Carly Sykes, 30, lives in Dover, Kent, with her son Thomas, 18 months. Her husband, Paul, 28, died suddenly last April.
When I married Paul in August 2003, I never dreamt that just two years later, I'd be back at the same church for his funeral service.
Paul died from myocarditis, a rare heart infection. He simply dropped dead on the football pitch during a game. Ironically, he was the fittest person I knew. He was a semi-professional football player and a milkman who literally ran his round.
I got a call from his friend Gareth, saying he'd been injured on the pitch and an ambulance had been called. Driving to hospital with my mother-in-law, I didn't panic, but when we got there I suddenly felt chilled and sick.
As soon as I saw Gareth's stony face I knew he'd gone. My heart seemed to stop and I threw up. The shock was so bad, I went into autopilot. I couldn't decide whether to have a cremation or a burial. We'd never discussed it, let alone made a will.
The grief came after his cremation. I filled his side of the bed will pillows, but I couldn't sleep. I'd clutch his jumper, which I refused to wash, and inhale his scent. It seems such a waste. We had all our plans and dreams before us. We were going to grow old together, but now it's all gone. Life's so empty. I'm determined to keep Paul's memory alive for Thomas, who was just nine months old when he died. He always says, 'Goodnight, Daddy' to a photo of Paul, and we visit his grave twice a week. But it breaks my heart that Paul can't see how much he's changing. He'll never play football with Thomas, take him to school, help him become a man. It's so unfair. When you lose someone unexpectedly, you're suddenly aware of not knowing what's around the corner. I don't bother making plans any more – I know life can change in an instant.
To help my grief, I contacted CRY, an organisation that helps people cope with a sudden death. Through them I met other young widows, which has really helped. I'm not ready for another relationship yet but I've started socialising again. I hope one day I'll remarry and have more children. No one will replace Paul, but I know he wouldn't want me to be on my own. That's the only advantage of being a young widow, people don't expect you to grieve forever.
