Verna Cook-Jackson, married with two adult sons and two adult step sons. No girls. A definite void in her life. An older athlete, personal fitness coach, frustrated tour guide and a past sports magazine writer. Doing the writing course to reinvigorate her enthusiasm to write her husband’s life story.
We hugged each other and cried. Not an out loud sobbing cry, just our two naked bodies lying together, hugging and quietly shaking from our private and personal tears. We were together, we were one. Not in the physical being but in the depths of our emotional love for one another.
We never set the scene for this moment, we never saw it coming. Had we known that we would end up clinging to each other in such a desperate embrace of togetherness or intimacy we would have avoided it. We would have stayed up later into the night and watched yet another inane television programme about forensic science and crime, or the world's best survivor or some improbable, unrealistic, medical tear jerker story.
But we didn't. We had pulled the bed sheets over our bodies, reached out for one another and, for the first time in a long while tenderly loved one another. Then lay there, clinging to each other and crying.
There were no words. It didn't need words. It did not need things to be said. At that moment in time we did not know whether we would ever be able to hold each other in this way again.
He had been given a life sentence. The surgeons had told him, "You have twelve weeks to live."
We were in week fourteen.
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