After three and a half years of fighting, my dear wife died on the evening of the 6th of this month from ovarian cancer.
Right from the diagnosis she told the consultant that she didn't want to know any details, only that there was, what she called, a "plan for life". She kept me at arms length with regards to her treatment, not allowing me to take her to appointments etc, probably so that I didn't ask too many questions. She explained that she wanted our home life to be as normal as possible and didn't want to become defined by her illness. At the beginning, she didn't even tell her parents or friends, apart from one friend who took her to her appointments. When the doctor came to her bedside a fortnight ago, and brought up the difficult subject of palliative care, my wife insisted that she was going to beat it. I thought she was there to get fit enough for another round of chemo, and that's what we concentrated on. But the staff knew she was there to die. No matter how bad her health got, we always believed there was one more treatment around the corner. But not this time.
In 1997 I also lost my previous partner, mum to my oldest boy, to a blood clot while having a knee replacement op due to osteosarcoma, so this isn't my first time around the block. It was hard enough back then, but at least I had a future as a young bloke in my early twenties. Now I'm 50 with 4 boys from 16 to 29, and on a scrapheap of grief and despair.
Sorry for the ramble, make of it what you will.
