Husband who told his wife to find new love - from beyond the grave

PUBLISHED: 17:19 EST, 13 October 2013 | UPDATED: 17:19 EST, 13 October 2013

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Nicola Campbell with her late husband Colin who died in February 2012 at the age of just 38

As I watched my three year-old daughter, Evie, run into my partner’s arms last week, I felt my heart twist with sadness that the man swinging her up in the air and making her squeal with delight wasn’t her daddy.

Her father, my husband of three years, Colin, collapsed and died on the pavement of a South London street at 3.01pm on February 25, 2012 at the age of just 38.

The unspeakable grief I felt at having him ripped so suddenly from our lives may be less raw, but it will never leave me.

And although I have been fortunate enough to find that life still has new joys in store for me and my two little girls, his loss will always tinge this happiness at the edges.

At the time of Col’s death, our babies, 22-month-old Evie and nine-week-old Isla, and I were just coming round from a Saturday lunchtime snooze in our beautiful house in Earlsfield, South-West London.

As I woke, I was only alerted to the fact that something was amiss by the incessant ringing of the house phone and the number of missed calls on my mobile from Col’s mum.

I thought perhaps Col’s dad had been taken ill.

But no. She’d had a frightening call asking for medical details about Colin from a paramedic at the scene where he’d been taken ill after a game of tennis.

Keen to reassure my extremely shaken mother-in-law that he was OK, I phoned the local A&E, expecting to hear he had been brought in with a broken bone.

Dead was not in my vocabulary. So it made no sense when the woman on the line at the hospital asked for his name and said she’d check the cardiac department to see if anyone had been brought in. Cardiac? Why?

An hour later, no nearer to finding out what had happened, I was planning to go to the hospital when a policeman arrived at my front door. At that moment, life fell apart.

My love had dropped dead of Sudden Arrhythmic Death Syndrome — sometimes called sudden adult death syndrome — as 500 people do every year, and he was never coming home to us. The pain of loss was indescribable, and as physical as it was emotional.

It was hard to fathom how my perfect life had been so abruptly snatched away from me. Growing up in Edinburgh, I had the usual girlish dreams of marrying my true love.

I knew as soon as I met Col on holiday in Turkey in 2001, when I was 25, that he was The One.

As a divorce lawyer, it took him a little longer — seven years to be exact — to get used to the idea of marriage. But once he had it all — the wedding, the wife, the children, our home — he said he wished he’d done it all sooner.

We decided to enjoy a year of ‘just us’ after our wedding before having Evie in 2010.

Then, a year and a half later, Isla made our little family complete. Now widowhood had turned me into a single parent overnight — and I wasn’t prepared.

'We were soon going out for dinner and meeting for coffee and long walks, but it took a few months before I introduced him to the girls,' said Nicola (pictured with new partner Cameron)

Being a widow was — is — lonely. Of course, I had our two beautiful children, but part of the joy of parenthood is sharing those precious moments with the one person who adores your babies just as much as you. Instead, here I was with two babies — his babies — and no him.

At first, I could barely function. Even trips to the supermarket threw up all sorts of heartbreak. I’d find myself weeping in the aisles because, for a second, I’d forgotten he’d gone and almost bought him a special steak, or thrown his usual razors into the trolley.

Weekends — Saturdays in particular, because he died on that day — were utterly miserable. Play parks, cafes — everywhere seemed to be filled with happy families.

The girls kept me going but they have also been hard work. When they were sick there was no one there through the night to share the sleeplessness or the worry.

When they were naughty there was no one to turn to for advice or reassurance. And when they did something new, such as walking or talking, it was bittersweet — because I couldn’t turn to see Col’s face beam with pride.

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Ever a practical person, I moved back to Edinburgh to be close to my family. I also started writing a blog to vent my anger and frustration, and the supportive comments from other widows really helped.

They helped me reconcile myself to the fact that, impossible as it might seem that I would ever move on, in those early months after his death, one day, I would be ready to fill the gaping hole he had left in our lives by meeting someone new.

So, one lonely night around the dark days of a first Christmas without Col, I signed up for an online dating site.

It was a mistake. Emails came in asking simple questions such as, ‘How are you?’, ‘What brings you to Edinburgh?’ and ‘What have you been up to today?’ and I couldn’t help dropping widow bombs in reply.

‘I moved to Scotland because my husband died,’ I wrote back to one, and to another, ‘I had a day of changing nappies and general child-rearing all on my own because my husband dropped dead.’

Unsurprisingly, most conversations stopped.

'It took me a while to let people know about Cameron,' said Nicola

Obviously not ready to move on, I logged off.

But a few months later, encouraged by another widow friend who was considering making the same move, I decided to try a different dating site.

I went on four dates and although they were nice, if you’ve been in love before, you know when there is or isn’t chemistry.

And it was hard not to spend an evening looking across the table wishing someone else were sitting opposite me.

After six months, I was on the cusp of giving it up again when friends persuaded me to persevere.

I met Cameron, a 47-year-old sales manager, on my very next date. From the early emails, texts and phone calls it was clear he was different.

Then, on our first dinner out in June, all the cliches applied.

Conversation flowed, he made me laugh, there was a spark and I could tell he was more than a one-date-kind-of-date.

A dad of two boys, aged three and eight, and going through a divorce, he is thoughtful, sensitive and caring.

Meeting people when you’re older isn’t the same as dating in your 20s.

Your responsibilities and reservations, especially if you have children, are ten-fold.

But I felt such a connection with Cameron that I couldn’t ignore it.

We were soon going out for dinner and meeting for coffee and long walks, but it took a few months before I introduced him to the girls, still wary about bringing a new person into their lives.

They met initially in a busy cafe and I told them he was a friend. All went amazingly well and we carried on meeting out and about in museums and parks, away from each other’s houses, diluting the pressure by joining our kids together.

I’ve never sat down and said to Evie and Isla, ‘this is Cameron and he’s my boyfriend’. It’s been more organic than that and it’s worked.

Although being physically close with someone other than Col, after more than a decade with one man, was initially odd, it was also lovely. It took me a while to let people know about Cameron because I worried they would think I didn’t care about Col any more.

But I know I will never forget what I have lost. I just feel lucky it’s been possible to move on to find someone so special for a second time.

Introducing Cameron to my family has been hard. At every gathering since his death, the Colin-shaped hole is still apparent. But Cameron has resolutely remained his fun, likeable self throughout and is steadily carving his own niche.

Even my mother-in-law has given us her blessing and is looking forward to meeting him in a few weeks, joking with me that I haven’t told him too many ‘mother-in-law’ tales.

But I know she’s sad, too. My moving on brings a finality to Col’s death, drawing a firmer line underneath it.

I might be more haunted by what Col would have thought were it not for an email I received from Ed, Col’s best friend and best man at our wedding.

When Ed read my blog entry about Cameron, he wrote to tell me about a morbid conversation he and Col had had a few years back, around the time we had Evie, about what they would wish for their wives if they should die.

‘Col told me he would want you to find someone else,’ Ed wrote.

‘I made some joke about it, suggesting his ego would surely want some hardcore mourning, but he repeated himself and was very clear.

‘He explained that he would want you and Evie to be happy, which he knew meant you should be free to find someone else. This has his blessing.’

These words felt like a message directly from Col.

As for Cameron, it can’t be easy dating a widow with two children who look so much like their father.

And at 22 months, Isla is starting to realise that he is not the daddy in the photos on the mantelpiece.

Blending our families was never going to be smooth, but he’s trying his best. He hugs us when we cry, buys thoughtful gifts for us all and is there for us.

We’ve been together for five months now and it makes me so happy to see Evie and Isla with a significant male figure in their lives. I can’t say father figure yet, that feels disloyal to Col.

For now they call him Cameron. I’m not sure what the future holds, but if losing Col has taught me anything, it’s to make the most of what you have — and who you love — while you can.

I know Col would want nothing less for me and for his girls.

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exxpertskier, london, 21 minutes ago

Inspirational and honest. I wish you happiness. Its obvious you were truly loved and that love never leaves your heart.

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rosio, basingstoke um, 33 minutes ago

You are a very brave lady and your husband would have been so proud of you. I know you and your girls will never forget him but you now know for sure that he wished happy lives for you if he couldn't stay with you. I hope you can fulfil his wish.