I didn’t think I could survive the death of my husband, Graham. We met at university when I was 18, and for 35 years we made a great team. We both worked full-time and, while I organised our many marathon and backpacking trips abroad, and pursued my ambition of becoming an author and hypnotherapist, he supported me by taking care of most of the domestic chores and DIY. When he was seconded to Bahrain for eight months in 2003, he left me a typed, two-page instruction manual explaining how to operate the dishwasher, washing machine and TV (in fairness, it wasn’t simply a matter of pressing “on”).
When, in 2017, Graham was diagnosed with asbestos-related lung cancer and given between 18 months and five years to live, the shock was profound. But, once the initial terror had subsided, we made a choice: to live in hope, not fear. We vowed to make the most of whatever time Graham had left, rather than mentally rehearse or fear his death. We both continued working, travelling, running half marathons and seeing friends as much as we could.
