So I’ve lifted that title from last night’s posting. And that actually is an exaggeration, I put my hands up. But it’s my irrational fear, and I own it. Am I scared that something bad will happen to my husband, my son, even my best friend? Yes I am. I fret constantly for my husband, because both his mental and physical health are vulnerable.

My young, fit and healthy son really shouldn’t give me any cause for concern. But I remember his struggles growing up after his dad died. When he’s here, working at the gym, living locally and being an all round star, my anxieties are reigned in. But if he goes away, on holiday, or even just to see his girlfriend in London, I begin to get a bit edgy.

My lovely best friend now spends much of her time in beautiful Devon. I don’t begrudge her that one bit. And in fact I feel reassured that she is part of a lovely local community there. But the days I know she’s travelling to or fro on the train; I worry.

Having older parents as a kid was never cool, much as I loved them. Having lost them both by the time I was 48 was truly rubbish. Ten years ago today my mum died, after a five year decline into Alzheimer’s disease. My lovely dad cared for her at home right up until around three months before she died, when her confusion, distress and aggression caused me to get social services involved for the welfare of them both. When she fell in the hospital and subsequently died, my dad was beyond heartbroken. I actually didn’t know if he’d get through it. But he was a practical and resourceful man and he carved out a life for himself, by himself, that he was content with. He and I became closer than ever, and spent more time together than ever. And I really enjoyed his company. We had widowhood in common now. Not always spoken of, but never far from the surface.

When my first husband died I was 37, and our son 8. I felt plunged into a cruel world where people I’d always assumed were allies turned their backs on me, and help (occasionally) came from the least expected places. But loneliness prevailed. Bringing up a bereaved child, alone, with extremely limited support or respite was relentless. I was constantly exhausted and running on empty. It was in those difficult times that I discovered the WAY (Widowed and Young) charity and it’s local and national peer support. That where I met my best friend. My best lady. Agent Barlow. Throughout the tricky early times, my mental health crisis in 2014, and everything since, she has been a absolute rock and my unfailing voice of reason.

In the time after Andrew died, then my mum five years later, good friends became so precious. And it saddens me that five of mine have died already too. While one was elderly, the other four were my age or younger. Friends who died in their 30s or 40s. My heart breaks for them and their families. It feels so wrong.

I think if you add into my life story that I was my parents rainbow baby after our middle brother passed away hours old, and I am estranged from my older brother for my own sanity due to his abusive and narcissistic traits; my life does kind of feel overshadowed by loss. Then there was the separation from my boy when he was at the mercy of the care system and there’s definitely an explanation for my irrational fears around losing the ones I love.

I try hard not to let loss define me. I still have the darkest sense of humour that only a person who has lost someone very close tends to possess. I share it with my son! He gets it, many others don’t. When I was dating, pre-Martin, I regularly told guys I’d buried my husband under the patio. When they’d look at me a bit wary, I’d laugh and say, “No not really! I don’t have a patio!” 😂