Shefought
backso
hardbut
timewas
runningout
fromtheground.
Therewerepiecesof metal,
plastic and peelings of paint from
the post inside her head.
Doctors needed to perform
surgery to reduce the swelling on
her brain, so she was transferred to
Sheffield Children’s Hospital.
‘You should say your goodbyes
now,’ a doctor told me gently.
I was told she had a five percent
chance of surviving the surgery.
I was inconsolable as I was taken
in to see my girl.
Covered in tubes and wires, she
looked so vulnerable.
‘I love you so much,’ I sobbed.
During the 10-hour procedure,
surgeons relieved the pressure on
Becky’s brain.
And thankfully, the operation
was a success.
She was still on life support, but
doctors believed she’d recover.
After a few days, though, Becky
kept having seizures.
After running tests, our doctor
had some news.
‘We think Becky has developed
epilepsy as a result of the brain
trauma,’ he said.
It was terrifying seeing her in that
awful state.
Dougie, Callum and I were at the
hospital every day, willing her to
open her eyes.
Then, after three long weeks, she
finally did.
Weaning her off life support, my
girl was slowly coming back to me.
‘Hello love,’ I said through tears.
She smiled as I gently hugged
her, and it was so beautiful to see.
But her injuries meant she’d lost
the ability to walk, talk, and feed
herself. She had six months ofphysiotherapyandspeechtherapy
in thehospital,andwithhardwork,
she slowly improved every day.
In February 2009, I walked in to
hear her whispering the lyrics to the
song Black and Gold by Sam
Sparro, which was playing on the
TV in the ward.
‘It’s so good to hear your voice
again,’ I cried.
But as she began to speak more, I
noticed her voice was subdued.
Something had changed.
She was no longer confident.
She’d also suffered short-term
memory loss, which caused her to
forget and muddle up words.
The truth was, the old Becky was
gone from us.
Four months
later, we were
finally able to
bring her home.
She’d had five
operations,
including a
titanium plate
fitted to her head.
She was still
confined to a
wheelchair and
on strong epilepsy medication, but I
was so happy to have her back.
But, stuck at home, unable to go
to college, Becky hid away.
She was so traumatised.
And angry, too – we all were.
Three men had been arrested after
appeals were made for information.
But, despite a nine-month
investigation, all three had refused
to tell officers who was driving the
car, and the Crown Prosecution
Service had dropped the case due to
insufficient evidence.
A year later, in February 2010, wedecided to move to a new area – for
a fresh start.
By now, Becky was out of her
wheelchair and walking again.
As a once confident and bubbly
girl, I’d hoped she’d gain back
some of her independence.
But something had changed.
Instead of going out with her
friends, she preferred to stay home.
‘I feel safe here,’ she’d say.
Her friends would visit and
watch films with her, but I worried
she was missing out on life.
And while doctors had stabilised
her medication, she still suffered at
least one big seizure a year.
It meant she couldn’t go to
college or get a job, and her dreams
of working abroad had
been dashed.
As the years passed, I
did all I could to make my
girl happy.
‘Why don’t we join
Slimming World?’ I said
one day in 2017.
Neither of us were
overweight, but I thought
it would be something
nice for us to do together.
And with weekly meetings, I
thought it would be a good way to
get her out of the house.
And it worked.
Little by little, I started to see
glimpses of the old Becky.
She’d regained some of her old
spark, was laughing and smiling
more, and spending more time with
her friends.
Before we knew it, 10 years had
passed since the accident.
We were still upset that no one
had been brought to justice, but we
tried not to dwell on it. Becky wasdoing so well.
I didn’t want
anything to set
her back.
Our Slimming
World meetings
really kept her
motivated, and
she looked
forward to them
every week.
On 23 October
last year, we
were due for our
next meeting.
Bustling around
that morning, I
realised Becky hadn’t
woken up yet.
At 9.20am, I walked
into her room.
She was lying on her front
in her bed.
‘Wake up, Becky,’ I said gently.
But as I moved the hair away
from her face, I screamed in horror.
Becky wasn’t breathing, and her
face had turned purple.
‘No!’ I screamed, grabbing my
phone and dialling 999.
The operator told me to do CPR.
But when I turned her over, I saw
that her body was purple and her
fists were clenched.
She’d had a seizure.
I did chest compressions until
paramedics arrived.
But, deep down, I knew we were
too late.
Becky had died in the night.
I felt my world crumbling around
me and I was devastated.
Later, post-mortem results
confirmed that Becky had died from
a massive seizure during the night.
Her death was classed as Sudden
Unexplained Death in Epilepsy –
known as SUDEP.
Almost 10 years after her
accident, her injuries had stolen her
from us.
‘It’s so cruel,’ I sobbed to Dougie.
‘She fought so hard to get better.’
We were all bereft.
How could my brave, beautiful
girl be gone?
But my grief was quickly
replaced with anger.
Becky would never have
developed epilepsy if she hadn’t
been hit by that car.
She would still be with us today.
Without Becky, my world is a
dark place.
I just have to take it one day at a
time and be strong for Dougie, now
53, and Callum, 22.
We’re now waiting for an inquest
into Becky’s death.
We want someone to be held
accountable for this.
I want justice for my girl.We all felt so
lucky that Becky
was still with usOND
REAL LIFE