‘One day, my days will be sparkly again…’
Amy Donnelly, 33, had one hour and 38 minutes to tell Gareth everything she ever wanted to say before he passed away. Now, Amy hopes to still give their daughter the life they’d both planned
Most people aren’t lucky enough to know they’re about to lose the love of their life. Their final words might be mundane or trivial, and they might never have the chance to tell each other just how much they mean to one another.
But Gareth and I were fortunate. I had the time to tell him everything I’d ever wanted to say, and the last words we said to each other before he died were, ‘I love you.’ Now, although I miss him so much my heart aches, I have no regrets.
We met at a Christmas party in December 2010. I was a teacher at a primary school and Gareth was in the police force, but our companies had both booked the same venue. When I spotted him, I grabbed my friend and exclaimed, ‘I like the silver fox!’ After that first flirty conversation, I knew I was going to marry him.
As we got to know each other, Gareth explained that he’d battled testicular cancer the year before and had also undergone heart surgery to fix an aortic aneurysm, where his main artery had swollen to a dangerous size. But that only made me admire him more.
Falling in love with Gareth was so much fun. We shared a love of Champagne, and Friday night became known as ‘Fizz Friday’. We’d wear pyjamas, drink Champagne and watch our favourite TV shows.
We married in Cyprus in August 2013 and started trying for a baby. It took over two years but, against the odds, it happened naturally. Gareth was so proud.
But life is full of ups and downs and, just a few months later, in May 2016, a checkup revealed that there was another issue with Gareth’s heart. In October, when I was seven months pregnant, Gareth spent eight hours in surgery having a mechanical valve inserted.
He was determined to recover in time for Matilda’s arrival – and he did. When she was born on 6 January 2017, we were besotted. Gareth was on a blood-thinning drug while he recovered, but it didn’t stop him taking Matilda to baby swimming lessons and a live performance of In The Night Garden. Then, on 9 July, our world collapsed. We’d taken Matilda
‘Grief seems like a taboo subject, yet I love talking about Gareth’
camping but, on the second day, Gareth started coughing up blood. I rushed him to the nearest hospital, and my mum picked up Matilda. A scan revealed that he had a mass on his chest but, the next day, they said he could come home, as he was due to see his own specialist consultant the following day.
However, I had the most terrible feeling that he was about to die, and I could see in Gareth’s eyes that he thought so, too. The drive home took one hour and 38 minutes. I know, because I spent every minute of it telling him everything I’d ever wanted to say.
‘I love your stubble, the little scar on your wrist, your knees,’ I rattled off, trying to get everything in. Within 10 minutes of walking through our front door, Gareth started coughing up more blood and collapsed. ‘I love you, Amy,’ he said. ‘I love you, too,’ I replied. Our last words to each other. Paramedics arrived in minutes and tried to resuscitate Gareth. But he was gone and, in that split second, everything that made my life happy, safe and fun was gone. A postmortem revealed that he had suffered a catastrophic lung haemorrhage. Because of his tablets, his blood didn’t clot. He technically drowned in his own blood.
Matilda was six months old, too young to know what she’d lost. But I was left empty, alone, heartbroken.
We organised a huge send-off for Gareth, and my voice shook as I read a tribute to him.
‘I’ll miss your huge smile, watching Disney films and singing in the car. I’ll miss our nicknames, winter walks and snuggles on the sofa. I only hope that enough of you has rubbed off on me, so I can give Matilda the life we planned.’
As time stumbled on, so many people asked me how I was that I decided to start a blog on Facebook called Widowed Young & A Mum. There, I described my days in colours. To start, every day was black. The day Gareth died was black, the first day I woke up alone was black. I expected our wedding anniversary to be black, but I surprised myself. It was greenish. I sipped Champagne, but by Gareth’s grave instead of by his side. The black days slowly gave way to grey. On purple days, I felt mixed; on blue days, I felt a painful longing for Gareth. On green days, I managed not to cry but on red days, anger burnt through me. I’m determined to be someone Gareth would be proud of. I’m not going to sell our BBQ, I’ll learn how to fire it up. He ironed with military precision. I’ll learn to iron. Probably. One day. Matilda’s changed so much and it breaks my heart to see her do new things that Gareth will never see. Every night, we have bath time, then Daddy Time, where we tell Gareth everything we’ve done that day. Grief seems like such a taboo subject, yet I love talking about Gareth – he’s my favourite subject. So I don’t care how black and blue my days are now, because for seven years, every day with Gareth was sparkling and, for his sake and Matilda’s, I’ll get us back to them. Follow Amy’s blog, @widowedyoungandamum, on Facebook. If you’ve been widowed young, visit widowedandyoung.org.uk