My Perfect Life - Getting Hit By A Bus

My Perfect Life - Getting Hit By A Bus

Hello my love. Are you well? Have a strawberry. They're very good for you. If you're ever feeling a bit peaky, sit down with bowl of strawberries, you'll be better in no time. And red meat, make sure you're eating enough if that, the iron does you wonders.

My name is Kathleen Taylor. I was born 47 years ago in North Yorkshire. I had a decent childhood. We weren't well off, but we never wanted for anything. About seventeen years ago, I got tired of my job as a receptionist and took a degree in social services. That was the best decision I ever made, and my proudest achievement. I never married, and I never had children. I always planned to, of course, but sometimes life just doesn't work out that way. Oh, I'm doing it again, aren't I? You really must tell me when I'm rambling on like that, or I'll never stop!

You're not here to learn all about me, of course. I am here to tell you about a very unusual day I had last week. You see, I have worked for the last ten years at Greenwood University College, as a student counsellor. Not highly paid, but highly rewarding. They come in, these young men and women, oh-so grown up and away from home. And I watch as they sit in front of me with the weight of the world on their shoulders, and become the little boys and girls that they still are inside. Sometimes they need advice, or a cuddle, or sometimes they just need someone to listen. I do whatever I can for them.

This time of year is particulary busy for me. The freshers arrive, away from home and in the big bad world for the first time. I try to give them a friendly face to talk to, and in return they settle in and enjoy themselves, and never think of me again. Then there are the ones who've split up with their boyfriend or girlfriend. You try and get them to move on and realise there are plenty more fish in the sea, especially at university.

That day, most of the people I saw fell into one of those two categories. The fact I won't sit with them again doesn't worry me too much. Homesickness fades, broken hearts heal. It's the others I do worry about.

I must have seen fourty-odd students that day. You see, the first day back after summer is when a lot of people decide on a fresh start. But when the rest drop out, you are left only with those whose problems are very real. They won't disappear, or fade, or be forgotten. You can't just make everything better with a strawberry. They need help, a liferaft, whatever you can give them, because they are - in every way - drowning. I saw ten such people on my last day, and my heart breaks for every one of them.

Sometimes - rarely - someone will walk though the door, and you will know that they need help immediately.

Others are people you would never expect to need help. But then you sit with them for five minutes and you wonder how you could've missed it. And you see how everyone else has.

Some people convince themselves they are happy, when in truth they've never known what that is.

Some ask you for advice. But for some questions, there simply aren't any right or wrong answers.




Some can barely look me in the eye.

In truth, my job is that of a good parent. A shame, then, that I see so many.

The people who lash out the most are, after all, usually the ones most hurt.

I'm not a psychic or a mind-reader, just well trained and with a lot of something these children don't have - experience. That's why sometimes I know more about them than they know about themselves.

'The smile' is a common feature, worn like facial hair or makeup, and for the same purpose: it hides what's underneath.

None of them, of course, told anyone else they were coming to see me. They were all, you see, ashamed. Isn't that sad? We live in a society where to ask for help is weakness, a sign that you have failed in some way. And each of these young men and women felt they had failed. Failed at life. Imagine, being nineteen or twenty years old and believing you had failed at life!

It had been a long day, and my head was still running loops. I knew some of the people I had seen that day would never come back, but there were others who needed to.

'Don't take your work home with you' is a mantra belonging to office work. A counsellor's job is in their head, which is very difficult not to take home.

As I prepared my solitary meal, phone numbers and contacts skidded through my mind. Anyone I could think of who could have some answers. But some problems have no simple solutions, and I knew the better part of my year would be spent trying to help.

But then, to see them grow and thrive, that was what I worked for. And I knew they all had that in them. I sat at my table digesting these thoughts, when my thread was rather abruptly interrupted...

...by a fish bone caught in my throat.

As I tried to call for help (which is quite difficult with a blocked airway), I couldn't help think that if I had had children, a family, or anyone, they could quite easily have knocked the offending bone out.

As it was, however, I would have no such luxuries.

It takes several minutes to choke. And let me tell you (because I hope for your sake you never have the same experience) those minutes are the longest of a person's life. They say you see your life flash before your eyes. This is partly true. Maybe another person would see their wedding day, or the birth of their child. I saw ten faces. The faces of those people who I had vowed to help, and now would never have the chance.

They found my body the next day, after I didn't come in for work. They buried me yesterday. It was a small funeral, tasteful. The university splashed out and sent a wreath. What meant the most to me was that many of those who attended were once students of mine. Guy, who had once thrown a chair at me, brought his wife and two daughters. I heard he is now working as a policeman. When Polly took her coat off, I could see that the scars on her arms had healed. There were no new ones. Amy had never cried in front of me: not when she had told me about how her father used to come into her room at night, not when she had told me how her mother blamed her, not when she had told me how she believed her mother. She cried at my funeral.

They all ate strawberries in my honour. I approved.

The university was very quick to use my death as the answer to it's budgeting problem. In my earthly absence, the counselling service I had fought to maintain was quickly closed. My former students complained and set up a petition for it to be reinstated. There just wasn't enough interest among the present students. You see, none of them believed they needed help. They convinced themselves they were just there out of curiosity. It's only when you've come through the tunnel into the light that you realise how black it was inside.

Being dead gives you a lot of freedom. You don't need to worry about wages, or health, or what anyone thinks of you. I'm still here for a reason. Those children are my reason. I will look out for them as best I can. I want to make sure they're okay before I leave. And I hope you'll follow them with me.

Welcome to My Perfect Life.