Wind nearly killed me!
Sam, left and her mum, pictured in hospital
Tuesday 29th July 2008
Good old British weather. The sky was grey and the wind was blowing a gale, as I pulled on my helmet and clambered onto my blue 100cc scooter.
'So much for doing my hair this morning,' I grumbled, as another gust whistled past.
It was 1 March 2008, and after finishing my early shift at Greggs the bakers in Morecambe, I couldn't wait to head home for a cuppa.Five minutes later, I was turning into Bare Lane, when an almighty gust of wind slammed into me from the side. Tarmac and grass flashed before my eyes, as I flew off the scooter. Straight into a tree.
When I opened my eyes, it took a few seconds to get my bearings.I was lying on my side, but when I tried to move , panic swept over me.I couldn't feel my legs.As I lay there, shocked and numb, I spotted my mobile nearby. Somehow, I managed to reach
out and scrape it along the Tarmac, so I could ring my fiancé, Matthew Newsham, 32.
'I've had an accident,' I gasped, as a sharp pain ripped through me.
It was so bad, I screamed.
'Sam?' Matthew shouted, sounding panicked. 'Are you OK?'
Suddenly, I couldn't breathe, let alone speak. Next thing I knew, a man had crouched down beside me.
'Don't worry,' he said. 'I was in a car behind you. I'm a surgeon. I can help.'
'I can't breathe,' I gasped, handing him my phone.
I heard the surgeon tell Matthew where we were, then he knelt down and supported my head on his knees.
'Don't panic,' he said. 'My name's Dr Sas Khazenifar and I just need you to try to take deep breaths.'
I tried to breathe in, but my eyelids were so heavy and it felt like I had a ton of bricks pressing down on my chest.
'Keep your eyes open,' he said. 'Tell me what your name is.'
'Sam,' I mumbled.
Next thing I knew, Matthew had arrived. 'It's going to be OK,' I heard him say.
Then everything went black.
Moments later, I opened my eyes and there was a drip in my arm. What happened next is a blur. Paramedics loading me into an ambulance… being wheeled into A&E at Lancaster Hospital… my clothes being ripped off…
'No,' I mumbled, as the doctor tore off my blue T-shirt. Silly really, but it had belonged
to my dad, Damian, who'd died two years earlier from lung cancer, aged just 43.I vaguely remember seeing my mum, Patricia, 45, looking terrified, before I lost consciousness again.
I've no idea how long I'd been out of it, when I saw a bright light, and Dad was there, wearing the blue T-shirt.
'You need to get better, love,' he said, reaching his hand out to me. 'You're not allowed here yet.'
'Dad?' I said, confused. Then the light faded, and he was gone.
When I next woke, Matthew was sitting by my bed holding my hand.
'Where am I?' I mumbled.
'Wythenshawe Hospital in Manchester,' he said. 'You've been unconscious for two weeks. You got blown off your moped by the wind.'
'You're having a laugh,' I said.
'I'm not,' he smiled, eyes filling with tears. 'You actually died at the scene, but the surgeon resuscitated you. We thought we'd lose you.'
I just couldn't take it in.Then I looked down and saw my stomach was covered in bandages and my legs were scarred.
'You broke both thighs,' Matthew said. 'And your right hip and pelvis. The bone on your right leg was poking out through the skin.'
That wasn't all.
'After the surgeons had inserted pins in both your legs, you took a turn for the worse,' he said. 'Your left lung collapsed and your brain began to swell. They drilled a hole in your skull to relieve the pressure.'
I was also suffering from internal bleeding caused by a tear in my aorta — the main artery to the heart. A week-and-a-half after the crash, I'd had another op to repair the tear.
'It was a miracle you survived the surgery at all,' Matthew gulped.
'I knew I'd be OK,' I told him.
'Oh yes?' he frowned. 'How?'
'Because Dad told me,' I smiled.
Whether it was thanks to Dad's support, or the hours the doctors had spent working on me, I had survived.And I had to focus on getting better.
On 4 May 2008, after another six weeks in hospital, I was allowed back to the static caravan I shared with Matthew in Morecambe. I'd been left with nerve damage in my legs and had lost the feeling in my right foot, so I needed a wheelchair. Matthew was a godsend, but
a couple of weeks later, there was someone else I wanted to thank. Dr Khazenifar.
The police arranged for him to come round to my house. When he arrived, I gave him a huge hug.
'You saved my life,' I told him. 'If it wasn't for you I wouldn't be here.'
'I just did what anyone would have done,' he replied modestly.
Two months on, I've started to get back on my feet. I know I was lucky to have survived, but one thing's for sure, I won't be getting on a scooter again in a hurry. Thanks to that big gust of wind, I was almost a goner!