New beginnings
Last year, Sarah de Lagarde, 45, became a double amputee. This Christmas, she’s determined to cherish every moment
Last Christmas, my Camden home was a tinsel explosion, an all-white colour scheme of twinkling lights and paper snowflakes adorning every window. As I sat around the table with my husband, Jeremy, and our daughters Chloe, then 12, and Daphne, eight, the air around us seemed to shimmer with a magical glow. It was the glow of being alive, because I am so lucky to still be here.
Looking back, 2022 was set to be the best year of my life. I had a career I loved as global head of communications at an investment management firm, and in August that year I’d achieved a lifelong dream of climbing Kilimanjaro with Jeremy. For seven hours, we ascended in total darkness in temperatures of -20 degrees. I remember picturing the shame I felt when I was 12 and school bullies spat in my hair. I was so unsure of myself then. Yet standing on top of that mountain, my jaw frozen in a massive smile, I was euphoric. ‘Look at me now,’ I wanted to shout. ‘I’m as strong as I will ever be.’ I felt invincible.
A month later, everything changed. It was a weekday evening and I was on the Tube in London on my way home from work. Recovering from COVID-19 and feeling exhausted, I closed my eyes. When I woke up, I’d missed my stop – I was at the end of the line in High Barnet. Rain pounded down as I stepped out onto the wet platform. Realising that the same train was going back towards Camden, I turned round to get back on. But I slipped in a puddle and fell against the Tube carriage, hitting my face hard and sliding sideways into the gap between the platform and train.
I remember the feeling of tumbling into the darkness. Lying on the track in the hard, black gravel, my first clear thought was, ‘I’m not supposed to be here.’
Fighting for life
Frantic, I screamed out, ‘Somebody please help me. My name is Sarah. I don’t want to die.’ I tried to roll away from the underside of the train, but it began to move. I remember thinking, ‘I can’t feel the right side of my body.’ Then I looked at my right arm, and I realised that it was gone. Strangely, I couldn’t feel any pain, my adrenaline blocking it out. I managed to retrieve my phone from the tracks, but it wouldn’t recognise my face or fingerprints because I had broken my nose and two front teeth, and there was so much blood. I continued to shout but still no one heard me. I was stuck against the side of the platform.
There was fear behind my adrenaline – but there was also anger. I didn’t climb Kilimanjaro to die in a ditch. In a moment, I had gone from the top of the world to rock bottom. In my mind’s eye, I saw the faces of my daughters, waiting for me to c
