I’m glad I didn’t use my late HUSBAND’S SPERM

At my wedding to my first husband in 2007, a rumour circulated I was pregnant. When a friend told me, I laughed out loud – the only other option was to cry. I wasn’t pregnant. I was a 23-year-old marrying a man who, according to doctors, had less than a month to live.

The idea was ridiculous and heartbreaking for multiple reasons. Our days were spent in an Oncology ward and, instead of foreplay, I kissed him goodnight each evening, praying he would still be breathing the next morning.

Eoghan, then my fiancé, was diagnosed with malignant melanoma at 34 (I was 22), and we