A deadly marriage wrecker
I’d battled for my life but the war wasn’t over yet
Dashing over the finish line, my heart raced, blood pumped.
I’d never felt so alive. Another race completed – an eight-mile charity run.
It was January 2015 and I’d found a love of running. I was even training for a half marathon!
‘Not bad for nearly 50!’ I joked to my husband John, then 63, waving my medal at him back home.
‘Well done, love,’ he smiled, turning back to the telly. I sighed.
We’d been married almost 30 years. But over the last few, as I’d been rediscovering my youthful side, he’d opted for life in the slow lane.
Nights in rather than going out with me.
The next morning, I headed to Wythenshawe Hospital for a routine mammogram.
But four days later, a
I wanted him to put his arms around me, but we ate in silence
letter arrived – doctors wanted me to come back in for a second test.
‘What if I have cancer?’ I fretted.
‘Don’t be daft,’ John said. But I couldn’t shake my unease during the second mammogram and biopsy three days later.
And two days after that, the results confirmed my worst fears.
Cancerous cells in my left breast.
I had no lump, no symptoms.
For now, it was confined to my breast, but it was fast growing.
‘You need an urgent mastectomy,’ the surgeon warned me.
John was at work, and as the terrible news – and fear – sank in, I felt so alone.
Over dinner that night, I broke the news.
John stared at me, utterly speechless.
This was hard for him. In recent months, he’d lost his mum and his dad was dying. Now this.
Still, I wanted him to put his arms around me, tell me he’d support me. Instead, we ate in silence. Three weeks later, in February 2015, I had a single mastectomy and immediate reconstructive surgery.
The operation took eight hours and
I woke up in agony. Spent six days in hospital recovering from it.
It was a relief when doctors sent me home, cancer-free – but sadly, while I’d been in hospital, John’s dad had passed away, leaving him grief-stricken.
In the weeks that followed, John coped by busying himself cooking meals, tidying and cleaning.
‘Thanks for keeping everything in order,’ I said, genuinely grateful.
But there was something missing.
John didn’t want to talk about what had
My diagnosis had shone a light on our problems
happened, rarely held my hand or put his arms around me for a hug. Maybe he was worried about hurting me.
But as he became ever more distant, the only things he was hurting were my feelings. Thankfully, our son Alain, then 28, was supportive, along with my brilliant circle of friends. That May, I was well enough to have a party to celebrate turning 50.
But my surgery wounds weren’t healing properly. Fluid was building in my stomach and every few weeks
I’d have to go into hospital to have it drained.
I had further surgery – in September 2015 and February 2016 – to try to rectify the problem.
Struggling to cope, I needed to talk to someone.
But John concentrated on practical matters – cooking, housework – so
I confided in my friends instead.
‘Cancer hasn’t just taken my breast,’ I wept,
‘It’s battered my confidence, too.’
In April 2016, John and I celebrated our 30th wedding anniversary with a trip to Paris. Romantic? If only. We barely held hands, let alone got up to anything in our hotel room.
It was the same back home – my illness had driven an invisible wedge between us.
I felt so sad.
In September 2016, I had my final surgery to rectify complications from my mastectomy.
Afterwards, I felt hopeful. Excited. I’d been given a second chance.
As I recovered from surgery, I started running again and seeing my friends.
‘We should have some adventures, too,’ I told John. ‘How about a road trip through Europe?’ I said.
I was buzzing.
But John just gave me a blank look.
‘I don’t really fancy that,’ he shrugged.
It hit me that we’d drifted since my diagnosis – become more housemates than lovers.
Cancer had been a terrible ordeal to go through.
But it’d shown me not to take anything for granted, to grab each day.
John simply didn’t feel the same.
That was the moment I knew cancer had destroyed my marriage.
Looking at our wedding album, I wondered what’d happened to that besotted bride and groom.
The truth was we’d become different people.
My terrifying diagnosis had shone a light on our problems, and there was no going back.
Heart pounding, in October 2016, I sat John down so we could talk. Told him I wasn’t happy. ‘Me neither,’ he admitted. We had an emotional heart-to-heart about how we wanted different things.
Tearfully, we agreed it was time to separate.
Telling Alain and the rest of our family was hard.
When John moved out, I felt heartbroken – he’d been by my side 30 years. A lifetime.
But I threw myself into my new chapter. Had solo adventures in France, Spain, South Africa.
Exploring the world on my own, I felt empowered.
Since our divorce was finalised in October 2017, me and John, now 67, have stayed friends.
I’d love to meet someone new, but there’s no rush.
I’m a strong, independent woman, proud to have taken control of my life…
Cancer taught me there’s nothing more important than that.