The evening of February 7, 2019, was like every other in any February: cold, dark and damp. As I drove my husband Paul to hospital to get the results of tests he’d undergone for a troublesome stomach ulcer, we were planning where to book for our family summer holiday — to remind ourselves that sunny days weren’t that far away.
We walked from the car park and through the hospital’s revolving door, still chatting about holidays.
But the smile left my face within just seconds of my husband giving his name to the receptionist.
