This is a very personal post. The month of March appears to be rich in dramatic experiences.
I was just told Daniel Jones (13 November, 1981 - 22 March, 2010) has died today at 12 noon in St James's Hospital in Leeds. He was 28, he wanted to be a writer, and he was born with a liver condition that, sadly, could see him struggling through life. And he was my
de jure husband.
We met online on 29th of August 2000. We were one of the first couples to have found each other via Internet. A good proof for those who wonder if or not the web is a good place to find your other half. Neither of us was prepared for it, but we both embraced the change. A little over than a year later - in November 2001 - we got married in Moscow. We separated in December 2006, a week after my birthday. In May 2008 I finally moved out of their house. He fell ill in late December 2009; he was taken in to Manchester Royal Infirmary in February 2010. I visited him twice there, and I even considered going to Leeds with him, even though he was no longer my husband. But certain things have changed, including my financial circumstances, and I didn't go. They were planning to give him the liver transplant, but I was told the operation never went through: he was too ill.
It was the first relationship proper for both of us, and it was always difficult to manage. We'd have fantastic times together, and then we'd have really hard, hard times. It wouldn't be wrong to say that living with parents, first mine, then his, didn't help things.
We owe a few important things to each other. I owe Daniel my British degree, living in another country, and all the experience I've gained that made me rethink certain things about how we approach life, people, goals, and relationships. He owes me the desire to be a writer, visiting new places, and the experience of breaking out of the rut. I'm not as strong as a bull when it comes to health. However, my parents always encouraged me to push the envelope. His family was much more cautious, and this would inevitably cause friction between us once we started living in his house. But when we met he did the impossible: he came to visit me in Moscow. He found a girl he'd fallen in love with, and he overturned every obstacle his parents or doctors tried to put in his place.
Truly, when we are in love we do the impossible. Love doesn't mean lust on this occasion, but rather this commitment and dedication to the object of your love (a person, a subject, a project, etc.) that sees you going for it with all ardour and vigour. In these ten years we undoubtedly have discovered a few things about each other that we didn't like, but him going and getting me, against all odds, is likely to remain a benchmark of how much a man can do for a woman. Obviously, there are always other ways of showing love and appreciation, but one of the things I will always remember about Daniel is that first visit.