Nigel, MND and me. 5: The bucket list begins ...

Late February 2007 - Spain

We need warmth.  Sunshine.  We need to escape the gloom.  Not just the intrinsic gloom of the February weather but the saturating melancholy that drenches us.  We’re tired, drained.  Sick of thinking about it, sick of talking about it, we are worn out and weary of worrying.  We need to get away.  We need Spain.

We’ve never been to this part of Andalucía’s Costa del Sol before.  I’m not even sure where we are.  Some place just before you get to Estepona, I think.   We wander aimlessly through the narrow streets, along the seafront and around the harbour.   That’s been the pattern all week.  Just strolling, hand in hand, the sun on our faces, or our backs, heading for nowhere in particular.  We haven’t made the effort to play golf, nor have we bothered with any nightlife.  Instead, we have lovingly absorbed the soothing rays of the sun into our sad and sallow skin and revelled in its comforting, healing warmth. 

‘Let’s go down there,’ says Nigel, spotting a deserted little cove.

To reach it we need to climb over a short wall and then scramble across about twenty feet of rock armour.  The simple presence of the armour could possibly explain why the cove is deserted.   Clambering in flip-flops over such defences is not an easy feat, but for the first time in weeks, we feel alive.  Rising to the challenge Nigel grabs my hand and, laughing like kids in pursuit of an adventure, we boldly brave that bridge of boulders.   After much girlish squealing on my part and ‘come on, you can do it’ encouragement from Nigel, we emerge at the other side like conquering heroes.  We are giddy.  Carefree.  We’re playing out. 

The cove welcomes us, wrapping us protectively within its rocky arms.  The wet, smooth and untouched sand stretches before us like a sheet of shimmering glass.  The sea, iridescent and inviting, beckons, as would an old friend.  It seems as though this special place was just waiting for us to discover it.

The crystal clear waters cool and caress our flip-flopped feet as we paddle along the beach.  Nigel finds a stick and that irresistible urge to leave a mark in virgin sand drives him to slowly scratch his name into the wet surface.  He then scrapes my name alongside it and envelops both within the shape of a heart.

‘Love you,’ he whispers, smiling.

‘Love you too,’ I answer, reaching to embrace him.

And suddenly, quite without warning, safely hidden from the world by this secret bay, Nigel drops his guard.   

‘I always knew I’d never get old,’ he says.

I feel his shoulders start to shudder and what sounds like a gasp, an involuntary sob, escapes from somewhere deep inside him.   He presses his face into my neck and holds me close. 

And for a few short seconds, Nigel allows himself to grieve. 

For a long time we stand here.  Wrapped in each other’s arms.  We don’t speak.  There is no need for words.  Silent, but for the sound of the sea, soothing in its timelessness, we stand together and sweep away the sorrow and treasure this moment instead.   This magical moment, these few precious minutes, will give us the strength to endure what tomorrow will bring.

One day we will come back here.  But for now, all that matters is now.   

The future can wait. 

June 2007- Las Vegas

Nigel takes his place at the large oval poker table and nods politely at his fellow players.  Six men, four women, intent on only one thing – winning.     A seemingly friendly, if not exactly classy little gathering of various colour, shape, size and taste.  At least nobody is gracing the table in a bathrobe tonight.   Gone are the days when gents were expected to frequent casinos dressed in dinner jackets and when ladies were sure to be elegantly bedecked in exclusive gowns.   Shame.   At least the dealer is smartly clad in the black and gold house livery. 

He deftly spreads the new deck of cards in a perfect arc before placing them in the automatic shuffler.   The woman sitting next to Nigel, all baubles, brass and boobs, fiddles nervously with her towers of chips.  Perhaps she’s down to the last of the housekeeping.  Flanking Nigel’s other side is a skinny guy wearing a cowboy hat, striped shirt and dazzling checked shorts.   Not a good look.  He’s chewing gum so aggressively he looks like a snarling dog.  That would put me right off.    

Nigel, however, doesn’t seem the least bit perturbed.  He loves every minute of this.  With a spoonful of skill and a bucket load of luck he’ll be here all night.   

I watch him from my vantage point at the doorway of the lounge allocated exclusively for poker.   He chats easily with the others, seeming to be understood.  His slurred speech probably sounds, to the American ear, like a slightly tipsy Prince Charles.  He unconsciously twirls the shiny new golden hoop in his left lobe.  Still getting used to it.  He catches sight of me and that practised poker face adopted purely for gambling erupts into a broad grin and he waves.  I point at the ceiling signalling that I’m going up to the room, make the thumbs up gesture for luck, blow him a kiss and leave him to it.

As I stroll along the plush and velvety highways of the small town that is our hotel I decide to call for a nightcap at one of the dozen elaborate bars sprinkled like glittering jewels along the seams of this lavish canvas.   Only the remains of the book that didn’t melt in the forty-two degree heat by the pool await me in the room.   Might as well people watch for a little while.

Skirting the punters playing blackjack at the bar, I find a quiet corner and take a moment to admire the artificial talons enhancing my now gorgeous hands.   Do they warrant the hundred and forty dollars I’ve just forked out for them?  Of course they don’t.  I’ll have chewed ‘em off by Friday.   And as for the ninety dollar face cream sitting in my bag that swears to bring all further signs of ageing to a staggering stop with just one application – well, I reckon I’ve been mugged.

Still, that is their business, after all.   The town exists merely to relieve you of your money.  But, it is done so terribly well, and with such panache.

Vegas is everything I expected it to be: shameless in its hedonistic pursuits; delightfully decadent; supremely stylish and garrulously garish. 

Once you have been stunned by the sights along the Strip, floated by the fountains at the Bellagio, witnessed the sinking of the pirate ship at Treasure Island and taken in a show or two - unless gambling is your thing - there is merely more of the same.   Admittedly, the helicopter flight to the Grand Canyon and Hoover Dam is a trip not to be missed, but, after that, the fascination and the flamboyance begin to fade.

I set off to take a final peek at Nigel in the poker lounge but it’s impossible to reach it without being assaulted by the discordant din radiating from the gigantic lobby that is home to thousands of slot machines and aptly named one-armed bandits.   Unlike the hordes of witless worshippers, I have not been tempted to slot a single cent into any one of these grotesquely guzzling gods.  I flee from the chaotic cacophony as fast as I can, but even then, it takes a full ten minutes to reach the relative tranquillity of the area reserved for more discerning gamblers.

Ah … looking good Nige  …  an impressive collection of chips.    Increased his original stake by a considerable amount by the look of it.  He could well be here all night.  He will stay for as long as it takes to lose all his chips.   No doubt he will emerge at dawn, a little poorer in wealth, a little richer in joy.

It’s been a good week.  Earring sorted, Vegas sorted.  Two out of three ticked off the bucket list.

August 2007 – Venice

(Not on the list, but who doesn’t want to see Venice?)

Venice’s San Clemente Palace swelters in the searing heat of the August sun.  The hotel’s abiding elegance and boundless sophistication are scorched into its every brick.

 

Equally elegant and sophisticated guests stroll amid the lush gardens and centuries old courtyards, many adorned in white towelling robes as they head for the comparative cool of the pool, where beautifully bronzed and preposterously perfect bodies lounge beguilingly on beds or glide seamlessly through the glistening water.

Sprouts, I’m thinking.  Should we have sprouts?

‘You what?’ says Nigel.

‘Oh nothing, sorry.   Didn’t realised I’d spoken out loud.’ 

I’ve just texted the family and invited everybody for Christmas.  I’m planning the menu.  Here, in the height of summer, basking on the beautiful Isola di San Clemente, just a short water shuttle ride from the glories of Venice, I’m contemplating Christmas.   Never mind the legendary Rialto Bridge, the grandeur of the Grand Canal, the splendid Piazza San Marco, the gorgeous gondoliers … no, starters, mains, table décor and colour schemes seem much more important right now.  Oh, and of course, the mandatory dilemma of the sprouts. 

Hope they’re not already committed, I panic.   After all, this could be the last time we can all be together. 

I can’t yet shake that ‘could be the last time’ anxiety.   I’m not alone in this.   Even though we know it’s irrational, it won’t budge.   As the weeks pass it becomes clear that Nigel’s MND is the type that will progress slowly, rather than rapidly.  And yet none of us trust it.   We’re all guilty of scrambling to take photographs, desperate to capture moments with Nigel whilst we still can.   There’s an ill-disguised sense of urgency as we set up a perfect pose with the grandchildren; seize a chance to entrust a family grouping to eternity; take a snapshot with his siblings.

But, six months on, the family is starting to cope a little better.  We are becoming accustomed to carrying our grief around in our pockets and handbags, and leaving it hidden.   Ordinary conversation is returning.  Even laughter is trickling back into our lives.     

Death, however, continues to perform its role of the malevolent escort.  It insists on stowing away in the suitcase and hijacking our holidays.   Well, certainly my case.  It prefers my bag.  I’m beginning to wonder if I should give it a name.  Something appropriate to call it when it shows up uninvited.  I can think of many names – all unprintable.

Nigel ignores it.  Completely.   Since his lapse on that Estepona cove he has forbidden this looming reality to spoil a single one of the days he has left.  He has successfully banished it from his consciousness and will have nothing to do with it.  He behaves as close to ‘normally’ as it is possible to do.  He is as cheerful, gregarious, witty and full of life as ever.  And, amusingly, at the same time, as mindful of money as he as ever been.  No, ‘oh to hell with it - can’t take it with me,’ for him.  By all means, we are indulging ourselves unquestioningly in luxurious holidays and fabulous hotels when considered worthy of the price tag, but the fact that he is ill has not distracted him sufficiently to prevent him from being outraged at the price of the breakfast at this hotel or to be prepared to pay the extortionate fee for a leisurely glide along the canals in a gondola.  Nigel is still Nigel after all.

For my shame, I am trying, but failing, to do the same, although this pernicious presence is not so all pervading as it was just a few weeks ago.  On certain days, it lurks so deeply in the shadows I can almost forget it’s there at all.  On others, it nags at me.  Irritates.  Like a whinging child sitting behind you on a plane; like I imagine tinnitus must feel.  Then there are times when it leaps abruptly from its lair and punches me full in the face with such ferocity that I’m almost knocked off my feet.  This usually happens when performing ordinary, insignificant activities: as I turn a corner; reach for a can of beans; step out of the shower; brush my hair.  Like a savage beast it overpowers me and tears me apart.

And of course, things have changed.  It has changed things.   Everything is tainted, damaged.  On our sight seeing jaunts, when I enter an exquisitely ornate room, rather than marvel at its magnificence, I am immediately drawn to the crack in the ceiling.   Where once I could delight in the breath taking beauty of an object, a painting, a view – now, beauty is no longer without a blemish. 

For me, the world’s wonders have lost a little of their wonder.  And more than a little joy has been stolen from my soul.