Chloe and her family were heading off to swim with dolphins when disaster struck…
Scrolling down the screen, my eyes were drawn to something.
‘Come and look at this,’ I said to my eldest boy, Conner, 15.
He leant in to see a photo of dolphins zipping through the sea with the sun glinting off the waves.
‘I’ve always wanted to
swim with dolphins,’
I said, wistfully.
The idyllic summer scene was in Antalya, Turkey. Later, I showed it to my mum, Jess.
‘How about we go there for our holiday this year?’
I suggested.
Mum, me, Conner and my youngest, Theo, nine, went on holiday together every year.
She nodded enthusiastically and said, ‘I’m sold!’
‘I’ll be able to see turtles,’
Theo piped up, his eyes shining.
So we booked and began to count down the days.
In the past, we’d been to Greece, and the previous year we’d had a blast at Fuerteventura in the Canary Islands.
But this was our first trip to Turkey.
‘This is fantastic,’ I said as we soaked up the sun on the beach on the first day.
Another day we went to Land of Legends theme and water park, whooping loudly as we rode on the rollercoasters.
We booked up to swim with the dolphins on the day before we were due to fly home.
‘It’ll be a lovely last memory for us,’ I said.
We were up early the next morning, excited at the thought of skimming through the water alongside the majestic mammals.
But we arrived far too early at the venue, and were told to come back in an hour’s time.
We spotted a steakhouse, so decided to go there in the meantime.
Taking hold of Theo’s hand,
I crossed over one road and then waited for the traffic to stop to cross
the next one.
Cars came to a halt when the traffic lights turned red.
We began to walk over the road.
But the ear-splitting sound of a motorbike suddenly filled my ears.
The noise came closer and closer and closer…
Suddenly, I was catapulted up into the air, landing with a thump on the ground, with my legs splayed like a pair
of scissors.
An agonising pain shot through my right leg.
Dimly, I realised I’d been struck by a motorbike which had jumped the red light.
Frantically, I tried to manoeuvre myself to see if anybody else had been hit.
But the pain in my leg prevented me
from standing up.
Craning my neck, I looked in the road.
In horror, I saw Theo lying on the ground, face down.
My stomach lurched. He wasn’t moving.
Desperately, I began to haul myself towards him, inch by inch.
Dragging my body over the Tarmac, I reached him.
Had I lost my precious boy?
After a little while, though, his arm moved.
I heaved a sigh of relief.
But as I folded him in my arms, blood trickled down his face.
His lips parted.
‘Is this a dream?’ he mumbled.
I hugged him.
‘I wish it was,’ I replied.
People surrounded us. Someone had called an ambulance.
Conner and my mum
tried to comfort us while
we waited. They hadn’t
been hit because they’d been behind us.
As I lay stricken on the ground, I glimpsed a man with a beard.
Others were crowding around him, not letting him get away.
I worked out he was the motorcyclist who’d rammed into us.
Police arrived and spoke to him.
I still couldn’t stand up by the time the ambulance arrived.
We were all bundled in the vehicle together.
I lay down, while Mum held Theo on her knee and Conner
sat up front with the driver.
An hour later, we arrived at a hospital.
Theo was taken
to one room with Mum, while Conner stayed with me.
Still in agony, I was wheeled away to have an X-ray.
It showed I’d badly broken
the two bones in my lower leg and damaged the joint behind my knee.
Theo was treated for cuts to his face.
Thankfully, it was me who’d borne the brunt of the collision.
‘You will need an operation,’ said the doctor, explaining that
I would need a plate and screws inserted because the injuries were so bad.
But then came the bombshell.
They refused to do any surgery until I gave them my health insurance details.
My heart sank.
A phone call confirmed that we didn’t have any health insurance.
I’d switched banks a while earlier and had mistakenly assumed that the package which included health cover would automatically transfer to my new one. But it didn’t.
‘What are we going to do?’
I asked Mum, tearfully.
I needed surgery urgently because the pain was excruciating.
‘I’ll make some calls,’ she said worriedly.
We needed £1,200 for the operation to go ahead.
I continued to lie in agony, unable to move.
Eventually, Mum returned.
She explained she’d rung round relatives and my workplace, and she’d managed to raise the money.
The operation went ahead and the plate and screws were inserted to stabilise my leg.
But when I woke, I was still wincing in pain.
I had a drainage line, and my leg was covered in plaster.
All four of us stayed at the hospital.
‘I’ll help you, Mum,’ said Conner, as I leant on
him for support when
I needed to go to the toilet.
It was too painful for me to put my foot down and I couldn’t bend my leg at all.
Tears poured down
my cheeks.
Our holiday had been ruined.
Meanwhile, the police confirmed the motorbike rider had gone through
a red light.
I gulped when they showed me CCTV footage of him hitting me and Theo and me flying through the air.
‘At least they caught him,’ I said to Mum.
We tried to make arrangements to fly home, but then the doctors told me I wouldn’t be allowed on the plane unless they issued me with a ‘fit to fly’ document – and the bill for that was a whopping £9000.
Stunned and shocked, I felt helpless.
‘Where are we going to
get that from?’ I asked in a small voice.
After frantic ringing round, my gran offered to pay for it from what would be my future inheritance.
Two weeks later, I was still
in a leg brace as I hoisted it across three seats on the plane.
Weeks later, I still couldn’t bend my knee.
Doctors then told me the surgery carried out had not been done properly.
I had another op to replace the screws.
And to make matters worse,
I learnt that the police weren’t going to prosecute the motorbike rider – despite him clearly being in the wrong.
Eighteen months on, I still limp and my leg swells up.
I will need another operation to try to regain more movement.
I’ll never be able to do the things I love, like horse-riding, and I’ve had to give up my job as a youth engagement worker.
I’ll never be able to swim with dolphins either.
Both Theo and I have been diagnosed with PTSD. Whenever we go out and need to cross a busy road, I sense him tense up beside me.
Our holiday should have been a memorable, happy time. But we’ve been left traumatised.
Chloe Mackie, 37, Heywood, Gtr Manchester