Birthdays have always been a big deal in my family. We love any reason to spend time together. My dad’s 60th, in May last year, was especially important because family had traveled from Germany to Eastbourne, East Sussex, to celebrate.
That morning, I spent time with my sisters at my mum’s house, as her birthday fell in the same week. Around midday, we decided to go to my dad’s house, just a few minutes away.
Two years earlier, at 22, I had earned my motorbike license after years of wanting to ride. My dad inspired me with his love for motorbikes, though my mum had always been concerned. That day, I chose to ride my bike to my dad’s house, feeling confident because I knew the road well.
What happened next changed my life in an instant. Just seconds from my dad’s house, a pigeon flew into my open helmet. CCTV footage from a neighbour’s door cam shows that I turned my head in surprise and veered straight into a parked Volvo. I was thrown into the air, landed hard, and skidded into a kerb, hitting my head along the way.
My mum and sisters arrived minutes later to find bike parts scattered on the road and me lying motionless. My younger sister screamed and ran to get my dad. Fortunately, my family has extensive medical training: my dad is a trauma and army doctor, my older sister works in a hospital, and my mum is a GP.
Dad saw that my pupils were dilated, I was unresponsive and turning blue, and I was bleeding heavily from internal and external injuries. He described my face as so damaged a finger could fit in the wounds. An ambulance arrived quickly, but paramedics refused to remove my helmet over spinal injury concerns. My dad insisted, saying he would rather I be in a wheelchair than dead, and removed it.
I woke up in a Brighton hospital a week later with no memory of the accident or the month prior. Doctors told me I had multiple severe injuries: a smashed skull, two brain bleeds, three liters of lost blood, a shattered pelvis, six back fractures, a broken shoulder, four broken ribs, a broken finger and knee, internal bleeding, and a bladder filled with blood.
I studied CCTV footage, scans, and surgery photos to understand what happened, but it felt unreal. I needed three surgeries just for my pelvis, plus an eye operation I don’t remember. I spent a month in hospital and then three months off my feet, unable to go to the toilet alone, requiring constant care. Watching my family’s fear was devastating. My dad still refuses to watch the footage, while my mum and sister would sit in my room crying over how scared they were that I might not survive.
After six months of recovery, doctors called me a medical miracle, though I still have pelvic, facial nerve, and brain damage. Despite initial fear, I now ride motorbikes again, though only on tracks, with adjustments for my legs, which are now slightly different lengths due to the pelvis injury. I look at pigeons differently now—they remind me how lucky I am to be alive.
The most important lesson I learned is the value of protective gear. My helmet cost over £1,000, and without it, I likely would not have survived. More than ever, I now appreciate birthdays and the time I spend with my family.
