My husband was a joker and a family man. But one day, he collapsed on the sofa and our lives changed forever. By Tina Ostler, 43
Dear Kevin,
You were a force of nature from the moment we met at a mutual friend’s get-together and you chatted my ears off.
I thought you were funny, but I wasn’t interested in a romantic way, as you were eight years older than me, and tattooed guys weren’t really my type.
But you lived nearby, and we kept bumping into each other.
‘Hey, it’s you!’ you’d call out, when you spotted me in a shop or on the street. ‘How are you doing?’
I’d joke and say: ‘Not you again!’
But I was struck by your confidence and ability to chat to anyone about anything.
As time passed, I got to know you better.
You were the life and soul of every party.
Everyone had a good time when you were around, including me.
And it wasn’t just your confidence I found attractive.
I came to realise you were kind to everyone you met and a hard worker at your factory job.
When you asked me out on a date, I accepted.
You supported me as my grandad was dying, and before long, we were deeply in love.
I’d return home after a long day of caring for Grandad, and you were always there to give me a hug.
At his funeral, you held my hand and kept me strong.
In time, I fell pregnant.
You were so excited, and when we found out I was carrying a baby girl, you said: ‘Let’s call her Emily.’
I laughed and said: ‘But your friend just named his new baby Emily.’
‘He won’t mind,’ you said. ‘I really like that name.’
When little Emily arrived, you were so proud.
We settled into life as new parents, and as the months passed, our home was filled with so much love and laughter.
Emily ran rings around you.
One day, we discovered she’d redecorated our bathroom using a whole tub of cream.
The room was a complete mess, but we couldn’t help
but laugh.
Years passed, and we went on to welcome two more daughters — Freya and Bella.
You were soft, and the girls knew they could get away with anything around you.
You worked hard to provide for our family, but in your free time, you took the girls on bike rides and dog walks, often stopping to see the horses, too.
If anything needed fixing around the house, you were quick to sort it out.
It made me laugh how obsessed you were about the paving in the back garden.
You ripped it up and replaced it more times than
I could count.
Our friends found it funny as well, and I’d update them whenever you decided to tinker with the paving.
'My girls feel sad enough'
I’d text: He’s at it again.
When Freya was a teenager, we started growing our own fruit and veg.
I bought a greenhouse and you stepped in to build it
for us.
But in the middle of putting it up, you came back inside with a pained expression on your face.
‘Tina, I don’t feel well,’ you said.
I joked and said: ‘Are you trying to get out of your work?’
‘No, there’s something wrong,’ you said.
You asked me to fetch you a glass of milk.
After drinking it, you sat down on the sofa.
But you started being sick and your body was convulsing.
You were always such a joker that at first, I wondered if it was some sort of elaborate prank.
‘Stop messing around,’
I said, slapping your face.
But I realised something was seriously wrong.
You were struggling to breathe, and a terrible rattling sound came from your throat before you collapsed.
I told Freya, 14, to take Bella, 11, into the other room.
Then I shouted for Emily, 22, to come and help.
Emily was a student nurse and you would have been so proud of how quickly she leapt into action and started CPR.
As I dialled 999, Emily kept tearfully pressing down on your chest.
But by the time paramedics arrived, it was too late.
You were my best friend, and the most wonderful dad our girls could have wished for, and now, you were gone.
Even worse, our girls had witnessed the whole thing.
Later, I learnt you’d had a clot in your leg that we were unaware of and it had led to coronary thrombosis and sudden cardiac death.
We felt utterly heartbroken, and I wished I could erase your daughter’s horrifying memories of your final moments.
The girls and I agreed your funeral should be happy and fun, in memory of your joyful personality.
‘My girls feel sad enough,’
I told the funeral director.
‘I want them to celebrate their dad.’
We invited close friends and family to join us in writing messages and drawing on your coffin.
Your workmates held a collection and raised money to cover the cost of your funeral.
On the day, so many people turned up to pay their respects.
We played your favourite Lewis Capaldi songs, and had a photo of you showing your bottom so you were mooning your mourners.
It was the kind of silly humour that made everyone love you so much.
As your funeral fell on my birthday, the funeral director surprised me with flowers and a card signed with your fingerprints.
The girls and I made heart-shaped jewellery with your ashes.
'I'm so proud of you'
But we wanted to do more to honour your legacy.
On the night of your
death, as I’d watched Emily fight to keep you alive, I’d remembered there was a defibrillator at our local supermarket.
But it was too far away, and I wondered whether we could have saved you if there’d been a defibrillator closer to hand.
So, we began fundraising to have defibrillators installed outside local pubs, so anyone could access them at any time.
Freya struggled with anxiety and autism, and had a fear of bridges.
But she overcame her challenges to complete a sponsored walk across Humber Bridge, near our home in Hull, East Yorkshire, and raised more than £400.
I told her: ‘I’m so proud
of you!’
The broadband company Connexin heard about Freya’s triumph and covered the rest of the donation for a defibrillator to be installed outside our local pub, The Barrowman.
And The Oliver King Foundation, a charity started by a dad who lost his 12-year-old son to cardiac arrest, gave me CPR training.
We’re still fundraising for defibrillators to be installed outside more pubs, and to support The Oliver King Foundation so they can keep up their life-saving work.
But we miss you so much, Kevin.
Emily left her nursing course, as the memories of the night you died upset her so much.
But when we think of you, we want to remember all the laughter, not the tears.
I was painting our fence recently, and accidentally
spilt paint on your beloved paving.
I laughed, looked up to the heavens and said: ‘You’re going to haunt me for this, aren’t you, Kevin?’
We’ll always smile when we think of you, and we’ll do our best to raise as much money as we possibly can for The Oliver King Foundation, and to have more defibrillators installed in public places.
We don’t want other families to lose someone who feels as precious to them as you were to us.
Love always,
Tina x
● To donate, visit aeddonate.org.uk/projects/aedinmemoryofkev
● Tina is donating her fee from this story to the fundraiser.