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This is something I've been wrestling with for fifteen years.

The three people who came to my bedside after my accident my husband Paul, my Mum and my Dad. Each of them in their own way helped me in ways I can hardly put into words.

My Mum taught me to read, to write, to walk, to talk and to love me and support me ever since. My Dad was the unsaid strength who supported us all. Apparently he cooked the meals and helped with the practical things, running people to where they needed to be.

Paul? Unbelievably hard to put into words. He immediately took over everything. He kept his job all the way through, paid the bills as needed, dealt with whatever came up. His support never faltered and he slowly, over time, gave up the responsibility until we became two independent adults rather than the patient and carer roles.

Over all of this time, I have felt a huge weight of indebtedness to them all. I almost can't forgive myself for my Mum and Dad getting the worst phone call of their lives. For the three days it took them to arrive, when the phone call informed them that I may die. For the three weeks watching me in my coma when they were told I may never wake up.

Yes, I know deep down that if it had happened the other way round, I would have done the same. But it didn't.

When I've told each of them how I feel, they all tell me not to feel like that. That this is what families do for each other. I know they're right, but it's not shaking the guilt I feel. None of them have ever, ever said anything to try and make me feel like this...

The bottom line. When the shit hits the fan (biggest understatement I can imagine), I am so lucky to have people who were there for me. Immediately.

Thank you.

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