The stunt that went wrong
Eddie and Candie Kidd
Saturday 6th October 2007
All little girls think their dad is invincible. But I knew it. What else would I think growing up with motorbike stuntman Eddie Kidd as a father? A simple day's work for my dad involved jumping over the Great Wall of China on his bike, or doing stunts for Pierce Brosnan in GoldenEye.
My mum, Debbie Ash, now 48, and Dad divorced when I was 9 months old, so growing up, I saw him on weekends. But wow, what weekends we had.
'Ready to see your old Dad perform?' he'd beam, as we drove to wherever he was doing his latest gravity defying stunt.
At Brands Hatch or Battersea Park I'd stand behind the TV crews, unnoticeable to all and watch proudly as the fans went ballistic watching his motorbike soar in the air. Afterwards Dad would come and find me, scoop me up and sit me on his shoulders. I felt like Queen of the world.
Back then, I'd never have predicted that now, at 46, Dad would be stuck in a wheelchair, in need of 24-hour care. I always understood Dad's job was dangerous. But deep down I didn't believe anything would go wrong.
When I was 12, I even had my own little white Suzuki motorbike that I rode around the garden. So I'd been shocked when my Grandma, Marge Kidd, now 70, phoned one evening in August 1996.
'Don't turn on the TV,' Grandma said. 'Your dad's had an accident, but he's OK.'
Dad was in a coma and Mum took me to Warwick Hospital to see him the next day. I hadn't understood exactly what had happened then, but Dad had been performing at The Bulldog Bash rally in Long Marston, Warwickshire. He'd been scheduled to jump over a racetrack with a car whizzing round it below him.
But the bank at the other side was angled upwards, which made the jump tricky. When he'd landed, his bike had ricochet upwards. The petrol tank that ran between the handlebars and saddle shot upwards and hit Dad on the head before he hurtled down the 20-foot embankment. His helmet hadn't been able to save him from brain damage.
Dad told me later that he'd been warned not to do it and he'd had a big night out the night before so he wasn't on the ball.
'But I couldn't disappoint the crowd,' he'd said.
Visiting him in hospital, I'd been horrified. Dad wasn't Superman anymore. He was just a man. He hadn't even looked injured. The only sign of the accident was a scratch by his right temple. Too shocked for tears, I took his limp man-sized hand in both of mine. The left side of his brain had been dangerously swollen from the impact. He'd smashed his collarbone, pelvis and damaged his spine. They hadn't known if he'd wake up. And if he did, whether he'd be Dad anymore, or just a shell.
I sat by Dad's bedside with the family most days after school, nattering about old times, hoping he could hear me.
'Remember our trip to Chessington?' I'd laughed. 'Those roller coasters were like a drive in the country for you.'
My 13th birthday was forty days after the accident. I didn't want to celebrate without Dad.
After school that day, my aunt, Sarah Kidd, now 36, had called.
'Happy birthday Candie,' she'd said. 'I've got the best present for you. Your dad woke up today. He said your name.'
It would be a long recovery. Dad had barely been able to move, and his speech was slurry.
Dad had smiled when I saw him the next day.
'Shut that door,' he'd mumbled, doing his favourite impression of comedian Larry Grayson.
Only Dad could make this fun.
He'd soon been transferred to the Royal Leamington Spa Rehabilitation Hospital in Warwick, where he had speech therapy and physiotherapy every day. I'd visited once a week. Dad's brain damage had affected his co-ordination and mobility. He hadn't even been able to even feed himself. It killed me to watch Dad struggle, but I'd refused to mollycoddle him. He had to learn to do things for himself.
So, eight months after the accident, when Dad had asked for one of my Quality Street chocolates, I'd put it on the bedside table next to him.
'If you want it, you'll have to pick it up yourself,' I'd said.
Harsh, but it was what he'd needed. If anyone was tough enough to recover from this, it was Dad. And sure enough, with a lot of effort and determination, Dad had his chocolate.
After two years of recovery, Dad was well enough to move to a three-bed rented house in Walderslade, Kent with round-the-clock care. Fortunately, he got on with my boyfriend of seven months, IT contractor Daniel Barrymore, 24, like a house on fire. But all I wanted was to see Dad back to his old self again. Especially as we'd just found out I was pregnant.
'I want to tell Dad in person,' I said.
So we drove to Dad's the next morning.
'We've got some news,' I told him, sitting myself on Dad's lap in his wheelchair. 'I'm pregnant.'
'I'm going to be a Granddad,' he laughed, with a spark in his eye that I rarely saw these days.
When I was 32 weeks along, in October 2006, Daniel took me to Holland Park, West London for my birthday. Walking through the gardens, Daniel suddenly dropped to one knee and held up a diamond and platinum ring.
'Marry me?' he blurted, voice shaking.
'Yes!' I cried, sinking to my knees in the grass to hug him.
When we got home that night, of course I called Dad.
'Daniel asked me to marry him,' I said.
'Yeah, I know,' Dad chuckled. 'Daniel asked for my permission. Congratulations.'
We decided to put wedding plans on hold until the baby, who we knew was a girl, was born. But there was something niggling at the back of my mind. It didn't seem right for me to move on with my life. Not while Dad was still stuck in this rut. I knew he'd probably never make a full recovery, but I was sure, with a little push, he could walk again. Maybe even ride a bike.
'I want Dad to walk me down the aisle,' I told Daniel.
'OK,' he said. 'We won't get married until he can.'
So, when I was 36 pregnant, Daniel and I went back to Dad's. As we sat down to a takeaway pizza, I cleared my throat. It was time for more tough love.
'The baby's going to need her granddad,' I said. 'And I need you to walk me down the aisle, even if it means shuffling along beside me with a zimmerframe.'
I held my breath as Dad picked at a piece of pepperoni.
'OK,' he said. 'I'll do it for you.'
So while Dad was busy starting the Eddie Kidd Foundation to raise money for rehabilitation treatment, and getting friends to build a frame out of scaffolding poles for him to help him learn to walk again, I was preparing for my baby.
Me and Daniel were watching Eastenders one evening in December 2006 when my contractions started. Before we left for hospital, I called Dad.
'I'm in labour,' I said.
'I'll be there as soon as I can,' he said.
But Dad had to rely on his carers for transport, and because of the short notice, he couldn't be there when Amalia [CORR] was born the following afternoon, weighing 7lb 6oz.
He came round the next day instead. His tough guy façade melted when I put her in his arms.
'Hello sweetheart,' he whispered. 'I'm going to get out of this wheelchair so I can walk your mum up the aisle.'
Heartmelting!
Ten months on, Dad's working hard to fulfil that promise. He does sit-ups and workouts on a specially adapted rowing machine every day, and practices walking using his frame whenever he can.
In June 2007 he went to see a doctor in Dubai who used electrodes to help straighten his left leg out. Dad isn't walking yet, but I know he will. He's even got a specially adapted motorbike now, and he's talking about doing jumps again someday.
But his first stunt in years will be to walk at my wedding. We haven't set a firm date yet, but I hope to get married next June. With my invincible Dad walking beside me.
Read more stories of immense bravery only in Pick Me Up:
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