I’ve always loved music, so as soon as I was old enough, I started going to concerts. In actuality, I had hurt my ankle at an Oasis event the night before my accident in 2005. My foot was swelled when my family and I arrived at the hotel at 10 p.m. while on a family vacation in Spain when I was 17.

I went to a nightclub with some folks my age that I started talking to. After that, someone asked if I wanted to go skinny dipping as we were sitting by a pool. I leaped up and undressed, but I was unable to see the size of the pool because it was dark. I dove into the shallow end, hitting my head and rupturing my spinal cord right away. It was like to a balloon losing air. My limbs became immobile, and my entire body turned white.

My new friends sprung into action to save me from drowning, but in the process they left me a C5 partial quadriplegic—that is, unable to move or feel anything below the chest. After spending nine months at the National Rehabilitation hospital close to my Dublin home, I told myself it was time to move on and accept that this was the new normal and nothing would change.

Having been a wheelchair user as an adult and a child alike, I have experienced life from two different perspectives. Accessibility for pubs and nightclubs is alarming, but I’m fortunate that my friends and family will carry me up and down stairs if necessary.

I love to sing along and engage with others, so I attend a lot of concerts in my wheelchair. I used to be in the choir, but these days I only play karaoke. I have a fantastic rendition of Coldplay’s “A Sky Full of Stars.” They’re among my favorite musical groups. My family received tickets to their July performance at Dublin’s Croke Park following the death of my aunt in 2017. Together, we thought it would be a wonderful way to remember her.

These two well-built guys toppled over me while attempting to catch one of the big, bouncy balls that Coldplay fired into the crowd towards the end of the event. They said they were sorry, got me up, and held me in my wheelchair above the crowd so I could see the stage better.

Chris Martin gave me a harp on stage. When he requested me to play it, he gazed at me while he sang.

They began to advance, and all of a sudden I was in the spotlight. Like the Red Sea, the multitude divided. I held my arm up high. I couldn’t have done it eighteen months ago; a tendon transfer helped me regain some of the arm muscle that I had lost. In Ireland, I was the first person to undergo the procedure. I started working out and eventually became a personal trainer. I work with clients that have comparable injuries to mine. My goal is to demonstrate that individuals using wheelchairs are just as capable as those without them.

We were in the midst of the crowd, by the smaller stage, after a few minutes. The security officers yelled at me to get down. Chris Martin, on the other hand, told me to get up. What a perfect gentleman, he helped lift me over the barrier.

On stage, Chris inquired about my name, occupation, and place of origin. Then he handed me a harmonica and placed a mic in front of me. He said he’d glance down when he wanted me to blow on it, but I don’t play. He spontaneously composed a song, something along the lines of “We’re in Dublin with Rob, he’s a PT.” It was brief but lovely.