Talking about death with the love of your life is devastating, but I’m so grateful I did

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Dealing with a partner’s terminal diagnosis is heartbreaking and brings the need for many painful conversations. Photo / Getty Images
Crucial donations of blood meant our sons will now remember their dad – and I could prepare for his death

The hardest conversation I’ve ever had to have began with me swallowing the lump in my throat, blinking back my tears and reaching to clasp my husband’s hand.
“I know we will fight this disease as hard as we can, but we need to talk about what happens if you … if you … can’t do that,” I said. “We need to talk about what happens if you die, Mike.”

The words felt almost impossible to say because life without him seemed utterly incomprehensible. Ever since he’d been diagnosed with a rare and aggressive form of leukaemia 15 months earlier, we refused to accept it could end his life.
My husband – a fit, vibrant 1.93m former policeman – was only in his mid-40s. We had two young sons. This could not be it. Our bloody-minded determination had become our coping mechanism. But once the words were out, Mike didn’t seem hurt or angry or think that I’d given up on him – he seemed relieved.
The next few hours were heartbreaking as Mike lay in bed dictating letters to our sons while I tearfully typed them on my laptop. He told each of our boys how much they were loved and described beautifully all the tiny reasons that made each of them so special. He also made recordings: “I love you Joseph” and “I love you Lucas” – I wanted them to always be able to hear that. Later, those recordings would be sewn into soft cuddly wolves (we were his “wolf pack”), so they could forever squeeze their wolf and hear their daddy’s voice.
This was also a chance for Mike to tell me the practical things that he’d wanted to share with me, but hadn’t known how to – about his life insurance, his will, bank accounts and passwords. Mike was so desperate to try to make life as smooth as possible in the event of his death. And I got to ask him about a funeral, and he told me he didn’t want one – instead he wanted a glorious “celebration of life”. A happy day, not a sad one, a chance for all his many friends and loved ones to gather and share stories. A time to laugh and cry.
When, 10 weeks later, Mike died in July, it was every bit as agonising as I imagined. And yet today, I am so very grateful for that conversation. I’m also so very thankful to all the people in the UK who donate blood to help others. This meant Mike was able to extend his life by 16 months and gave us all precious memories to cherish forever.
I was 25 when I first met Mike. One of my best friends from school was in the police force and wanted to set me up with someone. There were 20 policemen sitting there in the pub, and one of them was Mike, who my friend wanted to set me up with. He was handsome, a trained chef and a DJ on the side. From that moment in 2008, we instantly clicked, marrying in 2013, and after one round of IVF were thrilled to welcome our son Joseph in 2017 and Lucas – a lovely surprise – arrived in 2019.
We had everything we could wish for in life and were so happy. But at the start of 2023, Mike kept getting infections. He’d put the fences up in our garden in Orpington and came in unusually breathless. I packed him off for a blood test, but in the days waiting for his results Mike’s skin turned strangely yellow. By the end of April last year we received the news that Mike was very anaemic, his haemoglobin (red blood cell count) was 53. It should be 110-130 – an immediate blood transfusion was needed. Leukaemia was confirmed the next day.
The following months were a constant stream of hospital appointments for chemotherapy, blood transfusions and a stem cell transplant. Mike lost 20kg along with all his hair because his leukaemia was an incredibly rare and aggressive kind.
If it hadn’t been for the blood transfusions Mike would have died immediately. What those precious extra months gave us were the chance to make memories as a family.
It meant whenever Mike was well enough, we went for walks with the boys and we went out for lunches and dinners. We both loved our food.
In the small windows where Mike felt okay, we managed a weekend away in Hastings with our family and Mike was determined to play with the boys despite not feeling 100%. He always put them first, but I pushed him to spend time with his friends, too, he watched Everton v Crystal Palace and saw his old police buddies to eat an £80 ($170) steak at Hawksmoor. He even DJ-ed for his friend’s birthday party. None of this would have been possible had it not been for the donated blood.
When the time eventually came, Mike went peacefully and was not in pain. I held his hand, played his favourite Ibiza chill-out tunes and told him to rest now, and that he was loved, that I would make him proud, and that I’d make sure our boys had the best life possible.
I’ve lost the love of my life and my best friend, but I had to do something positive in his memory. And the thing that felt most appropriate was asking people to give blood. “A pint for Mike” became something to campaign for and the outpouring of support has been incredible.
I’m a deputy head teacher and many former students have donated and made me cry, saying things like “You helped me Miss, when I needed it – I wanted to help you.”
I want people to know their small acts of kindness – donating their blood – can make such a difference and save lives. Though Mike could not be saved, I can’t tell you how much it means to have been able to have had the time to create memories. They say the first five years of a child’s life are critical for their development and our youngest turned 5 just before Mike passed. He will now remember his dad.
I am so grateful for all of this. And to have had the chance to have that difficult conversation in the hospital. I owe it to Mike to find the positives in life and to cherish all the love we were lucky enough to have.
As told to Susana Galton
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