There once lived a beautiful nineteen-year-old girl. She was a nursing student in a quaint seaside town in the south of England. At a dance one night, she locked eyes with a dashing young man of 24. They fell in love on the spot and, a few months later, they married. They had twin boys, followed twenty months later by a daughter. The girl turned twenty-two a week later.
This girl and boy eventually moved to Canada where opportunities for a talented photographer were better. The family flourished, as did their relationship. They held hands everywhere they went. They went on some beautiful trips together. They loved each other.
The love story ended on Saturday, March 12, 2016. The boy had to say goodbye. He has cared for her for the past two years, and especially the final three months, sitting by her hospital bed each and every day. Teaching the new nurses how to change her dressings. Getting warm blankets for her cold legs. Helping change her ostomy bags. Kissing her. Loving her. He doesn't know what he will do without her. He is eighty-seven now. And he is lost.
My mum died last night. She was supposed to get better. But instead she got worse.
But, the truth is, the love story is not over. Not at all. He and I stood by her side and he destroyed me with his words. He loved her. He will always love her. But he is lost.
And so am I.