"At the top of the stairs is a photograph of Melissa. It was taken in the middle of Liverpool City Centre, three months before she was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. We look at it, maybe twenty or thirty times a day. Every so often she looks back and the reality of what has happened washes over us and we become consumed with grief"  

There is no wrong way to deal with the death of a loved one.  My way is to keep busy, immerse myself in bike rides, help other bereaved people, walk my dogs.  I talk to groups about what makes good end of life care and how everyone's bereavement journey is different. 

The second year was worse than the first.  The fifth year took its toll.  I'm not keen on Christmas.

I've discovered things like hidden anniversaries.  Mel died in the early hours of Sunday 11 May 2008.  The 11 May in 2009 was a Monday.  The day, the date, the year, it doesn't matter really, we still miss her as much as we ever.  There are other hidden anniversaries, such as setting one less place at the table, not receiving a telephone call or text when you know you would have got one.         

When Melissa died there was this sudden rush of grief like waves crashing on a shore, but in time for most, the waves roll back to the sea. For us though, the wave doesn't roll back, they just keep coming. No one else sees them, they assume that we're 'coming to terms' with things, that 'time is healing'.  We are left with this overwhelming condition that for most of the time, no one can see or understand. We don't want people to behave differently with us in our day to day lives, but what we do want is acknowledgement and understanding.      

People's reactions can be interesting, "Time heals".  No it doesn't.  A cut  heals, a broken bone heals, but believe me, watching your daughter die in front of your eyes and being able to do nothing, will never heal!  "Ah well, at least you have another daughter" has been said to me on more than one occasion.  I say nothing in reply.  "At least you were able to say goodbye, it wasn't like she died in a car crash." Again, I say nothing in reply.  Words don't fail me, I just hold them back. 

People don't mean to be unkind, they don't understand.  I hope they never do.  I still cry a lot.  I wish I could get angry, but I don't know who to get angry at.  I can't blame anyone, if anything I blame myself for not knowing Mel was so ill. 

We have a couple of boxes of Mel's things in the cupboard, it took me five years to open the box, to hold her scarf, her football shirt, her jacket, her jewellery. 

I haven't looked at it since, it's painful still.  I see Mel's friends on Facebook getting married, having babies and wonder "what if . . " 

I speak to groups about our bereavement experience, it's ongoing, it changes, sometimes it changes back to what it was.  But it's always there . . .

I find comfort in white feathers (and recently blue orbs).  I can smile at some memories and cry at others.  Sometimes I just want Mel back for five minutes just to tell her how much we miss her and to tell her some of things we've done and she has helped us to achieve. . . but I know if I had five minutes, I'd be greedy and want more. 

Look at what you're doing Mel x