Deirdre Fagan was devastated when her husband was diagnosed with a terminal illness. Then he gave her the greatest gift of all…
I loved the whirlwind of family life. As Maeve, 15, and Liam, 21, grabbed breakfast, I’d reach over to kiss Dave, goodbye. ‘Have a great day. I love you,’ I’d say as I stepped towards the front door.
Then, I’d picture Bob, my husband for 11 years, and I smiled. No one would be happier than him to see this. After all, it was what he wanted…
It was May 2000 when Bob and I had our first date.
I’d known he was clever; we’d met at the university where we were both mature students and teachers. But behind his biceps and earring, this 31-year-old was also the funniest and kindest guy. The sparks flew.
A few dates later, Bob accepted a job a thousand miles away. ‘Aren’t you going to say congratulations?’ he asked. Wrapped up in his arms, I just knew. This was something real.
Within six weeks of our long distance relationship, we’d both said ‘I love you’. My friends and family adored him. ‘You’re two halves of the same person,’ I heard over and over. I felt the same.
In August 2001, when I was 31, we’d married on the beach. People said marriage was about sacrifice, but it never felt like that for us. Even when we argued, it never lasted more than five minutes.
Bob was an amazing dad to our son Liam, born in March 2003, and Maeve, who arrived in April 2008.
Life wasn’t always easy. Despite both working as academics, money was tight, and there were all the pressures of having young children.
I’d also been through a lot of heartache. Before I’d met Bob my brother Paul had died by suicide at 25, and I’d lost my mum, Maureen,at 51 to cancer. Since our marriage, my dad Frank had died from a heart attack aged 68 and my other brother Sean from liver failure at 40. Bob supported me through it all.
But when he told me about a doctor’s appointment in December 2011, I had no idea that our happiness was about to be shattered.
I didn’t worry when he was referred to a local neurologist. Or when that doctor mentioned something called Lou Gehrig ’s disease. In denial, I refused to think about it.
But on 30 December we’d driven hours to another hospital. Watching Bob walk through those doors, sitting in the car with our kids, panic set in.
Opening my laptop, I read about Lou Gehrig ’s disease for the first time. Also called Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis, or ALS, it’s a fatal motor neuron disease.
‘He’ll call and tell me it’s nothing,’ I told
