I’d married my dream man and we were planning our future, when we received devastating news. Could our dreams survive? By Nicola Mansfield, 45
Stepping off the plane, the heat of the sun hit my face.
‘I’m so excited,’ I said to my new husband John.
I’d met John because I worked with his stepdad. Bored of me complaining that there were no decent men, he’d set us up and we’d hit it off!
After a whirlwind romance, we’d got married. And now we were on honeymoon, visiting my brother and his family in America.
We’d tried our luck in Las Vegas and visited the Grand Canyon, and it had been wonderful. But my favourite part was watching John with my niece and nephew.
‘Come on, Uncle John!’ they’d shouted.
‘You’re going to make a great dad,’ I told him later.
Our plan was to start a family after our honeymoon, but
when we got home, John wasn’t well.
He was exhausted, and then a few days later he collapsed at work.
I rushed to the hospital where doctors explained that he’d suffered three seizures.
It didn’t make sense. John was so healthy — he ate well and regularly did karate.
He had scans and tests and, two months later, we were called in for his results.
Sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs, we waited for the doctor to speak.
And when he did, our world collapsed.
‘You have a brain tumour,’ he told John.
Hand in hand, we listened in shock as the doctor said John would be assigned a specialist.
‘We’ll monitor the tumour for now,’ he explained.
We returned home, bewildered.
But, cradling mugs of tea, we knew we had some decisions to make.
Worried John would need chemotherapy in the future, we decided to freeze his sperm so we could still have a family.
We were glad we did, because afterwards he started getting more symptoms. So doctors decided to operate to remove his tumour, and then he had chemo and radiotherapy.
But six months on, there was devastating news.
'I think you should leave me'
John’s cancer had returned — and this time there was nothing the doctors could do.
We didn’t know if we had months left together or just weeks, but we knew that time was running out.
‘I think you should leave me,’ John said. ‘This can’t be your life, I want more for you.’
But I was determined to care for him.
Wanting to make the most of the time we had left, I contacted a charity called the Willow Foundation, which organised getaways for the terminally ill.
We went to the Lake District as John loved being outdoors.
Although he was tired, he insisted we went out in the fresh air and the hills, and we sat on a bench with our legs and arms entwined.
‘What would our future be like if this wasn’t happening?’ John asked.
As we sat there, we planned everything out…
We’d have twins — a boy and a girl. We’d call the boy Archie after a cheeky dog we’d met, and the little girl would be Ella, after the singer Ella Henderson who we both loved.
We even bought a small teddy for our future child at the gift shop.
It was all fantasy, of course, but it was what we needed.
When we got home, John began to deteriorate.
Watching him in pain, the same thought kept going through my mind.
John needs to be a dad before he dies.
We’d discussed IVF before, so one evening, I said: ‘What if I tried to get pregnant now?’
John looked at me and a huge grin formed on his face before he burst into tears.
‘I take it that’s a yes!’ I said, laughing through tears of my own.
I got the ball rolling, and my best friend Emma came to appointments with me when John became too weak to leave the house.
‘It’s unusual to be at the conception of your friend’s child,’ Emma joked at my insemination appointment.
A few days later, I did a pregnancy test.
And when I saw the result, I couldn’t wait to tell John.
‘Get in!’ he cried, delighted. ‘My stuff works!’
Even in pain and high on morphine, he still had his sense of humour.
The pregnancy gave John a new focus, and all we talked about was the baby.
Would it have my hair? Would it have John’s eyes?
But as I bloomed, it was clear that John was fading.
Believing we were on borrowed time, our Macmillan nurse pulled some strings to bring my scan forward, hoping I’d be able to tell John for certain that he was going to be a dad.
As the sonographer scanned my stomach, two little shapes appeared on screen and I gasped.
But that same morning, John lost consciousness.
‘He can still hear you… Tell him,’ his nurses told me.
So I said: ‘It’s twins. We’re having twins!’
John let out a small grunt.
It was all I needed — I knew he knew.
Everything we’d discussed for our future on that trip to the Lakes was coming true, but it was bittersweet.
While I was so happy I’d granted John his biggest wish, I felt devastated he wouldn’t be there to enjoy it.
And then a few days later, after months of fighting, John passed away in my arms.
At nine weeks pregnant, I’d lost the love of my life and the grief was overwhelming.
At the funeral, I placed two roses and the scan picture in John’s Spider-Man-themed coffin, but afterwards, I had no idea how I’d cope with raising the twins on my own.
Then, in the midst of my grief, I started getting strange headaches. I suffered hearing loss too and a numbness in my face.
I saw John’s old GP and was sent for a CT scan.
The diagnosis was shocking.
‘You have a brain tumour,’ the doctor said.
Although it wasn’t cancerous, the tumour was 4cm long and had to come out.
I was referred to the hospital where John had been treated.
Walking the same corridors, fear coursed through my veins.
All I could think was: How can this be happening?
To give me and the babies the best chance of survival, doctors wanted to get us to 32 weeks before operating.
But a month later, my symptoms grew worse and the operation was brought forward.
On my first Valentine’s Day without John — and at 23 weeks pregnant — I went into hospital for seven-hour brain surgery.
‘If anything happens, save the babies,’ I begged the doctors as they wheeled me into the operating theatre.
I’d had John’s ashes made into a ring which I was allowed to keep on during the operation. It was like he was with me.
Doctors managed to remove 95 per cent of the tumour — the rest would be removed after the babies were born, using a procedure known as stereotactic radiotherapy.
Afterwards, Emma and my brother looked after me. I was weak and my face had dropped on one side, but I was determined to keep going for the babies.
Then, at 32 weeks, I had a Caesarean and our babies arrived — a boy and a girl.
I named them Archie and Ella, just as John and I had planned.
Being premature, they spent six weeks in the special care unit before coming home to our house in Darlington, County Durham.
I was terrified — I missed John so much in that moment, but we slowly got into a routine.
And when the children took their first wobbly steps and spoke their first words, I thought: Your dad would be so proud.
Since then, they have blossomed.
They’re 11 now. Archie is the spitting image of his dad in both looks and personality, while Ella has inherited his creative side and sense of adventure.
We often talk about John. He’ll always be at the heart of our family.
And, fortunately, regular scans show that I’m doing well.
When John was ill, I started writing our story and it’s now become a book called Growing from Grief.
I hope it will encourage others going through difficult times to carry on.
There is life after death.
● Growing from Grief by Nicola Mansfield is available on Amazon.