At some point, during my husband’s long and painful battle with cancer, he came to terms with the fact that this horrible, horrible illness was going to kill him. I can’t imagine what that feels like. I can’t imagine the fear, the pain, the emotional anguish that you must have to go through to reach a point where you are at peace with death. I had held him while he cried as he felt the fear and the pain and I tried to stay so strong; be a rock that he could hold on to but I cried, just a little, when he found peace.
My lovely, wonderful, broken man told me he needed to talk to me and so we sat down, him in a chair and me at his feet, holding hands. We then had this conversation:
Him: “So where are you going to stick me then?”
Me: “I thought that you’d want to be with your mum and dad”
Him: “No I don’t fancy that; it’s cold down there”
Me: “OK, if that’s what you want”
Him: “You know what to do about the music”
Me: “Yes, of course, I know what you like”
Him”Good, I’m glad we’ve got that sorted”
We sat for a long while. Him calm and serene and me crying just a little and fighting with every ounce of my being to not fall apart.
And that was how we planned my husband’s funeral.