I love holidays but hate going on holiday. Every aspect of planning makes me tense and the hell-in-a-bucket of airports, insurance, hire cars etc causes huge angst even with another adult to carry the weight. Millie, Matt and I are heading to Italy to the villa Helen borrowed from a kind colleague, numbers boosted back to four by honorary uncle Kenny. Despite this, I expect it to be hard going, emotionally and practically, simply because he’s not Helen with her smiling tour de force of planning and general jollying along of our trips.
Italy may also pale by comparison with the last two years’ fabulous family holidays. A road trip through Romania staying most notably in Viscri and then a full monty Florida trip – theme parks, alligator dodging, dolphin worrying and Anna Maria Island beach bathing.
The Romanian adventure was right up Helen’s street, fuelled by the fact that my brother Richard lives there and his wife, Ioana, worked so hard to make it special in our post-diagnosis world.
Florida was less obvious, Helen concluding, “Wild horses wouldn’t usually drag me there, Adam, but I want to give Millie and Matt a holiday to remember.” In denial, I didn’t see so clearly that mentally she had inserted the word “me” after “remember”, tragically aware this might be her last big trip.
It was a very special two weeks in every way even if Disney’s best was overshadowed for Millie and Matt by the excitement of my being caught speeding by slow-talking, gun-packing but smiley and forgiving “Trooper Dan”.
Our final short break together was my birthday weekend, which Helen kept secret for months. She maintained the subterfuge even into the Friday night journey: “You’ll need to drive without looking at road signs, Adam, or you’ll spoil the surprise. I’ll navigate.”
This is harder to do than you might think, and not recommended. After a somewhat adventurous trip, we arrived on a stormy waterfront facing what looked like a brick wall against a black sky. “We’re here, we’re here!” Helen shouted, full of infectious gaiety. It was the Landmark Trust’s magnificent Martello tower that I’d admired for so long.
The weekend was extraordinary – wonderful like no other and will be a lifelong reminder for me how much Helen cared to make it special, including a surprise dinner in the tower cooked by her sister Sarah, brother-in-law Brian and waited on by our nephew Nathan. We walked, talked and generally loved one another; the 13ft-thick walls of the tower providing temporary respite from the stark fact of Helen’s decline, as it had for so long against raging Suffolk seas.
Indeed, so powerful was her life force during the Martello weekend, I’m convinced she saved her remaining strength for this final hurrah and expression of her love. Just over a month later, I was at her bedside as she slipped away peacefully.
So Italy without Helen was sure to be dreadful. But in this assumption, as in so much, I was so wrong. Italy was great. A total focus on the kids, a new dynamic in having funny, kind Kenny with us and I found myself relaxing for the first time since Helen’s death.
I know I was relaxed because while we were watching the Italian Job I experienced the same “Nooooooo!” reaction I’d had as an eight-year-old when the Mafia crush the E-Type Jaguars. On a scorching day in Turin we tracked down the route of the Mini Coopers’ escape.
If I’m brutally honest, my ease is also because for the first time in ages I’m holidaying without the worry of Helen’s health and the emotional weight of knowing every second might make for precious memories.
Any guilt I feel about this sense of relief is overwhelmed by the joy everyone takes in the trip and perhaps shows that I may be turning a corner in dealing with the omnipresent weight of loss. I love that it’s happening on a holiday chosen and planned by Helen, so perhaps even now she’s still navigating me to sanctuary.
Adam Golightly is a pseudonym
