Madeleine West returns to THAT bus stop
It was 2002 when Madeleine West was hit by a bus on a busy Sydney street. Now, 18 years later, the actor returns to the very same bus stop to confront her fears that still haunt her.
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Eighteen years ago, Madeleine West was standing at a bus stop by the side of a busy road when the unthinkable happened – she was hit by a bus and almost died. The physical consequences were brutal and painful, but it was the mental ramifications that would endure even longer. Here, in her own words, the actor offers a raw, revealing – and often humourous – account of what happened, and why she decided to go back to that fateful bus stop to confront her fears.
Newsflash: fear tastes like pickle juice. I’d never been able to pin it down before, probably because I’d never forced myself to sit in that most primitive of emotions and analyse its flavour.
But fear tastes distinctly like the vinegar left when the last pickled gherkin has been eaten. Just with a cold metallic tang, like a severe toothache or an ice-cream headache. It is as shocking and jolting as a slap to the face.
Or in my case, a bus to the head.
I would know, because that’s what happened 18 years ago, in 2002. And when I say “hit by a bus”, I’m not being cute or metaphorical. I mean, I was literally hit by a bus.
I was hit on the left side of my face and here are the consequences: three skull fractures leaking brain fluid, brain haemorrhage and haematoma, busted teeth, broken capillaries, wounds that would not knit, endless nights of agony as my skull fused, excruciating months of therapy to regain gross motor skills... but all of that paled to insignificance compared with what I perceived to be the greatest casualty: the effect it had on my appearance.
I know, I know. As definitive as we think looks may be, they make up the tiniest portion of who we are as a whole.
Yet we continue to take all we are, all we have to offer, our gifts, our personality, our ambitions, our dreams, and try to cram it into that tiny percentage.
How much do we miss out on? How much will the world miss out on? And what kind of world do we nurture if everyone considers their most definitive character trait to be their appearance?
Now, having imparted my words of wisdom, let’s get back to the fear I spoke about. Eighteen years ago, I was the girl who stopped traffic – with my face. Recently, I’ve decided to return to that same bus stop to exorcise a few demons that have proven resistant to therapy, hypnosis, counselling and stern directives to “just get over it”.
To this day, I still go weak at the knees at the sight of a bus. I’ve spoken at length about the accident. I’ve spoken about the months of retraining, recalibration and learning to live with an acquired brain injury that followed, aside from the strange way a brain behaves as it attempts to heal itself.
But I’ve never spoken of the realisation, many years and six children later, that the impact of this accident was with me still.
I strived to inspire others with my handle on the situation, my speedy recovery, trotting out kitsch platitudes of the variety that usually appear on laminated posters featuring kittens falling from branches.
But the fact remains that busy intersections scare the bejesus out of me, traffic crossings make me hyperventilate, and let’s not even mention bus stops. Shudder.
I’ve managed to avoid confronting this fact for close to two decades. But just two weeks shy of the 18th anniversary of the actual event, it happened. I dashed across a busy road to a store for milk and was heading back to my kids when a passing bus swung close to the kerb.
I froze. Immobilised, I stood there, on pause, in suspended animation for minutes that felt like days, weeks. It was embarrassing and diminishing.
I sucked in oxygen furiously, scrambling for “mindfulness” by picking through my mental checklist of wise quotes. Keep calm and... and... AND?
My kids looked on, querulous and quietly frightened. I could feel the storekeeper’s eyes on me, waiting for me to spin about and charge back in under the influence of whatever bizarre episode he thought I was currently brewing.
Fellow pedestrians gave me both compassionate glances and a wide berth. It took a full 10 minutes before I could unsteadily navigate my way back to my waiting kids and a shaky drive home. That’s when I knew it was time.
So here I am. 9am. Oxford Street, Darlinghurst in Sydney. This is exactly where I was hit by the bus all those years ago. All the inspirational quotes in the world don’t stop the immediate urge to wet myself when the first bus pulls in to pick up passengers.
Absurdly, it is the hissing of the brakes that sends my heart racing and pulse thrumming. My fists are clenched and my nails dig into my palms with a force that threatens to draw blood. I can’t breathe.
A strange noise catches my attention. A shallow, pained keening. The cry of an injured animal or frightened child. It’s coming from me.
The only thing more terrifying than that sound is discovering I don’t know I am making it. There is no way the anger and agony can be silenced, and I begin to weep. Snotty, hiccupy, the choked hysterics of a little kid terrified out of their wits. Apt, really, because that is how I feel and look.
Trapped in the paradox of fight or flight, I’m about to do a runner when someone asks, “Are you OK?”
A tentative hand touches my shoulder, attached to kind eyes and a steady smile that offers understanding. The woman, who tells me her name is Karen, repeats the question and the whole sordid tale tumbles from my lips.
Rather than offer me platitudes and advice, Karen offers something far more invaluable: her presence, and her hand. As each successive bus swings in, I find myself reaching instinctively for that hand, until slowly the impulse fades and ebbs away.
Another passenger, spying our tense vigil, checks in and chooses to join us. Then another. And then a couple. But it is Karen who stays with me for the entire four hours and 35 minutes.
Finally, the bus comes that does not elicit terror, and as it rolls away, I turn to her and simply say, “Thank you”. We do not exchange contact details and I don’t even know her surname. My offers to buy her lunch are waved away.
So we part ways, me with a deeper appreciation for the kindness of strangers, and her hopefully knowing that small acts of kindness cost little, but are priceless to those receiving them.
Feeling physically, psychologically and spiritually lighter, I make my way back to the airport and home to Byron Bay.
I know now that this is why such situations are called life-changing experiences. They do have the power to change your life, if you are brave enough to let them.
We are all sometimes subject to fear; to situations that spiral out of our control. But if you have the courage to face your fears, then nothing can stop you. Not even a bus.
Originally published as Madeleine West returns to THAT bus stop