I thought we’d have forever – then a bee stung my husband

On 14 October 2021, I was sitting at the dining room table, answering work emails, when my husband Ryan returned from the gym. 

While rubbing his arm, he told me that he’d been stung by a bee on the way home and felt weird.

I could tell from Ryan’s voice that something was seriously wrong. 

I’d started dating Ryan when I was 24 and just two days earlier, we’d celebrated our eight-year wedding anniversary. Our three-year-old son Jackson, was at daycare, and I was 26 weeks pregnant. We were so excited to welcome another son.

But now, as Ryan started looking worse for wear, l called for an ambulance. ‘I think my husband’s in anaphylactic shock from a bee sting,’ I told the operator. ‘He has no history of being allergic.’

Ryan stumbled out the front door. When I followed, I found him slumped over, gasping for air. ‘Ryan!’ I cried. My heart was pounding as the operator asked me to perform CPR.

I started chest compressions and screamed for help, tears streaming. Moments later, the paramedics arrived, and Ryan went into cardiac arrest. They rushed him to hospital, and I followed in a police car, completely shaken, praying for Ryan to survive.

At hospital, I learned paramedics had got his heart beating, but prolonged oxygen deprivation had caused a severe anoxic brain injury.

When I saw my husband, it didn’t seem real. One moment we’d been sipping coffee together, the next Ryan was in a coma, covered in wires and hooked up to monitors.

Doctors placed a device called a bolt in his brain to monitor intracranial pressure. It would determine how much medication to administer, to help prevent brain death.

Three days later, my sister Rachel brought Jackson to the hospital. She, along with other friends, had been looking after him. 

‘Hey Jackson,’ I said, hugging him. ‘Daddy’s had an accident. He’s sick and can’t come home.’ Aged three, Jackson thankfully couldn’t grasp the enormity of the situation. 

Due to Covid restrictions and children not being allowed in ICU, it was a month before we gained permission for Jackson to see Ryan. ‘You can talk to him and hug him,’ I said. At first Jackson was hesitant, then he climbed onto the hospital bed to sit with his daddy, who was still in a coma.

By some miracle, Ryan survived and though he had avoided brain death, when he was discharged from ICU, he was still completely unaware of his surroundings – he couldn’t talk, move his limbs or feel emotions and was often sat in a wheelchair, eyes closed, in a vegetative state with no quality of life.

Every morning, I dropped Jackson at daycare and drove over an hour to the hospital. I’d stay with Ryan all day, then pick Jackson up. I was on autopilot.

I constantly dreaded getting a phone call that Ryan had developed another bout of pneumonia. He was constantly choking on his secretions from his tracheostomy, and his hands and feet developed contractures (tightening of tissues).

Nine weeks after the accident, I was booked in for a C-section on 8 January 2022. 

I was 37 weeks but had to deliver early due to having cholestasis – a pregnancy complication. 

My sister-in-law Morgan came to support me. But when we both tested positive for Covid, I gave birth alone. And due to restrictions, it was an hour before I held our baby. Gazing at him, I just felt numb.

The next day, Jackson beamed when I introduced him to his baby brother, who I’d named Leo Joseph. Ryan and I had chosen his first name, and Joseph was Ryan’s middle name.

My mother-in-law Karen moved in temporarily to help me. Then when Leo was a month old, I was allowed to take him to see Ryan. I lay him on his chest, mourning the bond they would never share. I took pictures, far from the family photos I’d dreamed of. 

Back home, I nursed a newborn and wrangled a toddler, all while the person I’d planned forever with drifted further away. 

Five months after the accident, a doctor explained Ryan wasn’t improving cognitively and was deteriorating physically. ‘He’ll never make a meaningful recovery,’ the doctor said sadly.

My tall, strong, handsome husband had worked in the police force for 10 years. But now I barely recognised him, in his vegetative state.

After weeks of difficult discussions with Ryan’s family, filled with tears, guilt and sadness, we decided to withdraw all life sustaining care and place him on hospice.

‘The doctors can’t get Daddy better,’ I told Jackson. ‘He’s going to die, but before then you can hug and kiss him goodbye.’ 

‘Okay,’ he nodded.

In March 2022, 10 years to the day since we fell in love, Ryan received a beautiful procession held by hundreds of police and K9 units – a tribute to his decade of loyal service.

The following month, after 22 days in hospice, a nurse came to me and told me it was time. I reached Ryan’s bedside in time to see his last breaths. His lips curled into a smile, then he was gone. He was 35.

Alone with a four-month-old and four-year-old, I felt like I was drowning. Just knowing Ryan would never carry Jackson on his shoulders again, or get the chance to cuddle Leo, killed me.

That night, I lay on Ryan’s side of the bed and took off my wedding rings, a tragic reminder of what I’d lost. I sobbed as I flicked through photos and videos of him. Without me knowing, he’d filmed me the morning of the accident. 

‘The love of my life, there she goes,’ he said to the camera. ‘What a lady.’ It was his ‘last goodbye’ and ‘I love you’ to me.

The following month, hundreds of people attended Ryan’s funeral, a celebration of his life. Afterwards, I realised something.

I could allow his death to eat away at me, or I could make a conscious effort to show purpose for myself and our boys.

I chose the latter. 

Just like Ryan had, I filled our house with dancing, singing, laughter and love. I learned to pay the bills and take the bins out, giving me a new strength and confidence.

Still, there were heartbreaking moments. In May, on Mother’s Day, Jackson said: ‘It’s just the three of us mama.’ It was never supposed to be this way, I thought.

I wanted to feel anything but completely lost and devastated. And so I thought about dating because I wanted someone to see me for me and not the tragedy that I had been through.

In June 2022, I signed up to a dating website. I wasn’t necessarily looking for ‘the one’, I just wanted to feel alive again.

I don’t think any widow truly feels ‘ready’ when they first put themselves out in the world to date again after losing a spouse. It is uncharted, messy, and scary territory no matter what.

I received a message from a man called Anthony. I’m a widow with two young children, I wrote. If I thought it would scare him off, I was wrong. He was understanding – and interested. He didn’t see my widowhood as baggage.

At our first date in a restaurant, I noticed a warmness about him. And when he met the boys, he was a natural, playing Lego with Jackson and feeding Leo. That was when I knew he wasn’t just a fling, he was the real thing. I felt that Ryan had orchestrated this amazing man into our lives to heal us and make us feel whole again.

Anthony was patient, kind, confident, and grounded. Being around him made me feel calm, like a big warm blanket wrapped around me. He took to helping me parent the boys effortlessly. 

The time spent with him was the only time I felt myself relax, like I had someone else to shoulder the load with me. He is the security and safety our little family unit lost when Ryan died. And as weird as it sounds, if Ryan couldn’t be here, he would want someone exactly like Anthony to take the torch from him.

In February, nearly two years after we met, Anthony and I were on a walk on a forest trail we have travelled on so many times before, when he dropped to one knee. ‘Will you be my wife?’ he asked. ‘Yes!’ I cried. I jumped into his arms, crying with laughter and excitement. 

We had discussed marriage but him proposing at that moment came as a huge and welcome surprise. I couldn’t wait to start the next phase of our relationship.

Now I work as a grief coach after giving up my job as a lawyer, which I stopped when Ryan died. I share my journey on social media and among the supportive comments, I receive harsh criticism from online strangers as I build a life after losing Ryan.

People who follow me on social media say I moved on too quickly and I’ve received comments like: ‘she should focus on her kids’, or ‘she was probably messing around before his death’.

Of course their words can hurt, but I don’t waste my time replying to them. To my surprise, I’ve noticed that others who share their happiness for me often jump to my defence, which is really amazing.

As for Ryan’s family, grief complicates relationships and although I wish things were different with some family members, I’m at peace right now. 

I’m grateful I’ve found someone to walk through life with me, Jackson, now six, and two-year-old Leo. It feels like a gift from Ryan. And though being with Anthony doesn’t magically fix my grief, he has softened the hardest parts of me.

He accepts the messiest and most beautiful parts of our life, treats the boys like they’re his own, and is such a gentleman that he can hug and comfort a widow when she is crying about the man she lost.

I try not to think about how painful it will be for the boys when the gravity of their loss hits. I hate that I didn’t get to say a proper goodbye to Ryan or tell him I love him. I hate that I couldn’t save him. I just hope he’s at peace.

To those struggling with grief, know that even in deep despair and sadness, there’s another story waiting. 

A loved one’s death doesn’t have to be the end for you – it might be just the beginning.

As told to Julia Sidwell

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