The Lucky One

by Krystal Barter

  And so I continued as I had before: going out (to excess), drinking (to excess) and taking drugs (to, well, you guessed it). ‘Wild abandon’ is probably not too strong an expression for it all. A psychologist would probably draw a neat connecting line between me failing to take the BRCA test (and so avoiding the chance that I might learn of any future cancer) and my reckless behaviour. You dodge the test, you dodge the cancer, right? And it’s not such a big leap from here to think: Hell, if I can dodge death from cancer, then why not elsewhere in my life?

  In truth, though, I don’t think I ever gave it that much thought. I was eighteen years old and having too much fun to stop. It was that simple. And, anyway, doesn’t every teenager think they’re invincible?

  A few years earlier, when I was about fifteen, a couple of my friends were involved in a horrific, life-altering car accident. Chris, the driver, was a particularly close friend and he’d called my house on the day of the crash to ask if he could take me out for a spin that night.

  ‘Mrs B!’ he’d said affectionately when my mum answered the phone. ‘It’s my birthday today! So I’m going for my P’s this arvo and then we’re having a bit of a shindig tonight to celebrate. Howsabout I drive Krystal home for you after the party?’

  ‘Howsabout no,’ was Mum’s response. Driver’s licence or not, she wasn’t about to let me get into a car with someone who’d so recently qualified (and who’d been partying to celebrate). Turns out Mum probably saved my life.

  That night, despite failing to get his provisional licence, Chris and another mate, Pete, took a friend’s Commodore for a spin, lost control of the car coming around a sweeping left-hand bend and ploughed into a power pole, shearing it off at the base. The force of the crash was such that Chris was thrown from the car and found by the emergency rescue team lying, face down, on the bitumen ahead of the vehicle. He suffered a depressed fracture to the skull; they didn’t know if he’d live. His passenger, Pete, was wedged between the dashboard and his seat and had to be cut free from the car with the ‘jaws of life’. He had a fractured arm and leg, facial injuries and a ruptured spleen and was in a critical condition. Debris from the crash landed as far as 40 metres away and the power pole was so decimated that 3300 homes were blacked out in Warriewood that night.

  Miraculously, both Chris and Pete survived and were taken to Royal North Shore Hospital’s intensive care unit. Here, family and friends took turns keeping vigil at their bedsides, willing them to wake up. Both boys had staples across their foreheads which were the size of footballs and both boys were never expected to make a full recovery.

  It was while we were standing by their beds one night that Mum turned to me and said: ‘Now do you understand how precious your life is, Krystal? There are consequences for all our decisions in life and you need to have a think about some of the decisions you’re making.’

  Mum wasn’t callously using my friends’ dire situation for point-scoring; she was just so desperate to get her message across to me. That is, I had to stop before it was too late.

  I remember staring down at my unconscious friends and truly fearing they’d never wake up. I felt squeamish and faint at the sight of Chris’s injuries but I forced myself to visit him, day after day, when I would just sit by his bed, willing him to suddenly open his eyes and recognise me. It was devastating to see him like this.

  And then one day, nearly two weeks after the accident, Chris woke up and said my name.

  I wasn’t at the hospital at the time but Chris’s mum rang to tell me his fragile body had suddenly come alive and he’d opened his eyes and said: ‘Krystal?’ The word was barely discernible but that didn’t matter. Chris was conscious! What’s more, he was able to remember me, which was a positive sign in terms of brain function. I was elated. I laughed and cried tears of relief at the same time. I wish I’d seen the look on his mum’s face when she first saw Chris was awake. I’d lost count of the times his mum and his sister and I had stood in that hospital room desperately hoping and praying for Chris and Pete to wake up. And now Chris had finally opened his eyes. Pete also regained consciousness a few days later. It was nothing short of incredible.

  Over the next few weeks both Chris and Pete began the long, hard slog of rehabilitation. They were both hugely messed up by the accident—physically and emotionally—and it took years for them to painstakingly piece their lives back together. I still can’t quite believe my own luck at escaping injury that night. If it hadn’t been for Mum putting her foot down, I would definitely have been in that car when they crashed, and who knows what state I would have been in when I was pulled out. My uncle was a local firefighter with the Mona Vale brigade and he was called out to the accident that night. He later said that any girl of my (petite) size would never have survived an accident of that magnitude. He’s probably right.

  But even though the accident occurred when I was fifteen years old, and truly shocked me, here I was at eighteen, still partying like I had a death wish. (I’d like to point out that, to my credit, I never got in a car with a drunk driver or drove recklessly myself; I preferred to take my risks outside the vehicle.) I’d been exposed to my nan’s cancer scars from before the time I could walk; I’d experienced my own mother diagnosed with cancer when I was just fourteen years old; and then I’d seen my friends’ lives shattered (in an accident I could have been involved in) only one year after that. And none of these things had any bearing on my behaviour. In fact, if anything, they made me party harder than ever. Life’s short, right? So it’s not surprising, then, that a never-taken BRCA test wasn’t going to slow me down.

  Nor was an intervention from my friends. But that didn’t stop them from trying.

  Not long after my aborted BRCA test, and at a time when I was up to my dilated pupils in the hug drug, ecstasy, and taking speed almost daily, my closest friends decided to act. Now, I’m not talking some Oprah-style arrangement filled with tears and trite affirmations and luxury rehab retreats. There was no five-step step-down program, no free tickets under my seat so I could go ‘find myself’ in the Aussie outback. And there sure as hell wasn’t any public confession of guilt on my part, á la Lance Armstrong.

  No, there was none of that.

  This might have been an intervention but it was still suburban Manly in the early 2000s, and my friends were forced to use whatever options were available to them at the time. That’s right: they dobbed on me to my mum.

  ‘Krystal Anne Barter! You get your arse back home right this instant!’ Mum’s voice barrelled out of my mobile phone as I putted up the hill in my crappy Ford Laser. I was off to Katy’s house and had spent the last few minutes trying to coax my powder-blue bomb up this hill; I was hardly going to turn back and head home now.

  ‘What the hell?’ I said to Mum.

  ‘Don’t you “what the hell?” me, young lady! That’s my line!’ she screamed at me. ‘What the hell is going on with you, Krystal? I’ve just had your friend Bec on the phone telling me that she’s worried about you because you’re taking drugs all the time!’

  Oh, shit. I couldn’t believe we were finally having this conversation.

  ‘Drugs, Krystal? Since when do you take drugs?’ She was still screaming.

  Now I really couldn’t believe we were having this conversation. Was she serious? Had it actually escaped my parents’ attention that I spent more time getting high than normal people spent at their nine-to-five? Apparently so.

  ‘Krystal, you’re my baby! How could you do this to me?’ Mum was crying now. Great.

  ‘Mum, she’s lying,’ I said flatly.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ I said. ‘You know what Bec’s like.’ I paused for a moment here. Mum did know what Bec was like: loyal, lovely, one of my closest friends. There was no reason for Bec to lie to Mum and if Mum stopped and thought about it for too long she’d realise that. I changed tack.

  ‘Look, I’m not taking drugs, Mum. You’ve got to believe me. I’m just not.’

  ‘Y
ou’re not?’ There was a tentative note of hope in Mum’s voice.

  ‘I’m not.’ I knew Mum desperately wanted to believe this; she wanted me to convince her.

  ‘So you don’t have to worry about a word Bec said,’ I went on. ‘But, hey, I’ve just arrived at Katy’s so I’ve gotta go now.’

  ‘But—’

  I cut Mum off: ‘I said, I’ve gotta go now, okay?’

  ‘Okay,’ Mum’s voice sounded small now, with all the anger drained from it.

  ‘I’ll be home tomorrow sometime. And forget about the drugs, Mum. There are no drugs.’ With this, I hung up the phone before she had a chance to reply.

  I parked my car at Katy’s, jumped out and raced to the front door. I couldn’t wait to tell her about Bec dobbing; and take some of those non-existent drugs.

  Now, it might sound uncanny that two of my closest friends decided—independently—to address my drug habit on the same day. Uncanny, or downright unlucky, depending on whose side you’re on. But when you consider just how far out of control my life had spun by now, it’s probably more surprising that my friends had waited this long. It was becoming painfully obvious to everyone around me that there was some sort of screw loose in my brain when it came to illicit substances. It was no secret that when I was out partying I wasn’t afraid to push myself one step further than everyone else, to take life faster or higher or wilder than everyone else. And the problem with always being one step ahead when it comes to drugs, of course, is that you’re always one step closer to disaster, too. My friends recognised this and decided to act before it was too late. Which is why, fresh off the phone from my irate mother, I now walked slap-bang into Katy’s own brand of tough love.

  ‘Krystal, you’ve got to get your shit together.’

  ‘What?’ I stared at Katy, open-mouthed and stunned. The two of us were sitting crosslegged on her bed, planning our night out together. The small zip-lock bag of speed I’d just produced was lying on the quilt between us. Katy was not as much of a party girl as I was, but it wasn’t like my plastic pouch didn’t contain enough supplies for her, too. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, you’ve got to get your shit together,’ she repeated, indicating to the powder that lay in the (suddenly cavernous) space between us. ‘You can’t keep this up, not at this rate, or you’ll kill yourself.’

  Oh, that again. What the hell was wrong with everybody today? I wondered.

  ‘Yeah, real funny, Katy,’ I said and laughed. ‘Now, let’s get on with killing ourselves.’

  Katy, however, wasn’t laughing. ‘I’m serious, Krystal, and I’m doing this for your own good.’

  Doing what? I thought, bemused, as she stood up and walked out into the hallway.

  ‘Muuuum!’ she shouted. ‘Can you come here a sec?’

  Somewhere in the house the hum of a vacuum cleaner died, and then footsteps rapped across the parquetry floor. Katy hung in the doorway looking sheepish and righteous and slightly sickened, all at once, and suddenly I didn’t like where this was heading. I swiped the bag of powder from the quilt cover and stuffed them into my pocket and, seconds later, Katy’s mum, Anne, appeared and strode into the bedroom.

  ‘Where are the drugs, Krystal?’ This woman was taking no prisoners.

  ‘Anne, I’m not sure what you’re talking about …’

  ‘The drugs,’ she repeated, and I did my best to appear nonplussed.

  ‘Have I done something wrong? Because if—’ I began.

  ‘Get the drugs out, Krystal—all the drugs—and show them to me.’ She didn’t raise her voice, in fact she appeared decidedly unfazed, and yet I was stunned this was happening. Behind her, down the hallway, I could hear Katy’s little brother banging around in the kitchen. Next door, a lawnmower was starting up. It sounded like such a normal day.

  ‘Anne, I think there’s been some sort of mistake,’ I said smoothly. ‘I don’t know what Katy’s told you,’ I shot a look towards the doorway and Katy actually flinched. ‘But you should know that I would never—’

  Anne cut me off again: ‘C’mon, Krystal, I’m not buying it. Now, get the drugs out.’ She held out her hand expectantly and I sighed.

  ‘Look, I think I’ll just head off, Anne. I’ve obviously come at a bad time …’

  ‘Mum, you’ve got to get her sorted out.’ At last Katy spoke, but her pleading tone surprised me.

  ‘I know, I know—’ her mum waved her away. ‘C’mon, Krystal, let’s get this over with.’

  For a moment I was derailed by Anne’s words. Where else had I heard that recently? Oh yeah, that’s right, my own mum said the exact same thing at my BRCA1 test. It seemed there was a lot in my life lately that required me to just grit my teeth and get it over with.

  Then Anne said, ‘I’ll call your parents if I need to, Krystal,’ and with that, she had my full attention.

  ‘My parents? Are you serious? I don’t think that’s necessary. We’re only talking about a couple of tabs of speed,’ I said, beginning to panic now. I didn’t really believe Katy’s mum would call my parents, but then I would never have expected her to stage an intervention inside her daughter’s room, either. Anne calling my parents was not a gamble I was prepared to take.

  ‘Fine, I’ll give you the drugs but only if you don’t call my mum,’ I said, cringeing at how pathetic that sounded but totally prepared to grovel on that front. I did not need Mum and Dad knowing about this. Not when I’d just had such a close shave with Mum on the phone, and not while I still enjoyed going out most nights without having to pass a sniffer-dog test first. If Mum and Dad had any inkling I was doing drugs, they would make my life unbearable.

  I reached into my pocket and withdrew the plastic bag containing my precious white powder.

  ‘Well, come on then,’ Anne said. ‘Follow me. And bring that.’ She nodded sharply at the powder then strode off down the hallway. ‘I won’t have drugs in my house!’ she called over her shoulder with all the authority a mother naturally assumes, even if she wasn’t my mother.

  I trudged behind her down the hall into the kitchen, where Anne already stood at the sink. Katy trailed and again hovered, unsure, in the doorway. Anne turned on the kitchen tap with force. ‘Right, flush them.’

  There was no point in arguing now. ‘Fine,’ I said and opened the bag and tipped the powder down the drain while Katy and her mum stood witness. ‘Happy?’

  ‘Very,’ Anne said grimly. ‘But don’t make me have to do that ever again.’

  I can safely say that was the first and last time Katy’s mum made me wash narcotics down her kitchen sink. Just like it was the first and last time two of my friends staged (separate) interventions on the very same day. Apparently, neither Bec nor Katy knew what the other had finally summoned the guts to do. Nor, then, could they have known about each other’s timing. It was a case of ‘At last!’, rather than ‘But why now?’, when they learned what the other had done.

  It was for me, too, I guess. I’m not going to pretend that I had any sort of epiphany that day in Anne’s kitchen—there was no great bolt from the blue; no parting of clouds so that a piercing sunbeam could illuminate my (newly drug-free) face. There were no Disney blue birds twittering around my head and it certainly wasn’t the end of my drug-taking or my drinking. Not by a long shot. But it was a wake-up call of sorts. Both Bec’s call to my mum, and Katy’s appeal to her mum, had the effect of making me stop and think, at least momentarily, about what it was I was doing. If my habit wasn’t cool with my friends, then was it really cool with me? Their opinions hit home far more than the opinions of those at home (Mum and Dad, I’m looking at you).

  Then, there was the fact my friends cared so much about me. If you ever have a friend who’s going through a tough time, or who’s screwing up or acting out or generally just making a mess of things, don’t underestimate how much your concern means to them, even if they don’t show it at the time. I know; I’ve been there. That Bec and Katy cared about me enough to risk my wrath and je
opardise our friendships, well, it meant a huge amount to me. It still does. So much so, that I’ve remained friends with both of them. Until recently Katy had lived overseas and Bec is busy with her second baby, so we don’t see each other as often as we’d like, but we’re in touch as much as our lives allow and that’s due, in no small part, to the amazing friendship they showed me back then.

  After my interventions (and it feels so American to say that; like, I should have a therapist, and a dog-walker, and maybe a therapist for my dog-walker), I did ease up on the wild living a little. Don’t get me wrong, partying was still my raison d’être—the promise of each night was the only thing that got me up and out of bed each morning—but I cut back a bit on the drink and the drugs, both in quantity and frequency. What stuck with me most from that day was the feeling of self-consciousness I had about my lifestyle. You mean most people don’t swig vodka like it’s H2O? They don’t take uppers on any day ending in ‘y’? It’s easy to lose perspective when you’re stumbling around in a permanently drug-induced haze. And, like I said, I certainly didn’t change overnight after that day; not by a long shot. But slowly, slowly, I did start to pull back on the drugs front. It’s funny that, in the end, it was being confronted by my friends—the people I respected, the ones I partied with—that made me realise my behaviour wasn’t normal, nor desirable.

  We all have the chance to learn from our mistakes in life and my teenage years certainly offered plenty of scope for that. Mistake after mistake after fuck-up after mistake; it feels like the only thing that was consistent about my adolescence (aside from my family’s recurring cancer) was my ability to make the wrong choice. In hindsight, would I change things? Would I erase how I acted and what I put my parents through? In a heartbeat. But, unfortunately, I don’t have that luxury. I can’t hit ‘rewind’ followed by ‘delete’, and so I’m forced, probably for the rest of my life, to feel pained every time I think about the way I treated my family and my friends (and my body) when I was younger.