The words hung there like a knife, poised over the jugular vein, hanging in mid air with a level of pause, ugly, damned and with the possibility of obliterating a beautiful life.

'At this time, I believe Mr Hall has longer than 12 months to live but likely has two years'.

We knew this and had been told the diagnosis by his Doctor. But yet, seeing it written in black and white was brutal. There is no soft words, no words of encouragement, no hope.

I watched John tell me how he felt reading the medical report. The Cafe was quiet albeit for the occasional clink of the coffee machine and hiss of the steam wand. He sat across from me, crumpled, exhausted from the emotion, the reality. I wanted to take it all away for him but knew that was not within my power.

But what disturbed him the most was what he might leave behind. Not what he must endure, and not what he might miss out on. The love, the laughter that surrounds him now. All he worries about is us. Me, the kids, Erik, George and Harriet, his friends and family. This man has no bounds, his love for others has no limits.

He is a great soul mate. A great lover. A great father. A great friend. He manages to straddle those roles with ease now he has confronted his demons and become the man I always knew was there. It was hidden for so many years but we can all see the real John now, the John not masked by his brutal upbringing nor his coping mechanisms. This incredibly caring, living, kind, honest human. The person who pays forward, who buys that special gift, that lives and adores his family friends. I struggle to think of life on this planet without him. Yes I have so much hope, hope he will be in the 3% that survives beyond 5 years, but I also need to be present for him. Acknowledge his fear. Hold him in moments of blind terror. That is my gift to him, and I will continue to give him that gift every moment our hearts are still beating, regardless of how hard it is to bare.