' the operator said. 'I can tell you how to help him.' 'OK,' I gulped, as the December air made my frail body shake violently. It was 1am, and a streetlight cast an eerie glow over the man's body. Beneath his head, dark red blood gathered in a pool. But I could hear his breath and his chest was slowly rising and falling. 'Candice, go in,' Mum said. 'You're not well.' 'No,' I insisted. 'I want to help.' I needed to help. 'Do you know what happened?' the operator asked. Scattered up the road, I saw a wallet, a mobile, some keys, plus shards of a number plate and a bumper. 'I think he was hit by a car,' I said, remembering the screech of tyres. 'Keep him warm,' the lady said. 'Talk to him while one of you gives him CPR.'
My weak arms wouldn't be up to the hard chest pumps, so I passed Emma the phone. I ran into the house to get blankets before sitting by his head, my bones scraping the concrete. 'Hi,' I said to the man. 'My name's Candice, this is my mum and Emma. We're going to take care of you. The ambulance is coming.' I stroked his icy hand, ignoring the blood covering my fingers. I kept talking until 20 minutes later, when the ambulance arrived. 'Can you give us a hand?' the paramedics asked, and we turned the man on his side. It was then we saw the huge gash down his back. 'We can take it from here,' the paramedic said. 'The police will be with us soon.' When they arrived, I went inside with a female officer. 'It doesn't seem real,' I said, numb with cold and shock. The police stayed until 5am scouring the street for evidence. Once they left, I went to bed. My body ached, but I couldn't sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the man. Please be OK, I prayed. Please don't die.
At 11am the police came back, and told us they'd made an arrest. 'The man you helped was called James Quinn,' the officer said. 'I'm sorry to say he died.' 'No,' I gasped, breaking down. I sobbed as they told us James was just 25, and had left three kids. 'His family are very grateful,' the officer said. 'You kept him alive long enough for them to say goodbye.' But that wasn't enough, and guilt tore at me. We'd all tried so hard to save him, so why did I feel guilty? Then I knew. For the first time ever, what I was doing to my body seemed so wasteful. Worse was when James's mother, Miranda, came round later that day to thank us. 'I don't know what I'll do without him,' she said tearfully. 'No mother should lose a child.' It was like a lightbulb went on in my head. That could be my mum in tears, and it would be my fault. I couldn't let that happen.
That night, Mum asked if I wanted dinner. 'I'm making a stir fry,' she said. 'Do you want some?' 'What's in a stir fry?' I asked. 'Just vegetables,' she said. 'I'll do you a small bowl.' Sitting at the dinner table, I carefully swallowed each bite. The tiny portion felt heavy in my stomach, but I felt so proud. 'Can I have some fruit?' I asked. Mum's smile couldn't have been any bigger. The next day, I ate another bowl of vegetables. And when Christmas came a week later, I ate a proper dinner and even drank a lot of calorie-laden Baileys. No one said
a thing, frightened they'd jinx it. I started seeing a hypnotherapist, and by the end of January 2006, my weight was up to 6st. Eating was still hard, but I had to do it. For me and for James. Mum was so proud and Emma too, even though we'd decided to go our separate ways. The next month, I got a job in a bar and met a new girlfriend, Stephanie Powell, 28. As my weight went up, I moved in with her and did a music therapy course at University of Nottingham.
In March 2007, the man who'd knocked James down appeared at Southern Derbyshire Magistrates' Court. Simon Henshaw pleaded guilty to driving with excess alcohol and failing to stop. He'd already been cleared of causing death by dangerous driving. He and James had been friends since they were 11, and had been drinking together on the afternoon of the accident. James had stayed in the pub while Henshaw went to a friend's house. In the early hours of the next day, Henshaw was driving home when his car struck James outside our house, and he drove off. He was fined £300 for driving with excess alcohol and £240 for failing to stop after the accident. He also had to pay £43 costs and was banned from driving for 18 months.
As for me, I'm eating normally now. I'm a size 8-10 and weigh 9st. I'm happy too, something I never thought I would be. There's only one person to thank for that. The one person I never can thank. James. I want to tell him I'm sorry I couldn't save his life. But most of all, I want to thank him for saving mine.