First…
Second…
Third…
I closed my eyes and bit my lip as we heard the roar cut out. As we heard the scrape of metal and plastic against asphalt and gravel. My husband and I have spent too much time volunteering around speedway tracks to not know that sound. The sound of a rider not having time to brake, to brace, to prepare for impact. The sound of several hundred kilograms of metal and plastic hitting a solid surface at high speed on the wrong angle. The sound of silence that follows. The sound of no screams, no screeches, no squeals.
People say their heart misses a beat when they hear the sound of squealing brakes, when they hear the sound of someone screaming after an accident. Mine doesn’t. The screech and squeal of brakes show that there was time to react, to prepare, to brace. The screams of someone involved in a motor-vehicle accident show that they’re alive, they’re conscious, they’re aware.
When there’s only silence… when there’s nothing… that’s when my heart misses a beat.
That’s when my breath catches in my throat. That’s when I feel adrenaline course through me. That’s when instinct takes over. That’s when countless hours of practice and training kick in. That’s when everything speeds up and slows down at the same time. My mother-in-law is a nurse. I was Occupational First Aid accredited through my previous job and involvement with motorsports (one level below a Paramedic). It’s our instinct to help, to rescue, to save. I don’t think we hesitated for a second before running to the car.
I don’t remember the drive to the scene. I don’t remember my husband following us. I don’t remember what specifically I saw first. I don’t remember tearing the boot of my car apart to find the first-aid kit, torches and blankets. What I remember is the local residents standing around, not able, not trained, not knowing what to do. I remember a man arriving as we did – an off-duty volunteer ambulance officer. I remember my mother-in-law & I telling him to take the lead role – to make the decisions while we did the work with him. I remember lying down on my stomach in the gravel, staring into the eyes of a young man lying face-down on the curb. I remember being told his name, recognising his name, realising that this was a school-friend of my husband. I remember my mother-in-law and I both yelling at my husband to go home, to go away, that he couldn’t be there.