From the heart: The sister wiped from my memory forever
Imagine losing your most precious of memories. For Louise Cade, 32, it’s been a lifelong torment...
Flicking through old photo albums with my family last Christmas, I came across a picture of my sister Sally and me giggling into the camera and holding our hands aloft. ‘That’s a lovely one,’ my aunt said, smiling wistfully. ‘I wonder where it was taken?’ But, as usual, my memory came up blank.
It had been over 20 years since that photo was snapped, but that wasn’t why I couldn’t remember. The truth is ever since the unthinkable happened in 1994, I have struggled to recall anything at all about Sally. All I know is what my mum has told me, about how we were an inseparable duo – playing with our dolls together, or chasing through the fields on the farm where we grew up near Peterborough.
Being two years older, I apparently took it upon myself to look after Sally, tying her shoelaces in the morning and buttoning up her coat before we went to school. ‘You were a natural,’ laughs Mum now, a subtle sadness lingering in her eyes.
But then, on 21 January 1994, tragedy struck. I was just eight years old and Sally was six. Mum says it was a day like any other. We went to school, while she stayed at home with our three-year-old sister, Jenny. And when the school bus dropped us off later that day opposite our farmhouse, Mum says I must’ve taken Sally’s hand, like always, and stepped out on the road.
Only as we were crossing, an elderly driver pulled out and didn’t see us. There was a loud, excruciating bang. Rushing out, Mum found Sally and me lying in the middle of the road – our school shoes scattered around us. Screaming in panic, she ran back indoors and stumbled for the phone. In tears, she couldn’t manage to dial 999 and ended up phoning our GP surgery. They sent three local doctors, who were volunteers with the Magpas Air Ambulance, to stabilise us until the paramedics came. But by the time we made it to Peterborough City Hospital, Sally and I had suffered multiple heart failures. Doctors quickly discovered the horrifying extent of my injuries: a fractured pelvis, a detached kneecap, broken clavicle and massive head trauma. Sally was in an even worse state. They hooked us up to ventilators in the intensive care unit, but Sally’s situation only became worse. Two days later, she passed away while I was still unconscious. I can’t remember the moment they told me that she’d gone. But I can recall hearing the doctor’s voice as he told my parents I’d never be able to walk again. When I finally woke up properly the day after, I had no idea who the faces around me were. In fact, I couldn’t recognise anyone. After rushing me for tests, the doctors realised I’d suffered a stroke that wiped my memory of everything that happened before the accident.
I was so confused and scared as these complete strangers tried to convince me they were my parents. Mum’s eyes welled with tears as she willed me to remember. Slowly, like coming out of a bad dream, the reality seeped in but other things had disappeared, like nursery rhymes and family memories. And worst of all, I couldn’t remember anything about Sally.
Flicking through photos Mum brought in, I remember becoming angry and confused as I failed to recognise the little girl standing next to me. While the rest of my family mourned my sister, I felt lost. How was I supposed to grieve for someone I couldn’t remember?
At Sally’s funeral, Mum and Dad asked for donations to the Magpas Air Ambulance, which brings lifesaving care by land and air to patients in life-threatening emergencies. And they raised enough to buy a defibrillator in Sally’s name. A month later, I left hospital. As Mum wheeled me over the ramps I felt like a stranger in my own home. Everything was new to me, even the bedroom I’d shared with my beloved sister. Although we tried to move forward, I could tell when Mum and Dad had been crying because of how red their eyes were.
A few weeks later, I was watching Mr Motivator on TV when I became consumed with an uncontrollable desire to join in. Clutching the edge of the desk beside me, I levered myself up on to my feet and shakily stepped forwards. ‘Mum, come and look. I’m walking,’ I shouted. Running into the living room, she stared at me, astonished. After that, I practised standing and walking every day.
But while my physical injuries healed, my memories from before the accident never returned. Instead, I had to re-learn what life was like by watching home videos of me and Sally.
In the years that followed, I came to learn how close we were, how our expressions and
‘The more my life progressed, the guiltier I felt for leaving Sally behind’
our temperament mirrored each other’s. We were two years apart but we might as well have been twins. Yet although I liked feeling connected to Sally, it also made me realise how different life would have been if she were still around and, as I got older, I felt it was up to me to keep Sally’s memory alive. So at the age of 18, I trained as a nurse to help others as Sally and I had been helped.
But by 2006 the emotional toll of the job became too much. So I started working as a payroll manager. Marriage and babies followed. But the more my life progressed, the guiltier I felt for leaving Sally behind.
Giving back
Then in 2010, I received a message from a woman named Louise Cheshire. She and her daughter Rebekah had been involved in a terrible car accident a few years after Sally was killed. The defibrillator that had been donated in her name was used to save Rebekah’s life. To say thank you to our family, Louise wanted to organise a fundraising event in memory of Sally. I agreed to the event, and we stayed in contact.
Then in February 2017, I saw a Facebook post from Louise saying she was planning to do a charity sky dive to raise money for Magpas Air Ambulance. Something inside me clicked and, typing out a message to Louise, I asked if I could do it with her. On 17 June 2017, Louise and I launched ourselves out of a plane above Sibson Aerodrome. We raised £2,000 for the charity, which we donated in Sally’s name.
They say our memories are what make us, and for me that couldn’t be more true. So although Sally isn’t here, she’ll live on through those who knew her. She’ll never be forgotten. To donate to Magpas Air Ambulance, go to magpas.org.uk