stronger ‘WE ARE ALL THAN WE REALISE’
Martine Wright, a survivor of the 2005 London bombings, Paralympian and motivational speaker, talks to Prima’s Ella Dove about how she became braver and far more determined than she ever thought possible
‘Iwas unlucky to get that train, but I’m lucky to be alive. In my hallway, there’s a photo of my family, taken just before I played for the women’s sitting volleyball team at the London Paralympics in 2012. My husband, Nick, and my young son, Oscar, are cheering, while my mum smiles, her eyes brimming with tears. Next to them, my dad holds up a home-made “Team GB Volleyball” sign – a Slimming World banner he repurposed for the occasion. On the other side, just visible through the canvas, it says “Lose weight, join free today”. Every time I look at that picture, I smile. For me, it holds a deep significance – humour, pride and overwhelming love.
It’s a reminder of how far I’ve come since I was involved in one of the worst terrorist atrocities to hit London. I was sitting opposite the suicide bomber, lost 80% of my blood and was the final survivor to be pulled from the wreckage of our carriage. The pain was indescribable.
I was in a coma for seven days in intensive care at the Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. For the first two days, my family had no idea where I was. My boyfriend Nick and my parents and step-parents drove frantically around the London hospitals until they found me. When I woke up, I looked down and realised that my legs were no longer there. For a long time, I thought it was a terrible dream; that I’d wake up and be whole again.
To begin with, I kept asking, “Why me?” On one occasion, my mum, Maureen, said firmly: “Martine, you are alive. And you are still you.” I realised I had a choice: I could either lie down and never walk again or I could get up and carry on with life. Those words were my turning point.
People often tell me they couldn’t cope with what I went through. But they could. In tough situations, we have a choice: sink or swim. Create a positive mindset, take things at your own pace and don’t conform to the expectations of those around you. Above all, remember who you are. My mum taught me that, and I’ll always be thankful.
THE POWER OF LOVE
Nick and I had been together on and off for two years but, in a strange way, the London bombings brought us closer. They made us realise how impossible it felt to
contemplate a life apart. He supported me through numerous operations, and was by my side as I slowly, painfully, learned to walk on my prosthetic legs.
Two years after the attack, Nick asked me to marry him. I was delighted, but needed constant reassurance that he still loved me; that he found me attractive despite my scars. I worried about how I’d look in a wedding dress, and I cried a lot seeing gorgeous heels that I could never wear. Eventually, I chose a pair of flat gold Skechers – the most glamorous option I could manage.
It took all my concentration, but I managed to walk down the aisle on my two prosthetic legs, to typically noisy cheers from my family and friends. I kept the legs on all day, danced through the night, and fell over about seven times, but I didn’t care. That day highlighted the importance of my loved ones. I wouldn’t be here without them.
A year later, I discovered I was pregnant. I remember looking at the positive test and shrieking to Nick, who fell to his knees and hugged me. Doctors didn’t know if I’d be able to get pregnant after the physical trauma my body had been through, so it felt like a miracle.
Yet amid the joy, there was doubt: how on earth would I manage with no legs?
Pregnancy as a double amputee had its challenges. I stayed on my legs for the first four months, but my balance was disrupted, and being forced to use a wheelchair had a psychological impact. If that wasn’t enough, my original due date was 7 July – 7/7, the day of the bombings. But when Oscar was born by Caesarean in July, 2009, one look at his little face told me that everything had been worth it.
A SPORTING CHANCE
Early on, when I was still in hospital, my brother Grant gave me a bracelet engraved with the words “You can still have your dreams.” It’s a mantra that’s shaped my life. I’ve always been athletic, but I only attended the Amputee Games at Stoke Mandeville Hospital in
2008 for fun. I tried several sports, and sitting volleyball was my favourite. Played on the floor and not in wheelchairs, it felt liberating. The following year, I was asked to try out for the first ever GB women’s team. Oscar was three months old and I was exhausted caring for him while also overseeing the building of our new family home in Tring, Hertfordshire. But I wanted – and needed – the challenge.
Playing sitting volleyball at the 2012 London Paralympics was a dream come true. It helped me to meet like-minded people and exercise my competitive side. In 2016, I received an MBE for services to sport. It felt surreal to be at Buckingham Palace, shaking hands with the Queen, and it was one of the most memorable days of my life. Sport gave me a new focus. It put me back together.
NEVER GIVING UP
Oscar is now eight, and a few weeks ago, he had a class assembly at school. The theme was “doing your best”, and each child had to say something on the subject. When it was Oscar’s turn, he stepped up and announced: “My mum does her best when she plays volleyball”. My heart burst with pride.
I used to worry that Oscar would be bullied for having an amputee mum. Yet, so far, only good things have come of it. I believe that he’s a kinder and more understanding boy as a result. Oscar has helped his peers to realise that disability is not about being unable to do things – it’s about pushing yourself, achieving goals you never thought possible. You might do something differently, but you’ll find a way.
Twelve years ago, I thought my life was over, that the darkness would never subside. But tragedy can give way to the most wonderful positives that enrich your life in ways you never imagined. There’s a message I’m determined to share with anyone going through tough times: it will always get better.’
‘I had a choice: I could either lie down and never walk again or carry on with life’