‘Each session at the City Hospice slowly released my grief’s grip’

The Echo is again supporting the Light Up a Life Appeal for City Hospice, which provides specialist care for patients with life limiting illnesses, and support for their families. Here, Michael Lyon tells the heartbreaking story of losing his wife... and

COLLEEN had asked for melon for breakfast, something soft and sweet, as her mouth was still sore from the latest round of chemotherapy.

I was in the kitchen, cutting it up into pieces, when I heard her move slowly along the landing to the bathroom.

As I was preparing the melon and some tea, there was a loud thud from the floor above. Perhaps she’s dropped something, I thought.

I called her name, asked if she was OK. No response.

I felt a sinking weight in my stomach as I ran up the stairs to the bathroom.

I immediately thought she’d fainted again and hit her head.

I laid her in the recovery position on the bathroom floor.

Then I saw her eyes, wide open and unfocussed. Her hand was slowly clenching and she wasn’t breathing.

No, please God, no. Not like this.

I ran to get the phone and dialled 999 and pleaded with the opera- tor to hurry.

She sensed my rising panic, told me to put Colleen on her back and perform CPR.

I’d trained years ago to do CPR but that flew away in the blink of an eye. The operator talked me through it, one-two-threefour-five, my tears pouring down my face, barely able to breathe.

Come on, darling, come on, please. The operator asked me if the front door was open; it wasn’t. “Go and open the front door”, the operator told me. I ran downstairs and opened the front door for the paramedics.

I ran back upstairs and resumed the CPR on Colleen. Please come now, please save her.

The ambulance crew arrived and took over. I sat on the floor watching them do their jobs, trained, efficient, professional. I was now in a daze, disconnected, adrift. As the crew worked on Colleen, I knew they weren’t going to save her.

I knew she was dead. You just know. Another ambulance crew arrived and rushed Colleen to A&E at the Heath Hospital.

My next-door neighbours, Karen and Jeff, appeared as if by magic to take me to the hospital.

I was in shock, I couldn’t drive. I could hardly dress myself. I couldn’t even speak.

Karen stayed with me while we waited in a little room near the resuscitation area. Then a consultant came and told me what I already knew.

At 8am that morning I was making Colleen’s breakfast; at 10am I was walking out of the hospital with her wedding ring in my hand.

Her death had come unexpectedly on a bright Sunday morning in August. Telling her mother, sister and brother finally broke me.

Knowing I had to care for our little dog was the only reason I didn’t finish Colleen’s morphine there and then.

I was in shock, I couldn’t drive. I could hardly dress myself. I couldn’t even speak

Michael Lyon