My husband died in 2017. We had been together for 37 Years. He was an amazing man and a true partner to me in marriage and in life. He was diagnosed with Grade 4 gliomablastoma in August 2015, aged 58 and just 8 weeks after my mothers funeral. Prior to that he had been active, playing team squash for the local club, a hard working Finance Director and a family man, who loved nothing more than being with his grandchildren and supporting our daughter in her athletics’ career.
I supported him through his treatment, often on my own as we have no family living near us.
He wanted to live his life to the full so whenever he was well enough I was taking him to rugby internationals, pop concerts, weekends away. It was a gruelling time and left me exhausted. I had to stop work and leave the business that I’d spent 15 years building up.
After his death in a hospice, life for me was about survival. Mostly I didn’t care about surviving, I had a deep longing to be with him. The pain was mostly unbearable and I had to distract myself with what felt like meaningless activities. My life had no meaning and no purpose. That I discovered is quite normal for grief.