Fly high, Superman xx

It's been 24 days since Steve died. He'd been chatting to me in the morning, albeit slightly slurred due to the amount of medication he was taking. The nurse had come to change his syringe driver, as she did every morning. She left the house around 10.45am, and at 12.30pm, she was at the side of our bed, pronouncing his death as he slipped away in my arms with his family around him, holding his hands.

We knew Steve wasn't going to get better, but we thought he had longer. Nobody expected Thursday 12th November to be the day. Shock set in immediately, for all of us.

Esmée played downstairs with a few family members, blissfully unaware of the devastating events taking place in the room above her.

I don't remember much of the last three weeks. The days have merged into one indescribably painful, yet completely surreal nightmare. I feel as though I'm having an out-of-body experience. It's like I'm floating, watching someone else's life fall apart in front of them, or as though I'm watching what should be happening 60 years from now, if it really had to happen at all.

I threw myself into planning Steve's funeral. Everything had to be absolutely right, the perfect send-off for the perfect husband and daddy. Steve's parents and I got together several times to discuss factors we needed to consider and ideas we'd had.

I made arrangements for a florist to visit the house - the same florist who did such a stunning job on our wedding flowers just two short years ago. We talked about various ideas - sprays, heart shapes, bright colours but not too "girly" - before eventually settling on something very unusual, and very "Steve" - a Superman tribute. He'd been known as Superman for years and had the outfit to match. He was my Superman, and everyone's Superman.

Steve's dad looked around some local venues to find a place fitting for a celebration following the funeral, and after showing me the favourites, we agreed on a beautiful harbour side hotel about 15 minutes from our house.

Steve's sister and brother-in-law took to designing and printing the Order Of Service cards for the funeral, which were absolutely beautiful. We included a poem written about Steve by one of his good friends.

I ordered personalised packets of forget-me-not seeds for mourners to take away and plant in his memory, and I arranged for the crematorium staff play a short, funny clip of Steve at the end of the service, right before the exit music played.

We all agreed that as a reflection of Steve's fun-loving, confident and hilarious personality, we would ask guests to dress in bright colours. This was to be the celebration of a wonderful (although short) life, and the beautiful soul of my husband.

The funeral was nothing short of the perfect send-off my incredible husband deserved. We had booked the biggest chapel in the area as Steve has always been so popular. There was no room left to stand, let alone sit. There were around 300+ people there, and I was inundated with apologies from people who'd wanted, but weren't able, to attend. We decided on a Humanist service, as Steve didn't have any particular religious beliefs. My dad delivered an amazing eulogy, and a close friend of Steve's spoke brilliantly as well. I believe we all did him proud and I don't think it could have gone any better than it did.

Now that the shock has started to wear off, I feel the deepest, rawest sadness I've ever known, as though a part of me has died with my husband. The fact that his death was expected doesn't take away from the immense shock, emptiness and crushing heartbreak. I knew within days of meeting Steve that he was the person I'd spend my life with. Everyone knew it, it couldn't have been more obvious that we were made for each other. I'm now facing life without him and that scares and saddens me beyond words.

He has, however, left me the most beautiful legacy, and I thank him everyday for Esmée. There hasn't been a day go past that she hasn't made me laugh. She keeps me strong despite the pain in my heart, and reminds me why I need to keep pushing on. Her little giggle is infectious, I can't help but laugh when she does. She gives me kisses and cuddles, strokes my face, climbs all over me and is an absolute joy. She is truly my world and for that reason, I will find a way to be "okay".

Esmée is at an age where she doesn't understand what's happened, if anything, but still recognises Steve in photos. She reaches out for them, smiling, clapping and waving. It breaks my heart but warms it at the same time, to know that she knows her daddy.

There have been days when I've woken up feeling strong and ready to take on the world. There are other days when the room spins around me, I'm sick and every breath in feels like an axe to the heart, a bit like when it's freezing cold outside and you take a deep breath in and it really hurts, except 100 times worse. I've had nightmares which have had me in tears before I've even opened my eyes, and I've had nicer dreams about him too. I haven't felt "alone" - I feel like he's with me all the time. I really believe that he is.

For now, I've adopted the method of taking things one hour at a time. When I absolutely cannot see a way to get through the rest of my life with this big Steve-shaped hole, I look at the time, and tell myself to just focus on getting through the next hour. So far, I have successfully made it through every hour that I've tried to make it through, so I think I'm doing okay. Esmée keeps me going and has me smiling constantly, despite the pain in my heart. I see Steve appear strongly in her and that brings me more comfort than I can explain.

I've been completely overwhelmed by the support and love I've had from my friends and family, and from Steve's. I knew they'd all be there for Esmée and I, but they've really carried me through the past few weeks and I'm so grateful for that.

I don't know where this blog is going to go now, if anywhere. But I thank you so much for reading, and I may write again one day.

Love, Gina x