7.7: One Day In London Page #8

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It was disturbing

because we were there

trying to deal

with the casualties,

and they were like little ants

all over the place,

quite frenzied around,

trying to get the best angle,

get the best shot they could do.

Some people were already dead.

But I managed, God save it,

I managed to walk.

In the bus, I was located

right behind the bomber.

The one thing that

I still can't compute, I suppose,

if compute is the right word, is...

how can anybody survive an explosion

when they were literally centimetres

close, next to the bomber?

There was a point when Liz and I

were the only two injured survivors

left on the train.

And they started to get's ready

to take me out to an ambulance.

They were getting ready to lift me

onto a stretcher.

And then they change their minds

and one of them said to me,

"I'm sorry,

you've drawn the short straw."

And they decided

to take Liz instead.

And then I was left in the train

for another half an hour or so,

I think.

As they were carrying me out of

the tunnel on the stretcher...

I remember,

after all that time in the dark,

it seemed as if the station

was just glowing with light.

It was a very...

emotional moment for me.

Coming up in the daylight, I can

remember being carried through

out of the station

to the ambulance and just as

they put me into the ambulance,

catching a glimpse of the sky.

There's a glass canopy over

the entrance to the station

and I remember that glimpse of

the class canopy and the summer sky

above it.

It was the most wonderful

thing I've seen.

Once wed confirmed that there were

no more alive people on the train,

it was time to leave.

All these people were standing there,

thinking of their own little worlds

at the time of the explosion,

or before the explosion.

What they were doing at work,

where they were going,

what they've got to do,

or not got to do,

what they got for tea,

if they've just had an argument.

They're listening to the iPhones,

mobile phones,

their Walkman or whatever.

Then all of a sudden, there's

an explosion and they all become one.

You know, some days I woke up

and I would just not stop crying.

It was what am I going to do?

I remember one day saying to my mum,

"What am I going to do?

"I've got no legs,

I've got no legs."

And I remember she grabbed my face.

And she said,

"Martine, you are still Martine

"and you could have had a really bad

knock on the head

"or really bad brain injury

and you didn't,

"so you are still Martine

and you are still here

"and you can get new legs,

you're going to get new legs."

He came to the hospital

and I said to him,

he sat on the bed and I said, "Lewis,

I've got something to tell you."

And he said, "What?" I usually say,

"Don't say what, say pardon."

And I said, "You've got two legs,

now I've got some problems,

I've only got one."

And I said, "Actually,

I've got one and a half,

"so what am I going to do

about walking?"

And he turned around and looked me

and he says,

"You just have to hop

and I just have to help you.

"And let's see who can stand

on one leg the longest."

I'm looking at memos

my counsellor wrote.

Each counselling session,

he wrote down something

and he gave it to me

at the end of each session.

I've never talked to the children

about it and I don't know

whether they've heard from

other people and know anyway.

Um...

or whether, you know,

this will come as a shock to them.

I literally bottled it all up.

I can't remember what I said,

but I just obviously confirmed

the fact that I was on that train.

But I didn't mention anything

about the casualties that I'd seen

and what had gone on

in the carriage.

I'd say I wasn't affected,

but my wife would disagree with you.

She'd say I was...

um, argumentative.

She said it was like...

How did she describe it?

She said it was like

walking on eggshells around me.

That was quite... that was quite sad.

Yes. "I now choose to let go of all

my fears about dying on the tube."

I've never felt traumatised

by my experience.

It brings home to you that you never

know what is around the corner.

Very random decisions can radically

change your future.

If I'd been standing up

on that train that day,

I probably wouldn't be here now.

Because I chose to sit down,

I'm still here to tell the tale.

We had an evil act by four people,

but it was met with this huge surge

of goodness and kindness...

that carried a lot of us through.

A lot of my injuries were related

to basically human shrapnel.

Part of the bomber's shinbone

had gone into my left eye.

It was irreparably damaged from that.

I've been asked a number of times

about my feelings about the bomber

and there's just nothing to grab hold

of, I don't really have an angle.

It's difficult,

it's almost like I'm more angry that

I can't be angry about it.

That probably doesn't make any sense,

but that's how I feel.

There's just no form to it,

I can't see an angle

to my opinion on it really.

I've just had to get on with it,

so my angle really is I've got on

with it, recovered a normal life

and we can enjoy stuff that these

people didn't want to enjoy.

They say that for every action

there is an equal

and opposite reaction,

and it seems

that 95% of what has happened

since then has been positive.

There's been so much fundraising,

outpouring of support.

Everyone has their different ways

of dealing with

the situation

that we found ourselves in.

For us, it was really

a sanity saver

to do something constructive

in Miriam's memory.

This building is an eye hospital,

and the Miriam Hyman

Children's Eye Care Centre is

these few rooms down here.

The first patient of

the Children's Eye Care Centre

who I was lucky enough to meet.

There is with his parents

having an assessment.

We know that if we allowed ourselves

to go on a downward spiral

into the depths of despair,

that it would be

almost an insult to her

if we allowed ourselves to also

lose our lives as a result

of her losing hers.

Unless you've had your family member

blown up in a terrorist attack,

you can't even imagine how it feels.

So it's pointless to try

and describe it,

but I think it's much more

constructive to talk about

how you respond.

Our life is defined by before

7 July 2005 and after the seventh.

It's just like you've got two

separate lives - before and after...

and we don't much

talk about before, do we?

No. Truthful, it's almost

as if something stopped then

and it's easy to cope by moving on.

Since David died,

we went on a cruise on a holiday,

and for dinner you go down

and sit on a table of maybe

five other couples

and you don't know each other,

but the one thing you have in common

is you talk about your children.

So you are always asked,

"Do you have children?"

And you sit there and go,

"Yes, we have a son and a daughter."

And then you're asked,

"How old are they? What do they do?"

And you're so conscious that

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