The Blinking Reality

The beeping invades my mind like a probe, a thin, needle-sharp sound boring into my skull. I try to open my eyes but they are taped shut, and the thin adhesive pulls uncomfortably at my skin. Then I hear the nurse say, ‘You are safe; you are in the hospital. Please try to relax.’

The air smells faintly of disinfectant and old coffee.

I remember the screech and impact of an accident. I consciously check to make sure I have all my limbs. I can feel both my arms and legs, a comforting, heavy certainty.

Visions swarm into my mind like a showreel as I see my life, the life before the accident.

The beeping starts up again, sharp and insistent. This time it is my morning alarm. I open my eyes and my arm aches as I reach out, slapping the snooze button. Ten more minutes. Ten more minutes before the usual, monotonous routine of my life starts.

I know how today will go. Precisely the same as the five previous years I have lived through. Get up, shower, get dressed. Go downstairs and put the coffee on, the scent of the dark roast offers the only momentary escape. While the coffee percolates, I wake the kids up, the sticky warmth of their bodies a familiar weight against my side. I help them get dressed and brush their teeth. Back downstairs to scrape the buttery eggs onto plates. At 08:30 am, my family will kiss me goodbye and leave. The day will then be spent cooking, cleaning and washing, the damp scent of wet laundry clinging to my skin.

At 3 pm, I will pick the children up and help them with their homework, my back already starting to twinge. Adam will come home at 5 pm; he normally grunts a 'hello', if I am lucky. He eats his dinner and then sits semi-comatose, the blue light of the TV flickering on his face, whilst I get the children bathed and to bed. If I am lucky he might pay me five minutes' attention before I collapse into bed, ready for the routine to all start again the next day.

I am utterly exhausted. My whole life has been taken up with keeping two children alive and a husband who barely notices me happy.

The beeping sounds again. Alarm or hospital? My mind swims to another scene, different this time.

I see myself switching off the alarm and going downstairs. There, standing in my sun-drenched, granite kitchen, is a 20-year-old, muscle-bound, naked hunk.

‘Hey babe, you’re up late,’ the guy said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, as he walked towards me kissing me.

I hear myself say, ‘Scott, I told you I have a later meeting.’

I sit and drink the perfect, dark roast coffee. I am the managing director of an HR company. I love my job and have no children. A meeting at 10 am, so I stand to get ready.

Going into my wardrobe, I look at my expensive selection of clothes. I choose a Chanel dress, the silk heavy and cool in my hands, a Prada handbag, and Louboutin shoes, their red soles a promise. I yelled bye to Scott.

In the garage is my brand new Audi. I slam my foot on the pedal, feeling the engine snarl beneath me as I tear through the city streets to my meeting.

When I arrive at work I have a corner office with minimalist, designer furniture and a breathtaking view. The meeting is long, but I feel capable for the first time; the sound of my own voice commanding attention. People are listening to what I have to say and are interested in my opinions.

Once the meeting is finished I go for a fancy lunch. Then another couple of meetings. My workday finishes at 8 pm—home to hunky Scott and then out for an evening with friends.

This is my life. Rich, powerful. Everything I could ever want. The memory of my previous life fades into the distance like a bad nightmare.

Once again the scene fades and the alarm is sounding. I realise then that these visions are two versions of an alternative reality. The same me with two different outcomes.

I hear the nurse’s voice, closer now, ‘Open your eyes now, honey.’

The words are a command. Choose.

A heavy silk dress... the weight of a sleeping child.

The engine snarl... the sound of my daughter’s giggle.

The cold marble of the office... the scent of my son's clean hair.

I don’t know which of these realities is mine. Am I the exhausted mother or the successful CEO? Which me will I return to when I open my eyes?

“Come on, my lovely, open your eyes now,” the voice says again, its tone suddenly insistent, laced with professional urgency. A slight, heavy pressure begins to build on my eyelids.

I am not opening my eyes. I am afraid. Afraid to go back to reality without the specific, small, messy, beautiful burdens of my children. Afraid to lose the love that came wrapped in exhaustion.