The beeping invades my mind like a probe, a thin, needle-sharp sound boring into my skull. I try to open my eyes but they are taped shut, and the thin adhesive pulls uncomfortably at my skin. Then I hear the nurse say, ‘You are safe; you are in the hospital. Please try to relax.’
The air smells faintly of disinfectant and old coffee.
I remember the screech and impact of an accident. I consciously check to make sure I have all my limbs. I can feel both my arms and legs, a comforting, heavy certainty.
Visions swarm into my mind like a showreel as I see my life, the life before the accident.
The beeping starts up again, sharp and insistent. This time it is my morning alarm. I open my eyes and my arm aches as I reach out, slapping the snooze button. Ten more minutes. Ten more minutes before the usual, monotonous routine of my life starts.
I know how today will go. Precisely the same as the five previous years I have lived through. Get up, shower, get dressed. Go downstairs and put the coffee on, the scent of the dark roast offers the only momentary escape. While the coffee percolates, I wake the kids up, the sticky warmth of their bodies a familiar weight against my side. I help them get dressed and brush their teeth. Back downstairs to scrape the buttery eggs onto plates. At 08:30 am, my family will kiss me goodbye and leave. The day will then be spent cooking, cleaning and washing, the damp scent of wet laundry clinging to my skin.
At 3 pm, I will pick the children up and help them with their homework, my back already starting to twinge. Adam will come home at 5 pm; he normally grunts a ‘hello’, if I am lucky. He eats his dinner and then sits semi-comatose, the blue light of the TV flickering on his face, whilst I get the children bathed and to bed. If I am lucky he might pay me five minutes’ attention before I collapse into bed, ready for the routine to all start again the next day.
I am utterly exhausted. My whole life has been taken up with keeping two children alive and a husband who barely notices me happy.
The beeping sounds again. Alarm or hospital? My mind swims to another scene, different this time.
I see myself switching off the alarm and going downstairs. There, standing in my sun-drenched, granite kitchen, is a 20-year-old, muscle-bound, naked hunk.
‘Hey babe, you’re up late,’ the guy said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, as he walked towards me kissing me.
I hear myself say, ‘Scott, I told you I have a later meeting.’
I sit and drink the perfect, dark roast coffee. I am the managing director of an HR company. I love my job and have no children. A meeting at 10 am, so I stand to get ready.
Going into my wardrobe, I look at my expensive selection of clothes. I choose a Chanel dress, the silk heavy and cool in my hands, a Prada handbag, and Louboutin shoes, their red soles a promise. I yelled bye to Scott.
In the garage is my brand new Audi. I slam my foot on the pedal, feeling the engine snarl beneath me as I tear through the city streets to my meeting.
When I arrive at work I have a corner office with minimalist, designer furniture and a breathtaking view. The meeting is long, but I feel capable for the first time; the sound of my own voice commanding attention. People are listening to what I have to say and are interested in my opinions.
Once the meeting is finished I go for a fancy lunch. Then another couple of meetings. My workday finishes at 8 pm—home to hunky Scott and then out for an evening with friends.
This is my life. Rich, powerful. Everything I could ever want. The memory of my previous life fades into the distance like a bad nightmare.
Once again the scene fades and the alarm is sounding. I realise then that these visions are two versions of an alternative reality. The same me with two different outcomes.
I hear the nurse’s voice, closer now, ‘Open your eyes now, honey.’
The words are a command. Choose.
A heavy silk dress... the weight of a sleeping child.
The engine snarl... the sound of my daughter’s giggle.
The cold marble of the office... the scent of my son’s clean hair.
I don’t know which of these realities is mine. Am I the exhausted mother or the successful CEO? Which me will I return to when I open my eyes?
“Come on, my lovely, open your eyes now,” the voice says again, its tone suddenly insistent, laced with professional urgency. A slight, heavy pressure begins to build on my eyelids.
I am not opening my eyes. I am afraid. Afraid to go back to reality without the specific, small, messy, beautiful burdens of my children. Afraid to lose the love that came wrapped in exhaustion.
Great read, love this kind of stuff!