Seven years. I still struggle to say that sometimes without stopping for a moment. Seven years since the early morning of 31 August 2019 when my world changed forever. 4.30am in Australia. For our family and friends back in the UK, because of the time difference, it was still 30 August. So, for the rest of my life, I will have two dates attached to the worst day of my life.
One day would have been more than enough.
But then again, this is strangely fitting because Mark always did like getting extra time. Birthdays were never just one day for him. He celebrated in Australia time and then carried on celebrating in UK time. Ten extra hours. Because why would you only celebrate once when you could stretch it out?
That was Mark.
He loved life. He loved people. He loved celebrating. He loved making ordinary moments into memories. And I loved him. Someone once asked me once to use one word to describe him. It was an easy answer. The word was “mine.” It wasn’t because I owned him or that he belonged to me. It was simpler than that. It was because after all those years, after the things we’d been through, after every adventure in life, after every surprise he threw my way and well, every night of the week…he was mine. My person. My husband. My best friend. My soulmate.
We met back in the early 90s and somehow just knew. Six weeks after meeting him, Mark asked me to marry him while we were standing at Elsecar railway station in Yorkshire. His proposal was very “Mark.” Romantic, but with a little bit of drama thrown in. He threatened to stand on the railway line if I did not say yes. (Spoiler alert – it was an easy yes!) When we got home, he asked my dad’s permission, and the rest became our history.
We married on 6 May 1994. Twenty-five years of marriage. Twenty-five years of being a team, a “right proper team” as my uncle would say. Just three months after celebrating our silver wedding anniversary, I became a widow.
People often talk about soulmates as though it is some romantic idea created for films. The kind where angels sing and harps play in the background. But sometimes clichés exist because they are true. Mark and I had that. We knew how lucky we were. We hated being apart. We spoke throughout the working day. We would talk on hands-free during the drive home.
We didn’t need grand gestures because the everyday things were the things that mattered. Coming home to him – that was my favourite part of the day. Walking through the door and knowing he was there. Knowing I was home – he was my home. Sometimes it was the smallest things that showed how much he loved me. Coming home to my favourite chocolate bar sitting in the fridge. Dinner cooking. The housework done because he knew that if I had a day off, he wanted it to be a day off.
That was Mark. He noticed. He cared. He knew me. One day I came home from work and there was a drum kit sitting in my lounge. I had always wanted to learn drums. Most people would have bought flowers or chocolates. Mark bought me a drum kit. That was his way.
He wasn’t a fan of the commercial side of Valentine’s Day, but he bought me flowers every week. He would say that love wasn’t something that belonged to one day. It was something you lived. It was in the tiny things. It was in the everyday. It was in the terrible singing of “Come On Eileen” and “The Look of Love” that somehow became wonderful because it was him singing. It was in his smile. It was in his touch.
His arms were my safe place. When he hugged me, I honestly felt like nothing in the world could get through. And then one day, the world got through. The hardest part of our story was watching him become ill.
Mark was diagnosed with Myasthenia Gravis and Guillain-Barré syndrome. Over the final weeks of his life, he fought through ICU stays, ventilation, fractured spine several times, blood clots, pneumonia, and septicaemia. He fought harder than anyone I have ever known. Doctors told us things we didn’t want to hear but we didn’t hide from reality. We were honest with our family and friends from the beginning. If doctors said six months, that was what people knew. We didn’t want anyone to be shocked. We wanted people to have time.
Only around 2,000 people in Australia have Myasthenia Gravis. Of those, only a tiny percentage have severely progressive disease. Mark was part of that small percentage. Of course he was. He never did anything by halves.
The hardest moments were the times he was in ICU and ventilated. That fear never leaves you. That feeling of standing beside someone you love more than anything and wondering if they are going to come home. The last time they tried to remove the breathing tube, it took six attempts. Eventually, it became a case of taking the chance. Remove the tube. See what happens.
He survived for about another week. A week I will always treasure. A week I wish I could have stretched into years. Before that, we had a goodbye visit that I will never forget. Martin, his brother Des, and our wonderful friends Tony and Tracy flew 16,000 kilometres from the UK to Australia for six days. They knew. We all knew. It was a goodbye trip. And somehow, amongst all that sadness, we laughed. We cried. We drank. We made memories. We packed a lifetime into six days.
That is friendship. That is love. That is showing up when it matters.
When Mark died, I didn’t really have time to fall apart. I wanted to grieve. I needed to grieve. But life had other plans. Days after losing Mark, I became a carer for my mum, who was terminally ill with lung cancer. My grief had to wait and sit quietly in the background while I focused on someone else.
I was incredibly lucky to have support. My family. My brother Lee and my sister-in-law Clare. My dad. My mum. The Friel family. Des, Martin, Tony, Tracy, and Sui. People who didn’t disappear. People who still send messages on Mark’s birthday and the anniversary of his death. People who don’t need me to ask for help because they already know. Those people are priceless.
One of the hardest lessons of widowhood has been learning that some people disappear. People you thought were friends. People you thought would always be there. Sometimes those people disappear and that hurts, deeply. Because you grieve the person you lost, but you also grieve the friendships you thought you had. I had heard the saying that grief changes your address book. Unfortunately, that saying is painfully accurate. But it also shows you who really belongs there.
Seven years later, I am a different person. Stronger. More honest. Less willing to waste time on things that don’t matter. Life is too short. I stopped nursing because Mark needed 1:1 care. After he died, I could not return to it. The passion had gone, but while caring for him, I found something again.
Writing.
Writing is a passion, a love I had pushed aside over the years as life took hold. So, I completed courses. I wrote. I published two books. I built my website. I found a new part of myself. I laugh when I think about my writing as I know Mark would have opinions. Lots of opinions. He was my ideas man. My biggest supporter. My best critic. If something wasn’t right, he would tell me. No sugar coating or pretending. Simple honesty. I would love to sit with him now and show him everything I have done. The writing & the website., my journey in life. I know exactly what he would say.
I still see pieces of Mark everywhere. When my dad wears Mark’s shirts, it is a little piece of him still here. Photographic memories replacing photographs of illness. Because while his sickness is part of our story, it is not the whole story. The illness does not get to define Mark.
The laughter does. The love does. The memories do.
I was once asked If I had one more day with him, what would I do? I know that we wouldn’t do anything exciting. We would stay in bed. Watch movies. Talk. Not get dressed. Order Indian food. The delivery guy would ask, “The usual?” as he knew our order. That was happiness. That was us.
Seven years later, I have learned that moving on is the wrong phrase. It is one I never use. Why would you move on from someone? I will never move on from Mark. I move forward with Mark. I move forward with every memory, with every lesson. I move forward with every piece of the person he helped me become.
He is still my husband. Death did not change that. The day he died, I lost my future with him. But I did not lose the love and I never will.
Seven years later…
Still loved. Still missed. Still mine.
