I mixed her a martini and then fell in love
FROM the moment I met Sylvia, life shone.
I was low and lonely. My marriage had fallen apart and I’d taken a job as a barman at the Regents Park Hotel in Southampton to fill the empty evenings. She was 21 and wearing a blue jacket she had knitted herself.
She ordered a dry martini, we chatted all night and that was that.
Four months later, we moved
in together and for 18 months, life was blissful.
Then she was diagnosed with a brain tumour. It was benign, but on the brain stem, and we were told an operation was needed.
I rushed to get a special marriage licence and, three days before her surgery in 1977, we were married.
Her friend Sue was our ‘best man’ and we drank champagne with family and friends at the Red Lion Hotel. It was a bittersweet day.
Then doctors decided the tumour was in the wrong place for surgery, so Sylvia had to have radiotherapy instead.
She faced her treatment with courage, but the biggest blow was being told she could never have children. Instead, she poured her love into Laddie, the collie I gave her.
She was ambitious and soon returned to work as a draughtswoman for the Ordnance Survey.
She was also an amazing cook who loved parties, filling our house with friends, music and dancing. We both loved cruises and enjoyed 34 together over the following two decades, always planning to make Alaska the next trip.
In March, we were told the tumour was back and nothing could be done. I was holding her hand when she died at home. We had a fantastic life and were so, so happy.
I just kick myself we never made it to Alaska.
SYLVIA HASKELL, born september 22, 1954; died april 14, aged 63.