I met my husband just over five years ago. We connected in a way I thought would never happen for me. I was 35, and not looking for any sort of relationship. I had in a sense given up on life. He accepted me for who I was and I accepted him the same. If you like we were two broken halves with broken edges that perfectly matched to make a whole. He was the kindest, most humble person that I have ever know, and with his help I healed from my life and got better. I went into remission for four years from self harm and suicide attempts. We started a life together and supported each other and I felt loved. Truly loved. I had never felt loved before I met him, not even growing up as a child.
The beginning of this year he got sick, and was diagnosed with prostate cancer. Within two weeks he was too far gone for the doctors to be able to help and so the journey to his death began. From February until 5th July this year I cared for my husband as I watched the disease take him from me. He became less the man I married and more the disease. He was bedridden early May and I gave him round the clock care. I watched him become just like those men that came out of the concentration camps. All through that he was gracious, only once in our life together did he ever push me away or raise his hand and I know that was the medications and the disease, not the man I loved.
It seemed to take so long. At one stage he got a leg infection and I got told there was nothing they could do and the decision was made to stop active treatment. The doctors told me he would only likely last 2 days, seven at the mostly. But weeks later I took him home with me to die. Six long weeks after that he was in his final days. Not able to eat for weeks, and finally unable to drink or even suck fluid. Two days before his death, he uttered his finally words. He told me he loved me. Those words hurt so much now that i'm alone. On his final two days I spent hours with him, I sung to him hours on end. Knowing it was the last time I would be able to spend any time with him. On Friday the 5th of July at 2:50pm I knew it was time and so I turned off the music and I stopped singing. At 3:01pm he drew his final breath. I was alone.
Now my broken heart is not complete. My remission is broken and I am sick once again. I miss him so much but I am struggling to find a way to hang on without the part that completes me.
R.I.P. My love David Wootton I won't ever forget you, no matter how much it hurts
