Like me, you probably have a lucky number, one that follows you everywhere like a guardian angel.
Mine is eight. Throughout my professional rugby career I played number eight, and I met my fiancée Lois on January 8. So it came as no surprise to me that April 8, 2017, a Saturday, was the first scorching hot day of the year, something I’d been looking forward to after a long dreary winter.
Some family friends had invited me, my dad and stepmum over to their house for lunch and a swim in their pool and I was excited by the thought of cooling off and spending a good hour floating on a lilo.
Life had been pretty good recently and I felt that everything was slotting into place. I was then 28 and Lois and I were living in Cardiff where I had just signed another two-year contract with my rugby team, the Dragons, and we were preparing for our summer wedding in the Tuscan countryside the following year.
I kicked off my shoes and unbuttoned my shirt. Humming to myself, I imagined the swimming pool at the Italian villa where we would marry, filled with all of our friends.
Not realising that the ripples from a water feature made the pool look deeper than it was, I dived in. Immediately, a shockwave rolled through my body; I had hit my head on the tiles at the bottom. Everything went black.
Ed Jackson was 28 when he dove into a pool and hit his head on the tiles at the bottom, dislocating two vertebrae at the bottom of his neck and the disc between them exploding
There was a loud ringing in my ears as my vision returned. I glanced around; I was still at the bottom. After ten years in professional rugby, I’d had my fair share of knocks, but this . . . I’d never hit my head like this before.
I tried to stand and check if I had cut myself. Nothing responded. I tried again. Nothing. My arms and legs hung limply at my sides. The only thing I could do was move my head. I was completely immobile, face down at the bottom.
Confused, I told my body to push me up again but it no longer responded to my requests. My heart hammered in my chest as confusion gave way to panic.
With my mouth firmly clamped shut, my eyes darted left and right as I searched for something to help me. My chest became tighter. I needed air. I hadn’t taken a big enough breath before diving in. Even though I only had the use of my eyes, I wanted desperately to fight for my life. If no one had seen me dive in, then only I could save myself, I thought.
The seconds ticked by.
Try again. You’ve got to try again.
I strained to push myself up, but all that happened was a precious air bubble escaped from my mouth. I began to feel light-headed and I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to think. S***.
And then, it wasn’t just me. Strong hands gripped my arm, pulling me up, turning me. My face broke free of the water and I gasped for air, over and over again.
I opened my eyes to see my dad, a retired GP, standing beside me in the pool. With him was my friend Dafydd, who held up my torso while Dad supported my head with one hand and checked me over with the other.
Still dazed from the impact, I reassured myself that after a couple of minutes the feeling would come back. Then we could all laugh about the time I made a clumsy dive into the shallow end of a pool. A welcome feeling of calm washed over me as together they floated me over to the side where my head came to rest in the hands of Diane, a family friend.
As another friend called for an ambulance, my elation at having been rescued from the bottom began to ebb away.
Staring down at my lifeless body bobbing in the water, I realised that I wouldn’t be hauling myself out, wobbling over to a sun lounger and laughing about my lack of diving prowess. This wasn’t going to turn out that way.
Dad had decided that I shouldn’t be lifted out until an ambulance came so I tried to distract myself by letting my eyes roam over the endless, blue sky.
There was no pain; in fact, I couldn’t really feel anything at all, just Diane’s hands cradling my head and the water lapping against my shoulders.
The minutes dragged as we all retained our positions, frozen to the spot. As I listened to Diane’s reassuring voice, I began to feel sleepy in the warm sunlight. Maybe I could just nod off for a few minutes? I would wake up when the ambulance arrived . . .
‘How about your left hand?’ Dad’s voice cut through my thoughts, keeping me present. ‘Can you move that?’
I tried. I really tried to move my left hand.
‘Anything?’ I asked but he didn’t answer.
‘What about your right hand?’
He still hadn’t answered my question. Instead, he squeezed his eyes shut — just for a moment — but I had caught the flash of panic in them. This was more than a bump to the head.
What should have been a 15-minute journey to the hospital in Bath took two and a half hours. My heart stopped beating three times. Technically I died and each time the ambulance had to pull over for me to be resuscitated by the on-board doctor.
At the time of the accident, Ed felt 'everything was slotting into place'. He was living in Cardiff with his fiancée Lois and he had just signed another two-year contract with his rugby team, the Dragons
My life didn’t flash in front of me. I didn’t see a light or hear a guiding voice. Instead, I floated in and out of reality. I had been given a glimpse of how easy that final step can be. It’s just like going to sleep. You drift away, unaware that you might be closing your eyes for the final time.
At the hospital, voices circled around me, my dad’s among them. Everyone was talking about me, but no one was talking to me.
Lying there, my gaze fixed firmly upwards with two foam blocks on either side of my head allowing not even a millimetre of movement, I felt incredibly vulnerable. Finally, a flash of blonde hair came into view and Lois leant over me, trying to smile, her bright, brown eyes full of concern.
‘Don’t worry,’ I said. ‘I think the pool’s okay. I didn’t crack any of the tiles.’
She reached for my hand. I couldn’t feel her touch. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. ‘I’ll send the pool a “Get Well Soon” card. I’m sure it’s just bruised.’
Seeing her made everything more real and silent tears streamed down my face. This was the woman who had chosen to spend her life with me. Was she now tied to a very different man?
She didn’t deserve this. She was young, athletic, full of irresistible energy and plans for our future together. And I couldn’t even fulfil the simple act of taking her hand in mine.
A cold shiver passed through me as the heavy fog of shock wore off, leaving me with the stark reality of my situation.
An MRI scan revealed that I had dislocated two vertebrae at the bottom of my neck. The disc between them had exploded and splintered shards of bone had almost severed my spinal cord, reducing its width from 12mm to 4mm. I was literally clinging on by a thread.
I needed emergency surgery and so I was transferred to Southmead Hospital in Bristol, which had a multi-million-pound intensive care ward that was the newest in the country.
I’d had six previous operations for rugby injuries, so I was
