The Introduction Bit

Today is 12 August 2026, the day we finally received word that I can go ahead and register my husband Darren’s death.

Darren died suddenly at home on 25th May 2026. There were no illnesses that we knew of and no warning that he was going to die.

The night before, we’d sat together, laughed and watched a film on TV. We joked about our plans for the next day, when Darren was going to try to build a barbecue. There was nothing to suggest that, within 12 hours, he would be dead.

What the post-mortem revealed

I also asked for the pathologist’s post-mortem report.

The report found that Darren had severe underlying ischaemic heart disease. There was also scarring in the heart muscle, suggesting that damage may have occurred previously, although we’d never known about it.

Darren never once expressed any concern about his heart or chest in all our time together. As far as we knew, he had no history of heart problems.

Darren was old school. He’d only go to the doctor if his leg was hanging off. He played down any medical concerns and rarely complained about his health. He was a healthy man of 52. What happened was completely out of the blue.

The questions after a sudden death

From the minute I found Darren’s body, my world has been upside down. Life has become a case of getting through each day, and some days are very hard.

I can’t say there’s any relief in finally receiving this information. Instead, it’s opened up even more questions.

What could I have changed? What could we have done differently? Were there signs that I missed? Should I have pushed him harder to go to the doctor? Should I have made him get a health check every six months? Is there anything I could have done?

I know the answer is no. But now, well, I punish myself for not pushing him more.

I have to keep telling myself, ‘There is nothing I can do now.’ If I allow myself to stop and think about every possibility, I become stuck and helpless all over again.

I always thought Darren was the healthy one

I had epilepsy. I had heart problems myself. I was forever complaining about a bad back or chest infections. I even managed to catch chickenpox from our son Daniel when he was three.

Yet this happened to Darren.

No warning. No second chance. One final, fatal event.

As well as trying to get through each day, I’m constantly badgered by my own racing thoughts. How could someone have severe heart disease and still appear completely healthy? How could something so serious have been happening inside him without either of us knowing?

These are the questions that keep going round and round in my head.

Why I started writing about grief

My reason for creating this blog isn’t simply that it might be a form of therapy.

Since Darren died, I’ve recorded my feelings as best I could. I’ve written in notebooks, made voice recordings and left random notes everywhere.

This wasn’t because of any egotistical need to record everything. I did it because I was, and still am, so overwhelmed that I needed to hear my thoughts out loud or see them written down.

I am my own shit therapist.

I’ve had to talk through what I’m thinking and then try to rationalise it. I’ve had imaginary conversations with Darren, imaginary discos with Darren and conversations with myself in the third person.

I’ve been trying to understand what has happened. I’ve also been trying to help myself deal with this great fucking meteor that has crashed into my family.

The question, immediately, was ‘What now?’

One of the thoughts I had from the moment I realised that Darren might be dead was:

‘Fuck, what now? What am I doing next? We need to phone 999…’

From that moment, Daniel’s life and mine were irrevocably turned upside down.

That question has never really gone away.

What do I do next? Who do I need to phone? What paperwork needs to be completed? How do I look after Daniel? How do we begin to understand what has happened? How do we live in a world where Darren is no longer here?

There are so many things constantly whirling around in your head. During the first week, you don’t even know what sleep is. All you can think about are the 101 things that need to be done.

What happens after someone dies?

For the last while, I’ve spent my time trying to get back some semblance of normality. At the same time, I’ve had to deal with all the paperwork, decisions and practical problems that come with a death.

When Darren died, he hadn’t written a will. We’d recently paid off the house, but the deeds were in his name only. Along with everything else, I’ve been dealing with probate and trying to make sure everything is sorted out.

I’ve had to do all of that while also trying to understand how and why my husband died.

Oh, and I didn’t know any of his passwords.

I couldn’t access his phone, his Hotmail account or his computer. Nothing.

These are some of the realities that arrive alongside grief. You’re trying to process the death of the person you loved while also being expected to make decisions, find documents, contact organisations and understand processes you may never have encountered before.

Learning to live in a world we didn’t choose

Daniel and I are trying to live in this new world. It’s a world we didn’t ask to be part of, one we don’t want to belong to and one we desperately wish we could go back and change.

There was no warning and no planning for what would happen next. Darren was only 52. I was suddenly left to organise everything surrounding his death while trying to comprehend the fact that he was gone.

This blog is my therapeutic release, in a sense, but it’s also my real experience of what happened. It isn’t a polished guide to what grief is supposed to look like.

I don’t yet have the answers to everything. But if I’ve learned something that might help another person, I’ll certainly pass it on.

Everyone will have their own experience of grief and loss. This is ours.

Why I called this site What Now After Loss

I called this site What Now After Loss because that’s the question you find yourself asking every time you manage to complete one task.

You do one thing, only to realise that another hundred things are waiting to be done.

At the same time, you’re only human. You can only think about and process so much. Sometimes you simply have to work out what needs to be done today.

Tomorrow, you ask the question again.

What now?

Thank you for reading this. I hope, although ‘enjoy’ is certainly not the right word, that it helps someone who might just need a hand.