In Sickness & in Health: My relaxing family getaway went downhill fast

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

(EPA)

“Did you have a relaxing holiday?” Yes and no. I was lucky enough to spend a week away with my family earlier this month, but I always feel torn when I go away, because Nick hates it when I do. I explain to him that I need a break, and I’m going with my folks, so it’s not as though I’m heading to Ibiza with a gaggle of single girlfriends. He always replies that he needs a break, too, from the care home, but what he also means is he wants a holiday in his old life, where he could walk on beaches and snowboard down mountains.

This time, though, he was amazing, telling me I needed a rest, and instructing me not to worry about him, about money or about work. As it turned out, there was a fourth option for fretting that neither of us had foreseen: my dad.

On the first morning of our family ski trip (which I had considered cancelling because of worry number two), my dad and I were taking our usual laid-back approach to winter sports. We’d done a couple of easy runs and had a cup of coffee. To feel as though we’d earned our lunch, we made ourselves do another 10 minutes. On our final descent, my dad was in front, eyes on the restaurant at the bottom. I pootled behind him, distracted by the view, and the frankly astonishing choice of skiwear colours some of our fellow slope-botherers were sporting.

Then I noticed a crumpled orange blob on the snow. My father, face-down and mangled. He didn’t respond when I got closer. “Dad! Dad! DADDY!” He doesn’t do silent, my dad, so I freaked out while the ski police appeared in record time.

“I’m… OK…” he managed to get out, rolling painfully on to his back while they told him not to. The skier who had collided with him was some metres away, with a leg facing the wrong way. Both injured parties were bundled on to stretchers and were soon on their way to hospital. (I was torn as to whether to take a photo of my dad in the meat wagon: on the one hand, he looked like a big burrito; on the other, 20 minutes earlier I’d thought he might be dead. I refrained.)

The X-rays revealed showed that he had a shattered knee, a fractured leg and sternum and a broken thumb. What they didn’t show was my dad’s attitude to being seriously injured: brave and cheerful. He was soon bossing my stepmother around via texts, so we knew he’d be OK.

After five days in an Italian hospital, he was flown back to the UK, still bedridden, and much more aware of the challenges of immobility. “People kept saying ‘Poor you’, but I wasn’t in pain. Lying still and not being able to move was hard, but I knew it wasn’t for ever. I just kept thinking about Nick. He’s had two years of that,” my dad said.

“As for using a bedpan, it was the most horrible thing that’s ever happened in my life. Poor Nick.” So while I was worrying about my dad, he was worrying about Nick. Perhaps I’ll head to Ibiza next time, after all.