In Sickness & in Health: The written reminders that can unleash the tears

In 2014, 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

The cards from him, written by a hand that can no longer hold a pen

Birthday cards with cats or tortoises on the front. Valentine’s cards with crocodiles, kittens or giraffes disporting themselves across the outside. Cards given for no other reason than to say “I love you”. Cards from Nick’s daughter, Mia, her writing improving as the years go on. The Get Well cards that were sent to Nick when he was in a coma – the ones he’s never seen because I don’t want to show him now. I can’t believe how many cards I have discovered during the weeks I’ve spent clearing out my flat with a view to renting out one of the bedrooms (our old bedroom, as a matter of fact. A subject for another day).

All those little rectangles squirelled away in shoeboxes and on bookshelves. All those messages from Nick to me, and from me to Nick. Many of them stopped me in my tracks when I came across them, my heart in my throat. They were like landmines waiting to tear me apart. Opening each one gingerly, to see my handwriting scrawled inside, referring to things we’d done and looking forward to things we had yet to enjoy. The cards from him, written by a hand that can no longer hold a pen. I came to dread finding more cards. How could I throw them away? How could I keep them?

And it’s not just the cards, those messages from a past life. It’s the faded Polaroid picture of Nick found in the fluff under the bed. The guidebooks to far-flung places to which we’ll never return. It’s the boots that Nick bought me years ago as a surprise, now dusty and beyond repair. Worse than my shoes are Nick’s. Waiting for him to come back, except that he won’t be able to wear them again, because his foot is so scrunched up and sore. I dreaded sorting the shoes more than anything. But I did it.

I did the cards, too. I worked out a system. The Get-Well-Soons from almost two years ago went in the recycling bin. I kept the ones congratulating us on renewing our wedding vows only if I really liked the picture on the front (cats, tortoises, birds). All of Mia’s cards are now safely stored in a special box of things I’ve kept from when she was little. I picked the birthday/Valentine’s cards that meant the most (and which made my eyes the moistest) and they have been stashed away where I can look at them if I wish, but where I won’t stumble upon them by mistake and unleash untold tears.

I dread to think how hard it must be to have to do this when a loved one has died. It doesn’t matter how many birthday messages or old photographs that you hoard, the thing you really want to be able to look at and keep for ever is gone. You can’t cuddle pieces of paper and a photograph won’t return your kiss. The friend who helped me in the early days of tidying lost her husband a decade ago. Her kindness was based on experience.

I tried to remind myself of how much worse it could be when I was going wobbly over bags to take to the charity shop and boxes of things to bin. Nick’s still alive, even if he’s not quite the same person who sent and received those cards. He might not need the boots and shoes he once wore, but he’ll need other pairs one day. It’s only stuff.