I’m 53. Picking one memory from so many isn’t easy; good, bad, happy, sad, indifferent. I wanted to choose a happy one if I’m honest, but for whatever reason, the difficult ones seem more present and detailed than the good ones. So I have picked the utterly heart wrenching as it remains in my mind almost as clearly as the night it happened.

When I was 37 my first husband died. He was 40. He had been unwell his whole life and obviously throughout our relationship. We’d had our son ten years into the marriage, totally against all odds. And when our boy was seven, his Daddy’s health took more of a turn for the worse. I’d already had the heartbreaking conversation with him that went along the lines of, “Daddy might not get better again”. He asked me outright, “Is Daddy going to die?” And I answered him to the best of my ability, “We don’t know for certain, but it is possible Daddy could die”. We all cried. I didn’t want to alarm him unnecessarily, but I also didn’t want him unprepared for what was seeming to be more inevitable by the day.

The summer passed. The boy turned eight. My husband, Andrew, steadily deteriorated. I did my best to stay strong; for him, for our son, for myself. I couldn’t bear to face the reality that at some stage I was going to be a widow and a lone parent. It was too devastating.

Andrew died on a Friday evening. It was the day the schools broke up for October half term. He’d had a bad cold all week and that morning the duty doctor came out and prescribed him antibiotics, although was adamant his chest was clear.

He only took one tablet, by teatime he was so weak I couldn’t wake him enough to give him the next. I called the doctor back and she sent an ambulance.

I knew how much Andrew hated going to hospital, but I told him, “I’m sorry, I’ve called an ambulance for you” He looked absolutely exhausted and wearily responded, “But I can’t move”. I reassured him he didn’t have to do anything, that the ambulance crew would sort things. Those were his last words.

Things I recall after that;

The first ambulance refusing to take him to hospital because they didn’t have heart monitoring equipment on board.

My lovely boy being devastated that Daddy couldn’t say goodbye to him or hug him back because he was so poorly.

The second ambulance stopping as soon as it started, which I discovered later was because Andrew had stopped breathing. They got him going again.

Being rushed into resus.

Ridiculous telephone conversations with my brother in law and late mother in law about how ill Andrew was. Obviously ‘he arrested in the ambulance and we’ve gone through red lights to get to resus’ wasn’t explicit enough as they both had more important things to do than be with their dying brother/son.

Having a panic attack at Andrew’s bedside and being told by a nurse, “There’s no need to panic. Look at us, we’re not panicking.”

Having to watch my 6’4 husband recoil into the foetal position and howl like an animal while they attempted to take arterial blood from him. It was a procedure he’d always despised and if I’d known then he wasn’t going to survive the night, I’d have told them where to stick their needle.

Being asked if Andrew and I had ever discussed how he wanted to end his life. I replied that I knew he didn’t want to be kept on life support, but that for someone who’d been terminally ill all the time I’d known him, we probably should have discussed it more.

Speaking on the telephone to Andrew’s consultant cardiologist. He was so lovely. But he broke to me that there was nothing else they could do. He seemed as heartbroken as me.

Being taken to the relatives room with my church minister while they moved Andrew to ITU. Paul made me tea. Before I could drink it a nurse rushed in and told us to come now. Quickly.

I couldn’t do quickly. My mobility was poor as I was pre spinal surgery then. As we approached Andrew’s bed all the machines were beeping furiously. The sister asked the junior nurse to turn them off. She asked, “The alarms?” The sister said, “No, the machines.”

I said, “He’s gone, hasn’t he?” I know a flatline beep when I hear one. “Yes” she said gently.

I remember being asked if I wanted his wedding ring removed. My mind went utterly blank. I asked Paul the minister as I didn’t know what the right answer was.

At some point the in-laws had arrived (after the event). Father in law drove me home.

My lovely friend Babs from church stayed with me. And my plan of not telling my son until the morning went straight out the window, as a sleepy figure appeared at the lounge door asking, “How’s Daddy?”

The three of us sat on the sofa, and in my best gentle-but-factual-and-age-appropriate way I explained to my sweet boy that his Daddy had died. Not sure who cried the most. I cuddled him for what seemed an age, but he was exhausted and I put him back to bed. Thankfully he was soon asleep again. I told Babs to get Vic to collect her.

Around 3am I got into a deep, warm bath. I stared at the ceiling forever until I realised I was getting cold. I headed to bed and I don’t remember if I got any sleep or not. I was in shock and running on autopilot for some time.

Losing a partner, especially at a young age is an experience I wouldn’t wish on anyone. It is devastating and traumatic. I still have a tendency to freeze when I see blue lights or hear sirens. Less so now, but it never seems to completely leave me. The events of the evening are indelibly imprinted in my mind.