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9 hours ago
3
I used to have a drawer where the “nice things” lived: posh candles and fancy bubble bath; two flagons of Greek extra virgin olive oil; that Aesop handwash, to bring out for visitors. A bottle of fizz gathered dust on the kitchen side and, in the bathroom, an expensive moisturiser remained unopened. Life’s little luxuries, I believed, weren’t for enjoying now, but were to be saved for some unspecified “special” time in the future.
Then I was hit by a car. It happened in May last year, while I was walking down a quiet street soon after lunchtime in Bermuda, where I’d been sent on an assignment for work.
I’ve still no recollection of the minutes before or hours after. I was on a bus, then off a bus; I crossed the road. Nothingness follows. I have a vague visual vignette of being sprawled out on grass, staring up, faces peering down from a height. Next, I’m in an ambulance with no specific sensory memory attached, save wanting to speak to my boyfriend, only my brain was unable to ascertain who or where he was, or if we were even still together. Then, I was in a hospital bed, with a uniformed stranger pottering around me.
“You’ve been in an accident,” said Shea, one of the nurses. “We’ve had this conversation a few times already – and we can have it more. You’re lucky to be alive,” she said.
It wasn’t until months later, after the police had finished gathering evidence, that the details of what had happened were shared with me. I’d been walking along the side of the quiet, pavement-less street when an octogenarian driver ploughed into me from behind. He then drove away, apparently unaware of the body-on-bonnet contact, despite the human-shaped dent I’d left on his car. I’d been propelled forwards and sideways, over a stone wall that sliced off a layer of skin, and then fell around 12ft, thudding into a playing field. It was assumed that I had landed left foot first, from the concentration of broken bones. My legs, back and diaphragm swiftly followed, all battered and bruised. Based on the lump on the back of my head, I must have hit that, too, which knocked me unconscious.
Best not to think too much, I’ve found, about all the variables that worked in my favour. My injuries were serious, but it was a lucky escape: my bones have healed and the internal bruising has cleared. There’s no lasting damage to my brain. The scars that run up and down my legs may fade, although I’ve grown fond of them.
Over the months that followed, I’d love to say I re-evaluated what counts; renounced materialistic concerns and discovered what really matters. Only, that’s not at all how I felt. For months after, I was immobile and in pain; shaken at first, then fed up and irritable. Yes, it was heartwarming seeing my nearest and dearest pull together. Yes, the healing human body really is a remarkable sight to behold. Yes, I know, I’m so very, very lucky. Only, by the time I’d graduated from wheelchair to crutches to my own two feet, I felt as though the time had passed for revelations. I feared I’d missed the moment.
In fact, the only change I could identify was a shift that, at first, felt entirely superficial: I well and truly ransacked the “nice things” drawer. Off to the shops? I’d douse myself in Bleu de Chanel. At night, toothbrushing by the light of a scented candle (Cos’s Cabane de Bois – divine!) became a daily affair. Making dinner? Pop open the bougie balsamic!
But more than a year on from the accident, I’ve started to see it differently. Allowing myself these little rituals has boosted my sense of self-worth; small delights no longer feel wasted, especially when shared with others. Otherwise un-noteworthy catch-ups are injected with a sense of occasion when some light indulgence is involved – a way of showing how much I cherish those around me. It’s not extravagance or nihilism, but the actions of an aspiring bon vivant on a budget. Plus, I smell better now, and my salad dressings have improved dramatically.
When my grandparents died, I went to their Liverpool home, and opened their “nice things” cupboard (one was a wartime child and the other a refugee from eastern Europe – they were, honestly, low-level hoarders). They too had bottles of champagne and posh chocolates, all waiting for that next simcha. But the corks had disintegrated and the perishables were years past their best.
When eventually someone comes to clear out my “nice things” drawer, I want it to be found empty, its contents relished and enjoyed with the people I love. I’ve still not yet opened my one posh bottle of fizz, but it lives in the fridge now, ready and waiting.
