Dear Nick: a personal letter to my wonderful husband

In Sickness and In Health: This week, instead of writing about you, I’d write to you

Portrait of woman writing letter at desk (Getty images)

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.

Dear Nick,

Hello my lovely. Now that you have the i paper delivered every day, I thought that this week, instead of writing about you, I’d write to you. I’ve been putting together an A-Z of new words and terms that I’ve learnt since the accident, but that can wait for another column so that I can talk to you now.

Firstly, I want to say thank you so much for letting me have a week’s holiday with my folks earlier this month. I know how lonely you get when I’m not there, and how cross you get when people don’t understand you and don’t know how to scratch your arm in the way that you like. But boy did I need that time off from trying to be sensible. I missed you loads when I was away, and kept thinking that I spotted you among the snowboarders I saw on the slopes. I would have loved you to be there to drink hot wine and cold beer, to enjoy the crystal-flecked mountains and the hilariously blue sky.

I’m sorry that I was down in the dumps when I got back. It was amazing to see you, but coming back to care-home life was hard. It made me realise that when you moan about certain things like the lack of privacy, and people not always listening, you’re right – I shouldn’t always try to jolly you along. Still, it definitely has its moments, and the fact that I can stay the night with you is something that delights me, especially now that I’ve pimped my camp bed with mattresses galore. I feel sorry for the night staff who have to sit outside your door and listen to the pair of us snoring, though.

We had a laugh last week, didn’t we? The fact that, provided we book a black cab with a ramp, we can go out exploring, is revolutionary. You got to see the places where I’ve spent time during the past four months with your own eyes, and we had a couple of slap-up lunches that were just like old times. I’m sorry that I’m not always the smoothest of wheelchair pilots, and that the little town nearby is possessed of rather irregular pavements – that’s my excuse, anyway. You bear the burden of your physical injuries with such grace (apart from the odd bit of shouting) it’s amazing. I’m so very proud of you, and I know how hard you’re working to get better.

You’re doing your best and so am I. There are always going to be times when one of us is in a bad place and needs the other to help them out of it. I wish that I could be with you more of the time, but I have to look after us by earning money and keeping our life outside the care home going. I wish that there were 10 days in every week so that I could get more done. I wish we could win the lottery. I wish you’d never been run over. But wishing does bugger- all good. Still, I wished you’d come back from your coma and you did. I wished that you’d remember me and you do.

I love you, Nick.

With my very best wishes and lots of love,

Rebecca