🔗 Share this article An Event That Transformed Me: My Train Was in an Accident – and subsequently I Heard a Child Crying. T it dawned on me I was about to die arrived during my 20s, at a time when everything was beginning. My best friend, Helen, and I were headed to Blackburn to reunite with an old university friend who had recently moved there for work. Delighted to be together, and reveling in the anticipation of the upcoming weekend of fun, we talked incessantly as we traveled by train from York. We placed our luggage – full of essentials such as our favorite wines and the clogs I had just bought – on the overhead rack and settled down in a comfortable double seat. Approximately 50 minutes after starting our journey, I was dimly aware of a bang. This was followed by a second, this time impossible to ignore. A woman screamed as our carriage catapulted upward in what felt like a dreamlike pace. In an instant, Helen and I were upright in the middle of the aisle, hugging each other. Looking down, eyelids tightly closed, I waited for the carriage to roll over and burst into flames, like in the movies. I remember thinking our loved ones receiving the notification. Then I heard the child sobbing. “Everything is okay,” I whispered, my tone was hoarse. “It’s all over,” I murmured, mostly for my own benefit. Her age was roughly seven or eight, and seemed to be entirely alone. Her weeping jolted me from my stupor; this was my opportunity to be useful. I went to where she was standing and wrapped an arm around her. “Avoid looking back,” Helen yelled, too late. I caught sight of a man whose face was bloody. An enormous piece of metal had smashed through the window behind us. Later, we found out a runaway digger had tumbled down the embankment and smashed into our carriage, causing us to derail. Our compartment was trapped with its nose pointing upward. Following that came of sirens and another traveler requested that I to pass the little girl to him so he could pass her through the window, where children were being evacuated to fire crews on standby. Shortly after, Helen and I were also climbing out of the train window and descending via a ladder on to the track. Back on terra firma – beside a freight warehouse in Pudsey – I began trembling violently. I looked for the little girl and watched her mother gather her up, who it turned out had been in the toilet when the crash occurred. An emergency worker helpfully fetched my clogs. A fellow passenger sat down heavily on Helen’s case, making it split apart – however, fortunately our wine was unharmed. After a half-hour wait, we traveled in a provided car to Blackburn, accompanied by a young man and the lady who had broken Helen’s case. Our friend was waiting, pale with worry. She was aware there had been a derailment and a railway official had escorted her to an office and made her a cup of tea while she waited for news. Bolstered by youthful resilience, we pushed the derailment from our minds and continued with our evening plans, which involved a notable act by Blackburn drag queen Clitheroe Kate. There were no fatalities in the incident, even though several people were transported to the hospital. Helen and I sustained only bruises and aches and pains from the violent forward motion in the carriage. The train had been slowing to enter Leeds station, which had been the primary reason in avoiding serious injury. Since nobody was badly hurt made it easier not to obsess over the “what ifs” but that young girl who left a lasting impact on me. Taking care of her and calming her down distracted me from my own fear and demonstrated the worth of directing attention externally in a crisis. Over the years, I have often wondered if she recalled any details, and how significant it had been for her. Helen and I have stayed close for over 30 years and Pudsey has become shorthand for our capacity to handle any situation, as long as we're side by side. Being with her that day gave me the impression I was shielded against the full horror of the event. The crash also changed my method of handling various difficult situations, providing me with insight – and reminding me that, regardless of how terrible things look, it is always a privilege to grow older.