Dear Paul,

Well - it's been four years since we said goodbye to you on that sad, sad Friday night. My heart broke that night, and I'm not sure it's fully healed yet, or that it ever will be. As you knew it would, life has gone on - but there's still a massive hole where you once were. Memories fill a lot of the gaps, of course, but nothing can make up for your absence.

Death is a funny thing. You were so sick at the end that we really did feel it was a kindness to say goodbye to you - I think in some ways that's nature's way of preparing us to let go. So first there's a kind of relief: an end to your suffering, and an end to us watching you suffer.

At first there's a flurry of activity. People flock; their empathy is deep; we become the centre of attention, reassured that we'll always have their support. But as time goes by, that changes - and that's okay. Friendships shift, as they probably would have anyway; the urgency goes away, and your absence becomes the new norm. New tragedies eclipse ours - as is the way of life.  And then we’re left to just get on, without you, finding our “new normal”.

At first, I think I "white-knuckled" my way through losing you – adrenalin driving me, my north star now gone, searching for a new way. I embraced every kind of healing and self-help going, trying to make some peace with losing you and keeping it together for our kids. I learnt Transcendental Meditation (I've forgotten my mantra). I spent a year dipping in the ocean every Friday (silly freezing activity). I did a somatic yoga course (I think the trauma is still trapped). Sound healings. Bali retreats. Ayurvedic medicine ( enemas - yuk). Hikes in Tasmania (came home with bursitis).

I've sat with mediums, desperate for a message from you. I've asked you for dolphins on my morning walks - and heard you say, "Come on love, you've got a beautiful blue sky day - isn't that enough?" No - to be frank. On some days, no, it's not!

All of it to try to deal with your loss without losing myself - and none of it has stuck. Now I'm just left with your absence - and the fact that, somehow, we've survived, but we move through the world differently.

I often wonder what you'd make of today's world. Things seem to have changed so much in the last four years.

Politics. We always had some great debates - and thankfully, by the end, I'd realised we both had the same values and cared about the same things; we just had different ideas about how to get there. Now it feels impossible to even discuss politics. The world feels so angry and divided, and views seem to have become so extreme.

Now, you know the kids banned us from talking about Donald Trump, so I don't really want to go there - but oh my, I don't think you'd believe the way that's all turned out. So many times I read something and want to turn to you and ask what you think. I'm so curious to know what you'd make of him now. Can you believe he's even a soccer referee these days, getting red cards overturned at the World Cup? Now I know you didn’t forsee that!

AI is taking over the world. At speed. I'm in a relationship with Claude. I'm smart enough to know I shouldn't be swayed by his compliments, but on some days, when it's just me and him, it's tempting to treat him like a real friend. He's made me competent in the things I used to just leave to you. Widows call it “She-roics” just getting stuff done ourselves because there’s no one else to do it. YouTube and Claude, have made nearly anything possible.

It's not only AI spreading fast - so are ADHD diagnoses. I seem to have become involved in a pyramid scheme I never intended to join. We've had several ADHD diagnoses in the family, and apparently the way it works is this: once someone gets diagnosed, they then diagnose you, and you, and you. So I've been told by those already diagnosed that apparently I have it too. In some ways it makes so much sense, and in some ways it makes me so sad. Maybe a diagnosis would explain to you the number of times you came home from work, and dinner wasn't ready (apparently I was a “trad wife” wonder what you’d think of that)  - but I had a fully-fledged project plan for how to regenerate the local kinder. I don't know. I think I’m coping fine and there’s a back log for diagnosis so I think I should just keep letting the family diagnose me. The kids are old enough for that now – very opinionated, and their driving - they’re all off their P’s now and won't listen to me from the passenger seat! But sometimes I just put up with it because I'm just sick of being the solo driver all the time.

Speaking of the kids - I’m so proud of all of them - there’s been some surprises but they all seem to be coping incredibly well. Harry’s a barber now - yes we tried to tell him to give it a go a long time ago but what would we know hey? Except we did, and he’s found “his thing”.

It will be no surprise that Nate is now a fully qualified carpenter and loves it.  He really is your mini me and most like you in every way. Capable and reliable, quietly caring.  He’s often the one who makes me a morning cup of tea now.

Now Maya is the complete surprise. She’s Hawthorn’s first father daughter AFLW player. Our super athlete - who never played football. She's so excited, and she's discovered a true passion for football.  You’re probably not surprised to know that she’s studying to be a paramedic.  Watching your experience didn’t put her off, it inspired her.  I nearly took the top of my finger off with one of those mandolin things you warned me about and thank goodness she was home.  She’s going to be a great paramedic (and footballer).

Our baby boy, Calsher, got off to a flying start with his football career. His athleticism is outstanding, and can you believe he’s turned out to be an excellent cook? But this has been a hard season for him and we’ll keep that private - like you always advised. And yes as you said - don’t read the media or the Facebook groups.  I know you would be so proud of his resilience and his emotional intelligence, but I so wish you were here to give him your perspective.  A mum who never played feels a bit useless and Claude has no idea either!

There's more to tell you - there always is. But that's where we are, four years on. We're doing okay, Paul.

As time has passed coping comes from finding comfort in continuing to feel your love and hearing your voice deep within - and, on the hard days, the small things: the love of family, a laugh or a walk with a friend, the light on the trees, clouds, birdsong. You were always content with the simple things in life - you were definitely onto something.

I know you'd probably tell me we've done enough for pancreatic cancer - that it's time to rest. But I can't. When Dad died four months after you and I looked at the appalling numbers of people affected and the horrible outcomes and the lack of funding for research, the injustice outraged me. I can’t rest while the disease that took both you and Dad is still so neglected. I hope you’re proud of what we’re making of life without you.

Wish you were here. We love you, and we miss you, always.

Cherie