I got to know his body more lovingly than I had any man’s
might find true happiness; for him, that he really would get to live — drowned those words out.
Since Tony, I’d had relationships, but none that had lasted. True love was something I longed for, but it had always eluded me. Yet I had such a strong and good feeling about Martin, as though he really might be ‘the one’.
The next few weeks were strange, not least because they were building up to Martin’s first operation — keyhole surgery on his left lung, which was scheduled for Valentine’s Day. This would be followed a couple of weeks later by more open surgery on his right lung.
These operations — a brand new way of treating lung cancer — were to remove the cancerous tumours surgically. It had to be done in two stages because of the risk of the lung collapsing.
Dating someone who is fighting for their life concentrates the mind. There was no time for dancing around. Every conversation we shared was open and honest, taking each of us to the heart of who the other really was.
We did normal dating — we went to the cinema, to restaurants and for long countryside walks. But it was all done at pace, as the clock ticked down to Martin’s surgery, and we grew closer with each passing day. I introduced him to my most trusted friends. ‘You’re right,’ they told me. ‘He’s wonderful.’ If they had any concerns, they kept them to themselves.
Meanwhile, it didn’t frighten me that Martin had cancer; I had recently helped nurse both my beloved stepfather and my dearest friend through the final stages of this illness, so there was no mystery for me there.
But I felt dreadfully afraid of the love I was developing towards him, because I knew how devastating losing someone else to this disease would be.
I was still grieving for two loved ones. Could my emotions cope with going through it again, with a third? I was wrestling with all that when I got a call from Martin’s ex-wife, Mandy, with whom he had managed to stay good friends since their split 12 years earlier.
‘I hear you’re dating my ex,’ she said cheerfully. ‘I think that’s a great idea — you’re so good for Martin.’ She was trying to be kind and encouraging, but her words gave me pause — making me think, once again, of the emotional burden I was taking on. Instantly, I felt horribly overwhelmed.
And yet, still, I couldn’t turn away. This wasn’t through pity for Martin, or a fear I’d look bad for abandoning him.
It was because Martin seemed the epitome of my perfect man — kind, funny, interesting and emotionally strong — and I genuinely wanted to be with him, for as long as possible.
His first operation — the less invasive of the two — was a success. Dropping off a Valentine’s card at his ex’s house, since he was staying with her after his first surgery, felt strange; her handing me one from him while he lay on an operating table even more so. But within a couple of days Martin was back on his feet, bracing himself for round two with his surgeon.
By now, we had been dating for just four weeks. I’d started attending appointments with him and had been at his hospital bedside after his first operation when his surgeon came to discuss how it had gone. This now felt like a shared journey.
And so it felt natural to suggest he come home to me after the next operation, a month later.
At that point we had held hands, we had shared every emotional intimacy, but we still hadn’t made love.
When he did ease himself into my bed for the first time — weak and unable even to take himself to the toilet — our relationship became physical in a way that transcended sex.
It’s testament to the love that had grown between us that neither of us baulked at what came next. Martin wasn’t remotely embarrassed at the very personal care I now gave him. Meanwhile, I got to know his body more lovingly than I had any other man’s.
For the next five weeks I barely left his side. I fed him, bathed him, read to him and dressed him. Lying next to Martin each night, drifting off to sleep hoping the morning would see him a little stronger, it began to feel like we were melding into one person. When he was finally strong enough to leave my home, neither of us wanted him to go. Eight years on, and he’s still here.
Finally, we became lovers, then in 2015 we became husband and wife.
As time went on, astonishingly, every scan he had came back clear. Martin’s body was free of cancer. He’s still being monitored because his surgery was part of a trial, but after five years, as with anyone who has had a cancer diagnosis, he was classed as being in remission. The year after our wedding we turned our home into an upmarket B&B, which we’ve been running together ever since.
All that has been possible
‘He had a magnetism I couldn’t turn away from’
‘Good can come out of life’s darkest times’
because Martin’s faith in his surgeon paid off.
Cancer is a devastating disease, but not all stories connected to it end sadly. I wanted to share that, to show good can come from life’s darkest experiences, and hopefully give others hope for their future.
We don’t dwell on the fact that, as with any form of cancer, it could return. We live for today, which is all any of us has.
I still look back with wonder that I embarked on a new relationship with a man who might not be able to stick around, no matter how good things were between us.
There was just something about Martin I couldn’t turn away from; a magnetism that drew me towards him with astonishing force right from the start.
I’m so glad I did. Each morning, the first thing I do on waking is trace with my hand the scar on Martin’s back from the surgery that saved him. Then we turn to each other and smile, glad to be together and alive.
We don’t take either of those things for granted — I’m certain we never will. And the life we feel endlessly lucky to share is all the richer for it.