Closest

Contributed by Dan Lester on 09/09/08

I was trying to find a photograph of Ellie taken after the accident but the closest I could find was one of her shadow, her arm stretching down at her side, fingers stretched out of shape. It was three months before she let me take even that. Anyone who knew her before would tell you that she had always hated having her photograph taken, but after the accident she had been terrified of it. It was as if she was still in denial, convinced that if no pictures were taken of her deformity then it would eventually go away.

She stopped going out as well. For the first few months we stayed in every night, watching movies and eating takeaways. Pizzas, curries, burgers- anything that could be eaten with only one hand. We avoided anything that required a knife and fork. Looking back it seems obvious that it was another way to avoid directly confronting the situation.

Of course, there were some things that could not be avoided. Ellie had been right handed, so she had to learn how to do things with her left hand. Dressing became more of a challenge for her, as did seemingly simple things like paying for food at the supermarket. It was things like that, things that I could do for her, that made me feel closer to her. She started depending on me, and I was always there for her.

But then she began to change. Slowly, almost imperceptibly so, she grew more self confident. Having obstacles to overcome made her try harder, and succeeding at each new challenge increased her self confidence, making her stronger and more self assured than she had been before the accident. Soon she was going out almost every evening, no longer worried about people only seeing what was missing.

I know I should have been happier for her, but all I could think about was how we seemed to be drifting apart. Back when it had just happened, after she had gotten out of the hospital, it was like we were the only people in the world, but now she was becoming more independent. She didn’t need me. As she started overcoming smaller obstacles like eating and dressing, she began looking for larger ones. She did things she never would have considered before, like horse riding and bungee-jumping. And then last month she announced to me that she was going mountaineering.

She made a token gesture of asking me along, but it was obvious that she didn’t expect me to say yes. After all, we were both aware of my pathological fear of heights. So when she set off last week it was without me.

I look down at the handfull of pictures taken before the accident, and realise that I don’t have any pictures of her anymore. I have some of a shy girl called Ellie who used to depend on me, but she doesn’t exist now. I know this will sound selfish, because it is, but I feel as though I’m the one who is worse off. All Ellie lost was an arm. I lost an entire person.