In sickness and in health: Talking to my husband is a kind of call and response

As with so many other things, the way that Nick and I communicate has changed completely since his brain injury. Every time I restart my laptop, a dialogue box pops up to show me the last instant message I received on the Mac system I haven’t touched for years: the word “hello” from Nick.

Despite the iPhone he keeps in a bag strapped to his bed rail, and the iPad that has to be kept charged at all times, the only technology that we use to converse when I’m not with him is the land line. We don’t text, we don’t email and we certainly don’t instant message. These are all beyond Nick at the moment – though, I hope, not for ever. So I call the nurses’ station every day at four o’clock and nine o’clock, then they take the phone to him. They knock on his door and wait for his answer, as per the printed instructions on his door. Sometimes I hear his bellow before they do.

It’s not just the method of communication that’s different – it’s what we talk about and how it’s said. Our conversations are a kind of call and response, a to and fro of questions and answers that get repeated almost every time we speak.

“I’m getting better, aren’t I?”
“Yes you are, my darling. I’m so proud of you.”

Because post-accident Nick tends towards the repetitive, I fall into doing the same thing:

“I can’t wait to see you.”
“I can’t wait to see you, either. Not long now.”
“Not long.”

Even for me, it can be hard to understand what Nick says. His comprehensibility varies from quite good to total mystery – tiredness can make things tricky, so some evenings I have to try and guess what he’s telling me. Our stock phrases help because we both know what we’re saying and the reason – love – that we’re saying it.

“I came back for you.”
“I know you did, poppet. And I was waiting for you.” (This regular exchange refers to Nick being in a coma for months. The conversation was much worse then, mind, thanks to me chuntering to myself.)
“I’m getting better, aren’t I?” 
“Yes you are, my darling. I know, and I’m so proud of you.”

There’s been a recent addition to our repertoire, with the news that the print edition of this paper’s sister title was closing. Having worked there for 13 years, I tried not to appear too concerned in front of Nick, but he realised that I needed his support.

“Don’t panic Mr Mainwaring! I’ve been made redundant before and I got another job.”
“That’s good to hear sausage, thank you.”

Nick told me not to panic, that he’d been made redundant before, and that he’d got another job about 200 times over the past four weeks. When I found out that I’d be staying on the i paper, he burst out “thank God! I’ve been so worried!”. Now when he tells me he’s getting better, and I give my standard reply, he adds something new: “And I’m so proud of you, too.”

Our conversations sometimes go round in circles, but they occasionally forge ahead, too.