Italy magazine is delighted to be the media partner of Respite Italia which offers free holidays in Italy to cancer patients and their families.
One of the first guests at Respite Italia, Muriel Simon, shares her experiences so far …
The Simons are Coming: A Tragi - Comedy.
When I first contacted Ruth Moss (now officially our family Fairy Godmother), she asked me what I hoped to get out of a Respite Italia break. I wondered how best to put it into words. How best to describe what this holiday will mean to me....
I used to have a little dream particularly useful during the more stressful moments of chemotherapy/radiotherapy sessions. It was always the same little scene. Picture this: I'm sitting by clear, blue shimmering water in my favourite pink bikini. The sun shines down on my head, I'm trailing long manicured nails in the water and my left bosom has miraculously reappeared. I'm watching my children frolic in the water 20 yards away. As I watch my kids play I put down the great big wine glass, pull off my Matalan sunglasses and call to my darlings: ‘For Pete's sake, PACK IT IN! Stop trying to drown each other. And that inflatable ring is NOT a handy weapon!’ The children roll their eyes, simmer down for 30 seconds then go back to planning Assault with a Deadly Lilo. Bliss.
Because it's not the sunshine and vineyards that I'm desperate for. And unless Ruth really has a magic wand, even she can't bring back my missing breast. But these are relatively minor things to me. During all the surgery, the treatments and so on, I watched my kids closely and they both coped amazingly well. I was relieved. We had the unwavering support and love of family and an army of friends. The kids stepped up and showed strengths I didn't know they had. They were always affectionate to each other, but now they're closer than ever; extra kind and considerate to me - and quite frankly I've had enough. Because something's been lost.
At first I couldn't even put my finger on it, and was too fatigued to try. But now, though the worst is hopefully long over, the kids will still suddenly cling to me as though they're drowning. They kiss me before school as though every parting is the last, my son suffers from night terrors regularly, and worst of all if I should look tired, get a minor ailment or even cough, both children suddenly look stricken.
We were never The Waltons. We were The Munsters and I liked that! I miss the smart-assed cynical little buggers I lived with. These were children who used to make me laugh. When occasionally I'd announce out of the blue that I really, really loved them, they would stop dead in their tracks, roll their eyes and ask me was I drunk. And if I wasn't drunk, what exactly was I after? Their mother was a drama queen and a brazen hussy and they were fine with that. Their job was to roll their eyes, say 'Suck it up Mum!' and demand I wash their PE kit. Now, they take things a little too seriously. If I announce that I love them, I can see them bracing themselves for some horrible piece of news coming next. So I'm hoping the first holiday we will have had in years will bring out the carefree devil in them. Because God knows it never left their mother.
And guess what? Before we've even left the country, Respite Italia has ALREADY performed a minor miracle. It happened when I told the children about the holiday over dinner.
' Kids, I've got some brilliant news. Fingers crossed, it looks like we going to have a holiday this year after all! We're going to Italy!"
Silence.
Then the lowering of forks, the narrowing of eyes, and:
'How come? You said we were broke. You said when I asked for new skates that I'd have to sell a kidney!'
Son pipes up: 'Are you drunk? What's in your glass? Granny, is she drunk?'
'I'm not drunk. A really kind lady called Ruth's organising it.’
'Does she know you?'
'Well, not exactly.’
'Hah! SHE'S drunk then!'
'LOOK, NO ONE'S BLOODY DRUNK right? Though now I'm seriously thinking about it. Aren't you pleased?'
There followed more silent chewing. I never knew it was possible to eat chips suspiciously. I could tell they were gearing up for the second round of interrogation. Then:
'Soooo...this holiday then - are you coming too?'
'Yes. And Granny.'
Visible relief. At least Granny can be relied upon not to dance in foreign streets with her panties on her head.
'Will we have to do things? Is it going to be...educational ?'
Only my kids can say the word 'educational' the way other people say ' ringworm'. Secretly I was impressed. They hadn't forgotten their mum's a teacher and inclined to spring museums on them when they'd rather loll about at home watching Diagnosis Murder. So I solemnly promised that I'd leave their brains alone and they could happily return home browner than toffee and absolutely stupid.
'How stupid? As stupid as that boy that smells like TCP?'
'I take it you mean your cousin in Catford, YES.'
I cannot believe what I've ended up promising these children. The Respite Italia website never said anything about ‘Sun, Sea, and Stupidity’. And still my son grumbled to his sister: 'Nah, we'll never get away wiv it - she'll want to make…' he shuddered '…holiday scrapbooks. She can't help it.’ They got up from the dinner table still looking balefully in my direction, and stomped upstairs to watch Buffy. Their grandmother shook her head and I reached for the Bordeaux .Then there was more stomping back down the stairs and both horrible children reappeared. Daughter points at me with withering scorn: 'Mum, you ain’t bringing that terrible pink bikini are you? You think you're hot stuff in that, BUT YOU AREN'T.'
Son: 'Yeah, you think you're Beyonce!'
Daughter: 'More like Pat Butcher!'
Ah. The Children. They're back.
Off they went, sniggering like the badly raised piglets I knew and loved. And like sows everywhere, I suddenly felt the desire to eat my own young. One more remark about my bikini, and it might just happen.
But really, I am thrilled. Amazing. Before the plane tickets have been bought, Respite Italia's working wonders. Already the last dreadful 18 months are fading away like a horrible dream. We're planning wonderful adventures. Well, I'm planning to perpetrate new fashion crimes in diabolical swimwear, but you get the picture. Can you imagine what we'll be like during and after the holiday? I just can't wait. Italy - land of great art, beautiful countryside, marvellous cuisine, warm welcoming people, birthplace of Michelangelo.... Single-handedly our family might casually destroy years of cordial Anglo/Italian relations! But, then again, it's the land that produced Machiavelli, the Borgias and Mussolini. Yeah, Italy can handle us, with or without a court order! So, Respite Italia, brace yourselves - The Simons aka The Munsters ARE coming.
