‘Don’t leave us Daddy’
Since losing her husband, Holly Matthews, 33, has had to find a new normal...
Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, I check my reflection. With my blow-dried hair and red lippy perfectly applied, I look like a rock chick. Smiling and giving a peace sign, I snap a selfie and post it online.
you’d think I had nothing more in my life to deal with than taking photos of myself and worrying how I look.
But the truth is, just four months ago my gorgeous, husband ross died from terminal brain cancer. now at 33, I’m a widow with two little girls, Brooke, six, and texas, four, and somehow I have had to find a new way to live – and taking pictures like this has become my new ‘normal’. let me explain...
Love at first sight
It was 2008 when I first met ross at a promotional event in london. like me, he’d grown up in the public eye as the son of ex-aston Villa player andy Blair. meanwhile, being an actress, I’d played emma miller in Byker Grove.
I always cringed at the idea of love at first sight, but that’s exactly what happened to us. so although we hadn’t known each other long, the next day I packed my bags and moved from essex to Coventry to live with ross. In march 2011, our daughter Brooke was born. ross was such a great dad and, despite running his own football kit business, always took his fair share of helping with the kids. When he started feeling lethargic and withdrawn, we put it down to exhaustion. But he didn’t get better and, after seeing the doctor, ross was given antidepressants. they seemed to help and in february 2012, we got married. eleven months later, texas was born. It should have been our happiest time, but ross was starting to become withdrawn again. ‘please go to the Gp,’ I pleaded. When he started suffering excruciating headaches I was even more insistent. however, it wasn’t until he woke one morning in agony that ross let me take him to hospital. there, he had Ct and mri scans and six hours later there was devastating news. ‘I’m so sorry, ross,’ the consultant said. ‘We’ve found a brain tumour.’
ross remained incredibly calm. ‘What’s the next stage?’ he asked. the consultant explained that he’d need surgery to remove as much of the tumour as possible. after that, they would start him on a course of chemotherapy and radiotherapy.
ross had a five-hour operation in february 2014, followed by six weeks of chemo and eight months of radiotherapy. remarkably, it seemed to work, and from January 2015 our life returned to normal. But then in may 2016, a scan showed ross’s tumour was growing again. and despite having another operation to remove 75% of it in august 2016, the
‘Ross was calm after being told about the brain tumour’
doctors revealed there was nothing more they could do.
‘Where do you want to live with the girls when I die?’ ross asked me as we were sitting in the car park of the hospital one day. ‘do you want to stay in Coventry or move away?’ that’s the first time I broke down. ‘I don’t want to be “I”,’ I said, sobbing. ‘I want to be “us”.’ most painful of all was knowing I’d have to tell my daughters that daddy was dying.
Brooke, then five, knew he’d been ill, but three-year-old texas was too young to understand.
We decided to keep it from them as long as we could. ‘I don’t want the time we have left to be filled with sadness,’ ross told me. In may 2017, we booked a holiday to the Caribbean and banked more happy memories. a few days after coming home, it was ross’s 32nd birthday. Curled up on the sofa together, the girls and I were writing a list of 32 things we loved about ross when I glanced over and saw him slumped back in his chair. he was having a seizure. I called an ambulance and at hospital a scan showed the tumour was growing again, rapidly. he declined quickly after that, and determined that I wouldn’t become his carer, he insisted on being moved into a hospice, which he did on 30 June 2017. Cuddled up on ross’s bed together, I looked into the girls’ innocent faces, took a deep breath, and told them their daddy wasn’t going to get better. holding my sobbing daughters in my arms, I knew I couldn’t kiss away their pain. although ross tried to cuddle them too, his moments of lucidity were becoming less and less. It was only a matter of time before he disappeared completely. although I knew I needed to start warning the rest of his family and friends about his condition, I couldn’t bear to go through the same conversations over and over again. so I recorded a video explaining everything that was happening, and posted it on my youtube channel. I’d always video-blogged, or ‘vlogged’, but this was the first time I’d spoken about something so deeply personal.
although a lot of people were supportive, many also criticised me. they claimed I was fame-hungry, and attention seeking. But reading through their comments, I realised that it didn’t matter how other people thought I should behave.
Learning to cope
for the next few weeks I continued vlogging about ross’s illness. It helped me make sense of it all. then, on 29 July 2017, ross passed away in my arms with his parents and sister at his side. the first weeks passed in a numb blur, but after the funeral I ricocheted between stages of grief.
some days, I’d sob hysterically and others I’d feel ok. similarly, one moment the girls would be crying for their daddy, and the next they’d be outside playing. I knew we needed to harness the strength of our ‘good’ days to carry us through the next wave of pain. so one day, I put on my red lippy and posted a selfie online. It helped remind me of the strong woman I was and that I’d get through this grief. to me, selfies became a way of coping.
now I’m also a supporter for the Brain tumour Charity to help raise awareness – brain tumours are the biggest cancer killer of children and adults under 40 in the uk. my priority is to make my girls feel safe. texas is sensitive and wants lots of cuddles. Brooke is open about her feelings, but I tell her that being angry is fine and to express it by punching her pillow – not to push her sister.
I miss ross dreadfully. pain is the price of the depth of love we shared. But I can hear him saying, ‘live your life!’
despite my heartache, I feel blessed to have experienced such love. I wouldn’t have missed out on it.
‘I glanced over and he was having a seizure’