I was at work when I got the call. Apparently they’d been trying to contact me for a couple of hours, the police that is. It was the call that everyone dreads: to let you know there has been an accident and someone close to you was involved.

Two police officers came to collect and take me to the hospital, it was an unspoken assumption that I wanted to go, of course I did.  As we made the 20 minute journey through the dregs of late commuter traffic the policewoman explained in considered tones more about what had happened, breaking bad news didn’t seem to be her forte, ill at ease as if holding something back. Perhaps that was paranoia on my part, it seems to have been my best friend recently.

That was almost 12 hours ago. I sit here now in the intensive care unit, next to the bed of my husband, not that I would have known this was his body attached to all these tubes and machines unless someone had told me.

He is currently being sedated, so oblivious to the touch of my hand on his. It feels odd tracing my fingers over his. It’s been a long time. I’ve noticed that his ring isn’t on his finger anymore.

I haven’t left my bedside vigil. I haven’t even called Stephen, I don’t know what to say. I feel a fraud sat here accepting tea and sympathy, but what can I do? Time passes slowly, I feel like an actress who has forgotten her lines, unsure of her role. I feel torn. I sit here willing something to happen, but nothing. I wonder if others feel the same as they sit by relatives bedsides, watching over their motionless forms? Is there some part of me, deep within that almost hopes for these machines to stop their rhythmic beat, for rushing nurses and concerned doctors after moments of mayhem to look up shaking their heads, with sorrow in their eyes?

As morning dawns I am still sat here, refusing to move, now believing my presence will somehow make a difference to the path fate seems to have chosen. Around me nurses attend to the needs of the machines and my husband. It seems I am a dedicated, loving wife. Little do they know. I am a coward. I should call Stephen, he would know what to say.

I must have fallen asleep as I wake to the sound of a nurse calling my name. The doctor stands at the end of the bed, waiting to speak to me. There have been signs of improvement, slight, but a positive step they tell me. The next 24 hours are crucial they say. But what about me I say inwardly. Who will look after me?

Daniel is off the ventilator now. A remarkable recovery apparently. It will be slow they tell me, but he’ll get there. The question is will I? I smile, at least I smile outwardly, inside overwhelmed by despair. Truth be known I don’t love Daniel anymore, I was in the process of leaving him. I’ve signed a lease on a flat in town.

Daniel is watching me as I walk onto the ward. I’ve just been into town, there were a few things I needed to do. I got Daniel some new pyjamas and slippers, apparently his old pair fell apart last year – I hadn’t noticed. Whilst I was there I visited the estate agents to cancel the lease. Then I met Stephen. I can feel where his fingers had only moments ago brushed away the tears from my cheeks. Is this yet another awful mistake? What difference does an accident make to the way two people feel and treat each other? I suppose it brought home a sense of mortality to me. A feeling that perhaps I just expect too much from life. I didn’t turn around after I said goodbye to Stephen, it would have been too painful.