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Real life story: My husband has taken our baby!

October 13, 2015 by Laura Elvin

My husband has taken our baby! Read the latest domestic violence story that we helped the victim share with the national magazines. You can help those in a similar situation too; use our valuation form to get your story value today.

Read the latest domestic abuse story we’ve helped share this week…

Sitting at home, sipping a cold glass of wine in my pyjamas, I snuggled up on the sofa with my two friends. “This is perfect,” I said to Tom Prichard, 23, and Gary Seinfeld, 25, friends I’d known for over five years. We were enjoying a chilled night in with a glass of wine and a take away. My 11-month-old, Isla was fast asleep upstairs, and my husband Wayne Pollard, 29, was enjoying a night out up the local with his mates.

Wayne and I had been together for five years and married for three. But even though he was the love of my life, his behaviour was sometimes very unpredictable. He was mentally and verbally abusive towards me on a daily basis.

He was very aggressive and would destroy everything around him if we had an argument, he would punch holes in the doors, smash glasses and break any ornament in sight. He would drink too much, treat me horrible, and then say his ‘I’m sorry’s’ afterwards. It had almost become a routine part of our relationship.

So much so, that we often spent nights in other people’s company. As the night drew to a close, and my eyes did too, I ushered the lads on their way. “Right then guys, time for you to go, I’m absolutely knackered.” I said yawning. I knew Wayne would be home soon and it would be nice for him to come back to an empty house… the last thing I wanted was another argument.

“See you later, Sandie. Cheers for a good night,” Gary said. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and put on his coat to leave. “Take care, boys,” I replied. As we approached the front door, I could see a shadow stumbling up the drive way through the glass door. “Great, Wayne’s drunk,” I thought to myself.

I bit my lip in anticipation as to what ‘type of drunk’ he’d be. Gary and Tom were slightly on edge too as they saw the same stumbling figure coming towards them. I kept my cool on the outside, but inside I was a shaking like a leaf – my heart pounding in my ears.

Wayne was fiddling around trying to fit his key into the small lock. “What is he like?” I said trying to make a joke to Gary and Tom, laughing awkwardly. I turned the door knob and Wayne pushed it open with a loud bang. It smacked against the wall, knocking plaster and wallpaper to the floor.

Wayne stumbled in, stinking of alcohol. “Wayne, Isla’s asleep,” I said, taking a step back, trying to shush him. “You all right, Wayne?” Tom asked, nervously, patting him on the back. The boys knew what he could get like. “What the f**K do you think you two are doing here?!” Wayne said aggressively, slurring his words.

The three of us were taken aback, his mood seemed menacing and his actions aggressive. He had meet Tom and Gary before. In fact, Gary was good friends with Wayne long before I’d ever met him. “You always have one too many, Wayne,” I said feeling really embarrassed.

“Right we are, we best be off,” Tom said, trying to leave. “You’re not going anywhere, pal. You boys, around my house, with my wife,” Wayne snarled. He turned to me: “You’re a little slut, you know that? I know exactly what you’ve been doing!” My heart pounded.

What was he going to do next? I thought. I took a step back in case he tumbled on top of me. I tried to control the situation – I knew I had to choose my words carefully, to lighten the mood. He usually came in drunk and raided the fridge for something to eat.

“Wayne, stop being so silly. There’s some food left over if you fancy?” But nothing was going to calm him down. He stormed into the living room and in a fit of rage punched the television, threw it to the floor and smashed it. “Wayne, stop!” I screamed.

Then he went for me. I tried to run but he grabbed my hair and flung me across the living room nearly pulling me down to the ground. He dragged me into the kitchen kicking and screaming. He finally let go, but as I stood up, he landed an almighty blow to my face, punching me to the floor and knocking me out cold.

I came to minutes later in a pool of my own blood. My face was dripping red and my nose felt broken. I could just about make out Gary and Tom trying to restrain Wayne. All I could think of was little Isla. I couldn’t hear her crying upstairs, “no way could she sleep through this,” I thought to myself.

I tried to stand up, but Wayne, who’d managed to break free from Gary and Tom’s grip, pushed me down to the floor once more. He just kept going for me – I was so helpless. I remembered my phone in my dressing gown pocket. I fumbled for it and managed to ring the police. I dialled 999, slowly, careful not to misdial any numbers in my dazed state.

“What’s your emergency?” The operator said. But before I could reply Wayne grabbed the phone off me. Just before he smashed it into tiny pieces, I screamed my address: “17 Margate house…” Bang! My phone was destroyed in pieces on the floor. All I could do was hope and pray they heard me. I knew what he was capable of and I didn’t want to be left alone with him for much longer.

Tom and Gary helped me to my feet as I heard Wayne’s footsteps trample up the stairs. “Are you okay, Sandie? Oh god, there’s blood everywhere,” Tom said passing me a towel to stop the blood. Wayne came crashing down the stairs with a bundle of blankets. He had Isla in his arms, banging into the walls and against the bannister.

“You leave her alone,” I screamed at Wayne. She had no fresh nappies, no overnight bag or any food. I tried to stop him, we all did, but he was too strong. He kicked and punched our family car, denting it, before managing to escape in a car his sister was driving. How he’d managed to call her, I don’t know.

I was terrified I’d never see her again, my heart was broken. It felt like an episode of East Enders. I was waiting for the phone call from police saying they’ve found Isla, dead. In the background I heard faint police sirens getting louder as they drew closer.

“They had heard my screams,” I thought to myself slumped on the ground. The police arrived and I told them what had happened. Tom and Gary had to give witness statements. They had wanted to call police during the incident, but they were too busy holding Wayne back to make the call.

I told them about Isla and within half an hour of another patrol car being sent around, an officer had arrived at my house, holding my baby Isla, who was still sound asleep. “My baby!” I took her from the officer’s outstretched hands, kissed her on her forehead and held her tight to my chest.

“God, I’m so sorry guys,” I sobbed to Gary and Tom. “Are you crazy, Sandie? You did absolutely nothing wrong.” The police informed me that they had arrested Wayne. He was hiding out at his sister’s house. I told Gary and Tom to go home and rest. I felt so embarrassed about what had happened.

Wayne pleaded guilty to assault, damage, and to the theft of my phone and was sentenced to 10 weeks in prison at Blackpool Magistrates Court. He had to pay me £100 compensation, plus £580 for the damage with a £80 victims’ surcharge ordered by District Judge David Stott. The judge said to him: “This was a dreadful offence. You got yourself drunk, became insanely jealous, knocked your wife down, took your daughter and rampaged about.”

The courts offered me a restraining order again my husband, but I declined. Even though he’s a monster of a husband, I still want him in Isla’s life. Every girl deserves to have a father. I have filed for divorce after three years of marriage and five years of our relationship.

I had no idea I was a victim of domestic abuse. I wrote a letter to the court, pleading with them not to send Wayne to jail, I was terrified as to what may follow on his release, but since then I have retracted my letter.

I was also offered a women’s refuge for a few weeks until I felt safe enough to be on my own, but I refused. I grabbed my baby Isla and took her off to bed with me. I’m just glad the monster is behind bars and I can now move on with my life, with my little girl, safe in my arms.

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Lost My Leg Thanks To Manky Manicure

June 20, 2014 by Laura Elvin

My Manky Manicure Cost Me My Leg! Be warned – find out what can happen from an innocuous manicure mistake. I lost my leg!

My monthly visit to the beauty salon was a treat I always looked forward to. I’d been having manicures done for over twenty years and I never tired of looking down and seeing my hands decorated in fabulous shades of fuchsia, peach and my favourite, pillar box red.

One afternoon in October 2012, after being pampered at my local salon, I spotted a poster on the wall advertising a new kind of manicure. The Shellac treatment promised long-lasting, no chip varnish. “Well, that sounds ideal!” I said to the lady behind the desk. It’s the hot new trend in nail care.” She told me. “And even better – it’s on special offer at the moment. Once you have Shellac – you never go back!” She chuckled.

I glanced at the shiny, hot pink nails on the poster – they certainly got my attention. A month later I arrived at the salon with a spring in my step for my first Shellac treatment. With this treatment thin coats of polish are applied to your natural nails – with a brief time for curing under a UV lamp between each layer. I sat in the chair and waited eagerly as the warm, bright lights beamed down on my fingers. I couldn’t wait to see what they’d look like, and I wasn’t disappointed.

When I pulled my hands out of the UV glare my nails looked glossy, glamorous and best of all they’d be chip-free for weeks. A few weeks before Christmas I found myself back in the salon for my next Shellac treatment. This time I opted for a deep shade of crimson – perfect for the festive season.

I’d been having my nails done for so long now that the appointments always went by so fast I was barely conscious of what was happening. But this was one trip to the salon I would never forget. About three weeks after my manicure I noticed a lump about the size of a ball point pen tip under my nail. Over the next few days I kept my eye on it and watched it turn from pale pink to a deep shade of purple. The puffy bruise became increasingly sore and when the constant jabbing pains started reducing me to tears I knew it was time to see my GP.

He told me it appeared to be a nasty blood blister that had become infected. He asked what I’d been doing lately that could have caused such a cut. I racked my brains but struggled to come up with any explanation. I usually got a few scrapes from gardening but it was the middle of winter and I hadn’t tended to my flowers for a while now. Tapping my fingers together on the desk I tried to think just what it could be – when suddenly it hit me. “I did have my nails manicured last week” I blurted out. My GP looked at me knowingly. He said that was a very likely cause of my blister and he’d even seen a few cases just like it in the past.

Glad to have gotten to the root of the problem I thanked the doctor and walked away with a prescription for some morphine tablets to ease the throbbing. However, it wasn’t long before I found myself back in the waiting room as the pain refused to subside. This time I came away with liquid morphine which I was told to take alongside the pills from my earlier appointment. The combination of the powerful medication made me extremely drowsy and I felt a long way from my usual chipper self.
Continually reminding myself, “It’s just for one month. I’ll be better soon,” was the only thought that kept me strong. However, all of my hopes of a speedy recovery started to diminish when my finger tip started to turn black and I could see that the discolouring was spreading down my finger, towards my hand.
This was getting serious. “Third time lucky,” I thought to myself as I put on my winter coat and headed back to the GP. I whipped my gloves off to reveal my blackened finger and waited for his response. His face turned solemn as he broke the bad news to me.

My finger was infected so badly that there was nothing else for it – the tip would have to be surgically removed. “If we don’t act now Linda you could lose the whole finger,” my GP warned. There was no point arguing – within two weeks I was booked in to have the op. When I was in hospital undergoing the preparations for theatre a nurse went through all the routine questions with me. ‘Have you been ill in the last two weeks, Linda?” she asked from behind her clipboard. I confessed that I’d had an upset tummy in the last week or so that I’d only just started recovering from. The next thing I knew I was meeting with the surgeon – but on the ward not in theatre.

He said that regrettably, due to my illness, my op would have to be postponed. I would have to live with the infection growing in my finger for a little while longer. While I was waiting for news of my next operation I was struck by another disaster. It seemed that bad things really do come in threes. I was taking some washing out of the tumble dryer and slipped on the kitchen tiles – I landed on my left leg with a clatter and I couldn’t get back up from the cold floor.

I called for an ambulance but when the paramedics arrived and told me that nothing was broken I decided to stay at home and recover. But within days I started to deteriorate rapidly. I had an upset tummy, headaches and the familiar agonising throb in my finger was back with a vengeance. My GP sent me to hospital where I was kept on a ward to be monitored for a few days. It seemed there was no end to my bad luck.

Whilst sitting on my hospital bed I felt the most peculiar sensation on my leg. “It feels like water is dripping down my skin,” I told the nurses. It’s like someone has turned a tap on under there,” I said pointing to my bandages. A team of nurses slowly opened up the dressing to reveal that the skin on my leg had started to crack. I’ve always had dry skin but this was something else. I watched as the cracks began to spread and deepen. It felt like I was watching it happen to someone else, I had never seen anything like it.

My skin was just falling apart before my eyes. It was like was viewing a scene from a gory horror film in slow motion but with no pause button to stop it.
After that initial shock the events that followed passed by in a whirlwind I remember being wheeled off to theatre and crying out to the nurses: “Please don’t let them cut off my leg.”
I woke up hours later in an isolation ward. It was too risky for me to be near anyone else, I was too prone to infection. When I had come round the consultants told me that I’d developed a rare form of septecima which had seeped into my bloodstream and poisoned my whole leg. They were convinced that the infection originated from the the blister on my finger caused by the manicure.

There was no other explanation for it – my hands had been left under the UV light for too long. In the end it took a staggering four operations to clear away the infected skin and a further trip to surgery for a skin graft. I was left with just a stump of flesh for a leg – but I knew I was very lucky to have it all. After 12 weeks in hospital I was finally ready to go home – but I had completely lost my independence.
I needed help with everything – I had to be hoisted into bed and had all my furniture moved to downstairs. The strangest thing was having to learn to walk again – I felt like I’d been the victim of a car accident rather than a dodgy manicure. For someone who used to be so bothered about looking my best I’ve been forced to not be so vain. The flesh on my leg won’t ever grow back, so I’m adjusting to life with my new appearance. Whenever I go out I always make sure my legs are always covered with a blanket, it’s not nice for people to see. I’m getting used to it though and I am keeping positive – I refer to my new look leg as my shark bite.
The doctors have said that my looking on the bright side has been the key to my recovery.
I still haven’t been back for a manicure since – I’ll be painting my own nails from now on with a good old fashioned pot and brush.

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Freak Accident in a Swimming Pool

June 16, 2014 by Laura Elvin

Freak Accident: I Went For A Swim And The Roof caved In!

Read Jackie’s story about her freak swimming pool accident. If something unbelievable has happened to you, and you’d like to sell a story to the media, get in touch today. All you need to do is complete the form on the right hand side of this page to get your free story valuation. Nothing will be used without your consent.

Dipping my toe into the pool, I couldn’t help but shudder.

‘I don’t know why I’m surprised, it’s always freezing,’ I groaned, plucking up the courage to get in.

Slowly I lowered myself into the water and pushed off the side.

My aqua-aerobics class wasn’t starting until 10am, but on a Sunday morning I always tried to come down to the gym a little bit earlier to do a few lengths first.

Being in the water was great for my rheumatoid arthritis and I vowed to swim twice a week to ease my joints.

After gorging on a mountain of Italian food during meal out with my daughter, Claire, 26, the night before, I knew shouldn’t break my routine for the sake of my figure too.

‘I’ll be back in an hour or so,’ I told her, as I nipped out the door and jumped in the car.

She had stayed over for the night at my house in Erdington, Birmingham, half an hour away from where she lived in Dudley, West Midlands.

I felt guilty leaving after she made the effort to come and visit, but I had only been for a dip the once – on an evening earlier in the week – and I knew I would ache if I didn’t pop down for a session.

‘Oh hi, Jackie,’ my friend, Camilla, 36, chirped, as she joined me in the pool, ten minutes later.

‘You’re keen, aren’t you?’ she laughed, glancing at the clock.

I had been a member at the gym for seven years already and she had recently started back.

We always had a giggle, splashing about and trying to keep up with our instructor.

Just as the group leader appeared in the room, with bundles of equipment in her arms, I heard an awful racket.

I had been happily bobbing up and down, when a noise like a shotgun firing filled my ears.

‘Who is firing at me? Where’s the weapon?’ I thought to myself, panicking and scanning the room for sign of a gunman.

There had been a stabbing in the steam room only a few months earlier after an argument had got out of hand and now I worried something else was kicking off.

A woman at the side started screaming at us: ‘Get out! Get out!’

I tried to wade over to the steps, unable to pull myself up over the side because of my bad back.

But before I got the chance to move more than a metre, I was forced under the water.

Everything went pitch black and I struggled to register what was happening.

I tried to push myself upwards but it was no good, whatever had come crashing down on top of me was weighing me down – there was no way I could lift it.

‘This is it. I’m going to die.’ I thought. ‘I’m a goner.’

Holding my breath, I desperately searched for any sign of light.

I had no choice but to swim underwater towards the other end in the hope that it was clear and that I could resurface.

I had never thought of myself as a strong swimmer, but I had no choice but to kick and push with all my might.

When I managed to get there I emerged, gasping for air.

‘Take my hand,’ a bloke shouted, reaching out to help me, before pulling me out.

I collapsed at the side of the pool, hyperventilating.

I soon learned that the ceiling had caved in and fallen on top of me.

The roof had cracked and snapped before plasterboard plummeted down.

I was one of 14 people in the pool when the alarm was raised.

‘Where’s Camilla?’ I panted, still trying to catch my breath.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted her. She had managed to get out, but had scraped her shoulder as the roof came crumbling in.

‘Are you ok?’ she cried, dashing over to come to my aid.

I looked at the pool. A mess of rubble was sinking into it.

Plasterboard – each sheet weighing around 25 kilos – had come crashing down along with a tangle of electric wires and lights.

It’s lucky no one was electrocuted. The outcome could have been far worse.

There were 14 people – including me – in the pool at the time and four of us were injured.

Climbing on to my feet, I headed towards the changing room.

‘Jackie, what are you doing? You need to sit down,’ the receptionist, Lucy, 20, instructed, having come in to see what all the fuss was about.

‘I want to get changed,’ I whispered. ‘All my things are in there.’

‘But your head is bleeding,’ she said, looking concerned. ‘Come and take a seat for a minute.’

True to my job role, the nurse in me grabbed a towel and held it to the wound on top of my head to try and stem the bleeding.

Within minutes the emergency services had arrived.

An ambulance, rapid-response vehicle, paramedic and hazardous area response team were despatched to the scene.

Luckily none of the four of us who were treated suffered serious injuries.

But just as the paramedics were giving me the once over and checking my blood pressure, the lights flickered out.

‘We should get out of here,’ Lucy said. ‘The building might not be safe.’

We evacuated the premises and Camilla called my children and Claire rushed over with my son, Phillip, and his girlfriend, Sophie, both 24.

As a nurse I was used to looking after people, but now I was having them care for me.

Claire insisted on driving me down to hospital after I complained of feeling faint and I needed to have my scalp stitched up.

I had a fortnight off to recover, but am now back to my normal self.

CCTV footage is currently being scrutinised in a bid to discover what caused the roof to cave in.

Whatever it was, I think I had a lucky escape. It could have been much worse.

Following a healthy and safety inspection the popular gym has reopened, but there is no way that I will be going back there any time soon.

I’ve looked into a new venue. It has a swimming pool with a skylight roof, so you can see out of it. Although I’m still not sure I’ll be getting back into the water any time soon.

Now I’ve got a good excuse not to go to the gym.

If you’ve had a freak accident, injury, or if something unbelievable or crazy has happened to you, we’d like to hear from you. Bad luck can be turned into good luck when you make money from sharing your story with the press. National magazine and newspaper editors are always interested in unique, eye catching, and eye watering stories, so why not capitalise on yours?

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Impaled Face on Umbrella

May 31, 2013 by Laura Elvin

REVELER JESSICA WAS BROLLY UNLUCKY WHEN SHE FELL OFF A HOTEL BED – AND IMPALED HER FACE ON HER UMBRELLA.

THE TIP OF ONE OF THE METAL SPOKES RAMMED INTO HER NOSE AND PIERCED DOWN THROUGH HER GUM AND INTO HER MOUTH.

Impaled face on umbrella. Brolly goes up girl’s nose

As I checked into my hotel with my best friend Laura Sullivan , 22, I was so excited.

It had been months since me and Laura had a good old night on the tiles. So I’d come to visit her in Watford and we treated ourselves to an overnight stay so that we could really make the most of it.

‘I really need a good drink and a dance’, Laura said as we were handed our room keys.

It had been pouring down all day, so the first thing I did when we got to the room was take of my soaking coat.

Casually, I collapsed my dripping umbrella, chucked it on the floor and thought no more about it.

Laura and I chatted excitedly as we picked out our outfits and laid out our make up.

We’ve been best buds for years and whenever we hit the town it’s guaranteed to be a wild one.

A couple of hours later we were dressed to the nines and sipping our first cocktails in a nearby bar.

Before long, the wine was flowing and the music was pumping.

‘I love you so much’, I slurred to Laura as I ordered us another round.

We couldn’t wipe the smiles off our faces as we danced the night away and forgot about all of our troubles.

Before we knew it, it was half two in the morning and we were stumbling out of a nightclub arm-in-arm and giggling like schoolgirls.

It was still pouring with rain so rather than head for the kebab shop as usual, we hailed a taxi and headed back to the hotel.

By this point, we were both a little worse for wear.

‘Good night, babe’, I mumbled to Laura who had already fallen into one of the hotel room’s two beds.

She groaned something back and I decided to head for the hay myself.

With my eyes already half closed, I kicked off my heels and collapsed on to the other bed.

But instead of cosying up with the duvet, I slipped straight off on to the floor.

Suddenly, I felt something sharp in my face.

When I looked at my hands, they were covered in blood.

‘Laura, I’m bleeding!’, I cried.

She leapt out of bed and ran round to where I was lying on the floor.

‘Move the brolly out the way then, so I can have a look’, she said calmly.

But we couldn’t move it. It was stuck.

It was then that Laura turned the light on and saw the horror that had happened.

‘Oh my god! There’s a brolly coming out of your face!’, she screamed.

I’d fallen straight off the bed and face-planted the brolly I’d thrown on the floor hours earlier.

The spike of the umbrella had gone straight through my top lip and through my gum. It was practically up my nose and was nearly touching my eye.

‘I’m calling an ambulance!’ Laura cried as she dialled 999.

I started to panic. I was still drunk enough that I wasn’t in that much pain, but I was sobering up fast.

Within minutes the ambulance crew had arrived.

With the brolly still hanging out of my face, I was taken straight to Watford General Hospital for emergency treatment.

As Laura and I sat in the waiting room, the booze started to wear off and an agonising pain began to sweep over me.

‘Can I get you anything, babe?’ Laura kept asking.

‘I just want my mummy’, I cried. Laura agreed to ring her and explain what had happened.

When the doctors saw me, they couldn’t believe their eyes.

‘We can cut the main part of the umbrella off, but you’ll have to be transferred to Harrow for special face surgery. You might need a nose job’, one of them said.

I was more scared than ever, but I had no choice but to go along with it.

With the spike still sticking out of the middle of my face, I was taken into surgery where it took specialists an hour and a half to remove it and stitch me up.

When I finally came round, I felt worse than ever.

‘This is the hangover from hell’, I mumbled to Laura, who had stayed by my side through the whole thing.

Once the spike was out my face started to swell, and that’s what caused the most pain.

I felt so terrible that the doctors were worried and I was kept in overnight.

I took a week off work and went to stay with my parents to recover.

Once the painkillers kicked in, I was able to see the funny side.

I’ve got a bit of a reputation for being really clumsy and I’m always falling over.

‘It could only happen to you, couldn’t it?’ was the first thing my mum *** said when she saw me.

I went back to the hospital a few weeks later and the surgeon warned me to be more careful in future.

‘You were really lucky. If the spike had entered an inch or so higher it could have blinded you or even killed you or left you needing serious plastic surgery’, he said.

I suddenly realised what a lucky escape I had.

A few days later, I was back out on the town with Laura in Watford.

We booked a different hotel though – I feel like the other one was cursed!

We still had an amazing night, but I made sure there were no sharp objects around me bed before I went to sleep!

I’ll always be a party girl, but I won’t be throwing any umbrellas around any time soon.

Laura says: ‘After getting into bed, I heard a bang and though that, as usual, Jess had just fallen over.

‘When she said she was bleeding I got a bit worried and went to help her.

‘I couldn’t believe it when I saw the brolly sticking out of her face. It was terrifying.

‘At the hospital I asked the nurse if she would be OK. The nurse said she wasn’t sure, and that was when I started to really panic.

‘Waiting for her to come out of surgery was really nerve-wracking.

‘But after realising she would be OK, we managed to see the funny side of it.

‘I was worried it would put her off coming out again, but it hasn’t fazed her at all.

‘I’m really glad to have my party buddy back.’

ENDS

Navigation

Lost My Leg Thanks To Manky Manicure

My Manky Manicure Cost Me My Leg! Be warned – find out what can happen from an innocuous manicure mistake. I lost my leg!

Freak Accident in a Swimming Pool

Freak Accident: I Went For A Swim And The Roof caved In!

Impaled Face on Umbrella

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