Thursday, 4 December 2014

The Letter I wish I'd written....

I recently entered a writing competition, where the subject given was 'The Letter I wish I'd Written'. Whilst I don't appear to have won said competition (!!) and was, therefore, incredibly nervous about publishing my entry in case it is just terrible, it really is the letter I wish I had written and I want it to be read. 
I know I have posted lots of quite emotional pieces this year, and this seems a good way to end them for 2014. 
Earlier this week, I posted a split screen picture of Carl, and today, Carl has also posted a picture I took of him sunbathing. Both, showing the way MND has effected him in just over a year. It really has. He uses a wheelchair almost every day, he's in agonising pain every night and the things people take for granted - like cutting up food, putting on socks or even snuggling under a quilt - are impossible. 
MND doesn't take everything though, and that's why I wish I had written this before now... 


I pretend I write all of my thoughts down, but I need you to know, I have a locked box full of unwritten words in my mind.
These are words from a previous life, when you were my fit, healthy boyfriend.
The key slotted into the lock shortly after you turned into my terminally ill fiancé and clicked shut the day you became my Husband.
That box contains the words for the letter I wish I had written and now I can open it and let them fall on to this page.
The night I bet everybody we would never be together, because we were ‘just friends’, was the night I realised I attracted to you.  From the way you lifted me up against the wall later that evening (we oozed class!!), to the way I was surprised at the chest you pulled your Christmas jumper back over the next morning, I had fallen for you.
Everything moved so quickly. I annoyed my friends with boasting about how fit you were – in both senses of the word. I would hide under the bed covers every morning and watch you do press ups, the muscles in your arms and back making me grin to myself from my hiding place.
The day of the football match in memory of Ben. The photo of you running with the ball, that you treasure more than anything now. The way you ran off the pitch to see me with your hoodie unzipped showing off your chest.  I was so proud to be with you.
We knew soon after that, we were forever and we rented a cottage. You spent days hammering things into walls whilst I watched.
Those words are locked up because they describe how you used to look. But the thing is, if I’d have written them back then, they would have been tiny bullet points in a much bigger love story. 
When I let the memories of the first night climb out of the box, the emphasis isn’t on your chest. It’s about the way we told the staff we were cleaners and tried to steal their mops so we could stay there, in that moment, long after closing time.
Yes, I would have mentioned the press ups and the football, but the best bit would have been the time you pretended you were tuning the TV to impress me, or the time you turned up at work with a puppy you had rescued because you knew how much I missed my dog.
I wish I had written those words because it would have shown you I didn’t just fall in love with what you looked like. I fell in love with you.
You recently asked me if, when your voice disappeared for good, would I be able to know what you were saying through your eyes. That moment, I promised myself that, every time you spoke, every time you laughed and every time you cried, I would imprint your eyes on my mind. And I did. Your eyes are beautiful.  I will always know what you are trying to say, I promise.
You watch your own muscles disappear daily. You point out huge holes in your hands and hide the photos where your shoulders look bony.  Those things do not make you. The thing that makes you is the way you use every last part of your aching hand to squeeze mine when I need you. The way you have found one part of your chest that doesn’t hurt when I lay my head on it.

You picked me up on the first night. You picked me up from sobbing on the bathroom floor the night you got diagnosed and, now the muscles in your arms have stopped working and you can’t even pick up a knife and fork, you pick me up in a way I didn’t even know was possible.
Motor Neurone Disease does not define you and I hope the letter I wished I had written is now in your hands. The box is open and the key has gone.
You are my husband and my best friend and I love you forever.

Small x


  1. That is such a beautiful and honest read xxx

  2. Love to both

    a sufferer too

  3. Hi Amy, I've sent you a message on Facebook. (It might come under "others" in your inbox) I know only too well how you're feeling. Best wishes, Sarah x

  4. Powerful . xox

  5. Hey, honey! What do you think about follow each other via bloglovin? If you want, just follow me there and I'll follow you back!


Please do leave me a lovely little message!