For the love of Mike
The sudden death of Lina Cooke’s husband has brought out an inner strength she never knew she had
‘Let’s go faster!’ Michael shouted with glee. Whizzing down the slopes, I laughed at my daredevil husband. We’d spent the past few days skiing in the Swiss Alps for his birthday and, despite Mike’s age, my 57-yearold hubby was showing no signs of slowing down.
With Mike’s encouragement, we navigated some of the most treacherous ski slopes on the mountain during that trip.
So, if someone had told me that Michael – one of the healthiest people I knew – would be dead from heart disease less than three months later, I wouldn’t have believed them.
I met Michael through mutual friends when I was just 20 years old and studying English, after moving to the UK from Lithuania. It’s safe to say it was love at first sight for the both of us and, despite a 21-year age gap, after three years of romance, we married in an intimate ceremony in Antigua.
For the next 13 years, our marriage was blissful. Michael and I were both travel-obsessed and always going on action-packed adventures. We had visited the Grand Canyon, travelled through India and driven a camper van from Florida to California – to name a few of our most memorable trips.
However, in May 2014, I decided to take a trip by myself to visit my mum in Lithuania. Michael, who owned a property management business, couldn’t join me due to work commitments.
Speaking on the phone the night before I was due to fly back to England, Michael gave no hint that anything was wrong. The only thing that seemed unusual was the fact that he complained about being tired – Michael always had ants in his pants. I used to joke that he could never sit still.
‘It’s so good to hear your voice,’ I said. We couldn’t wait to see each other.
The next day, I flew back home. Opening the door to our house in Bournemouth, the hairs on the back of my neck pricked up and my stomach did a sickening flip. Something was very wrong.
There were unwashed dishes in the kitchen and our two cats hadn’t been fed. This was so unlike my husband.
‘Michael?’ I called. There was no answer.
Stepping further into the house, I noticed that our bedroom door was open. Michael appeared to be fast asleep on the bed.
That was odd. It was 5.30pm in the afternoon, and Michael wasn’t one for afternoon naps.
‘I’m home,’ I said, walking over to give him a gentle nudge.
What happened next will stay in my mind for ever.
Michael was as cold as ice, and the blood had rushed to the side of his face that was resting on the pillow.
‘Mike, Mike!’ I screamed. But it was no use.
I called for help. I was
‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt’ ‘You never stop missing someone, but you can learn to live without them’ ‘I wanted to keep Mike’s memory alive and make him proud, too’
panic-stricken, but I knew. I knew he was dead. The next few days passed in a blur. Friends rallied round and tried to help me function.
But what could they do? I had lost the love of my life. I was a widow at just 35 years old.
It was explained to me Michael had died in his sleep from a heart attack.
‘How? How is that possible?’ I sobbed as the doctors and friends tried to console me. Michael may have been in his 50s, but he had never been fitter.
In the past year, he’d even undertaken a new gym routine, working out nearly every day.
However, doctors explained that Michael had unknowingly been suffering from heart disease.
That was painful to hear. A few months before his death, Michael had received a letter from his GP inviting him for a routine check-up.
‘I’m as fit as a fiddle,’ he exclaimed at the time. ‘There’s no need for that.’
What if I had pushed him to go? Something might have been detected. Could Michael have been saved? I felt guilt over that. Maybe it was one of the stages of grief.
For the next few months, I just couldn’t see how to carry on without Michael. It took a long time before I could listen to the voice in my head telling me that I had to keep going and be strong.
Again, maybe that’s another stage of grief.
It wasn’t the first time I’d lost someone close to me. When I was 10, my older brother died in a car accident and, just three years ago, my father had passed away.
I knew how destructive allowing myself to sink into grief could be. I suppose there just came a point when I knew I had to carry on.
Not get over it – I’ll never get over the loss of Michael. But, if you’re lucky, there comes a point when you can start living again, even if it is only a little bit.
In my clearer, more positive moments, I knew I wanted to keep Mike’s memory alive. Maybe do something to make him proud of me?
I came up with the idea of raising money for charity. The British Heart Foundation (BHF) seemed appropriate. But how? Travel, and especially the mountains, had played a big part in our lives. I wondered if I could combine the two?
So, in 2015, less than a year after I lost Mike, I took part in The Alps challenge, a three-day trek covering three countries – Switzerland, France and Italy.
It was tough, but whenever I thought about giving up, I would look at the photo of Mike I always carry with me. ‘I’m doing this for you, my love,’ I’d whisper through gritted teeth.
Stepping over the finishing line was emotional. I felt pride, relief – and also a deep sadness. I wished Mike could see me. During that trip, I raised over £3,000 for the BHF.
That was my first expedition. Since then, I’ve climbed Mount Kilimanjaro, camping in the freezing cold, and trekked 5,380m to, Mount Everest’s base camp.
I’ve raised £10,200. And I’m not stopping there!
Mike may have been cruelly taken away from me, but his memory lives on in the work I do for the organisation.
For my next challenge, I’m contemplating running a marathon.
If I can save even one life by raising awareness about heart disease, it will mean I am remembering Michael in the best way I can.
You could say that, for now, I’m healing my broken heart one trek at a time… l Face your fear and help fund life-saving research. To find out more about the British Heart Foundation’s Face a Fear challenge, visit bhf.org.uk/faceafear