In Sickness & in Health: Even the worst-laid plans can be taken away from you

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

I’m dreaming of electric wheelchairs, sufficient social care, wet rooms and ramps

We didn’t have much of a life plan before Nick’s accident. The general idea was for him to get another plum job, I would write a book, we’d buy a bigger house in London and perhaps we’d spawn (“We’d better get on with it!” he said, the last time we talked about it before his brain injury). There would be more fancy dinners and holidays, more telescopes (for him), necklaces (for me) and perhaps a sausage dog.

Occasionally, I’d feel a zing of jealousy when speaking to friends who lived near their family (Gemma is only a couple of doors down from one sister, up the road from the other, and five minutes’ away from her parents, plus, she lives by the sea). That must be nice, I’d think, before remembering how much I loved London and how much Nick didn’t love where I grew up. Nick used to get wistful thinking about living nearer his brother, but a move to Cheshire was out of the question because of our work and his daughter.

If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. Ours were so sketchy that I doubt he was rolling in the aisles, but it was still a shock when our rather flaky future disappeared in a crunch of bonnet and a puff of exhaust fumes.

I certainly never thought that I would end up renting a bungalow in the next road along from my parents. Not that where they live isn’t nice – near a leafy valley, in the Garden of England, with a couple of nice pubs nearby. It’s just that there’s a distinct lack of pavements, something that even before piloting a wheelchair made me uneasy. It’s also where I glowered as a bored teenager and it doesn’t have the lights and iced coffees and black cabs of London. Although a Sainsbury’s Local has just opened on the main road, so that’s been making waves.

Me, with a conservatory? And a garage? Spending time in a suburban close? Getting used to people dropping by (something that is rarer than hen’s teeth in London)? Having a greenhouse? It’s very strange. But then I didn’t expect Nick to be knocked down, to be left with injuries that likely mean he’ll never work again, to become someone similar to, but very different from, the man I met 13 years ago.

Our plans right now are for me to find a flatmate in London, and for Nick to spend more time out of the care home. His job is to keep getting better, to stay positive and to work hard. My job is to get him the best care I can, fret over funding, keep my job, keep Nick happy, try to stay calm when he drives me mad and to keep on trucking round the M25 from the care home to work to the flat to the bungalow and back again.

As for the future, the big house and the bonza job are off the horizon. Ditto exotic holidays and sausage dogs. Instead, I’m dreaming of electric wheelchairs, sufficient social care, wet rooms and ramps. For Nick’s health to keep and for us to have our own bungalow. I hope God doesn’t find this lot funny - I feel like we could do with a bit of help, divine or otherwise, with our long-term plans.