In Sickness and in Health: A year to remember – even if it’s only me who can

Last year, Rebecca’s husband Nick was hit by a car and seriously injured. Here, in one of a series of columns, she writes about the aftermath of his accident

It’s been a year since Nick moved into residential care, which means it’s also been a year since he left hospital. I don’t miss his time in hospital. However much I moan to myself – and Nick moans to me – about the lack of privacy where he is now, it’s five-star stuff compared to life on a ward where rooms are shared. Nick has no recollection of his time in St Mary’s, the Royal Free and Northwick Park, and the first few months of his care-home existence are a mystery to him, too.

He doesn’t remember arriving at a place decked with Hallowe’en finery and he was too poorly to venture out of his room on day two to take part in the festivities the home laid on. It was quite an introduction to his – my – new neighbours, seeing them tucked up in blankets in their wheelchairs brandishing brooms or wearing witches’ hats. I hung around the edges, not knowing anyone, swiping a bit of green cake to take up to my own little monster.

He was a right horror back then. On the day of that party last year he had been so frightened and confused that he started to get aggressive with the staff looking after him. I tried to calm him down and got bitten for my efforts. Strangely, I look back on this fondly, not least because once I’d escaped from his jaws, I flounced off to big Asda up the road and bought a calming cardigan of which I’m still extremely fond. It was also the first, and last, time that Nick ever hurt me. In a rage some weeks later he made as if to whack me, realised what he was doing and burst into tears, horrified that he nearly lashed out. I was so proud that the old Nick, the one who was gentle to a fault, was coming back.

Since then, more of the Nick I married has come back. The shared jokes, some of the memories, some of the fun we used to have. One thing has stayed the same, though, which is his horror of organised fun. He was too bamboozled to drag to the home’s Christmas party and now he’s more with it, the carers are trying to tempt him to take part in Easter events, summer barbecues and day trips have been given short shrift. I threatened him with his idea of hell the other day – a group of residents were taking part in a church service in the conservatory, singing away. A staff member asked him if he’d like to join in. “If you swear at her, I’ll park you in there!” I hissed. He managed to squeeze out a “no thanks” without adding any four-letter words.

Still, we very nearly made it to this year’s Hallowe’en party. I suggested attending and wearing the very best costumes we could muster. Which led us to googling “wheelchair costumes” (seriously, there are some phenomenal imaginations out there) and almost saw me attempting to turn Nick into a Dalek. He’s certainly got the voice for it. I even started collecting cardboard and wondering how to spray-paint him silver. The fates had other ideas, and I had to come into the office. I think we might have been being a bit ambitious, to be honest. We managed to enjoy some seasonal fun, though, by watching fireworks from his window. Last year, he thought he was in a war zone. This year, we oohed and aahed. I wonder what next year will bring.