I had already prevented him taking his own life. Twice I had called the ambulance and got him to hospital. There were other attempts he made at home, and I could not blame him. He was suffering intolerable physical pain.

My husband, Paul, contracted a virus infection in March 1995. From that time onwards he never felt well again. Over an eight-year period he experienced a long, slow decline in his health. The medical profession could not give him a straight diagnosis. Only by the elimination of other diseases could one be made. Some time during 1998 he was diagnosed with post-viral disability (PVD), which falls into the ME or chronic fatigue syndrome group of diseases for which there is no test or cure.

Unfortunately, his condition was compounded by other problems. Shortly after his birth in Dumfries and throughout his childhood in Annan he suffered from arthritis that was to remain throughout his life. Then in the last 18 months there was osteoporosis, as well as the PVD. It was too much for any one individual or body to handle, and on July 17, 2003, he took a substantial overdose of morphine, self-administered at home, when I was out. I came home and I respected his right to go.

I did not think of myself or the consequences of my actions or inactions. It was a moral decision. I knew in my heart that my husband had been through enough. It was his decision to release himself from his failing body and the physical torment of his pain.

I was subsequently arrested for assisted suicide and manslaughter by the North Yorkshire police, 12 days after my husband died. An extensive police investigation followed, which lasted 22 months and cost millions of pounds of taxpayers’ money. I gave them full co-operation. They put me in court.

It is hard watching somebody you love suffer from any disease, and Paul’s illness was like watching a man slowly drowning. He got weaker and weaker. He was a sick lion and I was a lioness. I had to make most of the journeys out into the world to bring home what we needed. Some say we lived in our own bubble. Maybe we did, it was not intentional. Chronic fatigue syndrome physically dominated us both. My husband was ill, so I stayed in with him. But within our walls our bubble was big. My husband had a high IQ and spoke 22 languages, so life with him was never dull or uninteresting.

I never saw him depressed. Grumpy, sad, frustrated, angry – yes. But depression is a serious disease in its own right, and he did not suffer from it. He cracked jokes, enjoyed his food and had many goals, hopes and dreams. He was always actively engaged with the world, mainly via satellite and radio. But he was a prisoner of his failed body.

He was 32 when I met him in London. It was 1992 and he was working in advertising sales for a publishing company while I was working nearby at Twickenham Film Studios. We met one night at a place called Henry’s in Richmond, where we had both gone with friends. It is true to say it was love at first sight. I noticed immediately that we had exactly the same colour eyes. We soon found out that we also shared the same sense of humour, the same goals. We became inseparable. Very quickly we made our plans.
I turned down another contract in television — the hours were too demanding — and we decided to start a translating business. We also wanted to be closer to our families — Paul’s in Scotland and mine in Yorkshire — so we moved to Pateley Bridge near Ripon in Yorkshire. But by then his illness had begun to take hold and our lives were changing for ever.

THAT last weekend we spent together, Paul did not want to be admitted to hospital. He had been there so many times. He was suicidal and again I persuaded him to live. It sounds strange, but even at this time most of the words between us were still about our future. Throughout his illness Paul was a positive thinker who used his time constructively — he was always busy even from his bed, and he made me laugh every day.

On the final day I got up and started my work, organising a conference for a client. Paul was his usual self — calm, kind, sweet. But I knew he was in a lot of torment from the pain, which he said was like large thorns jabbing into his body constantly. That day he was not as funny or as sharp as normal. He did not want anything to eat at lunchtime, which was unusual.

Instead he asked for a disability benefit form that we had held off filling out. He said we would do it now. I sat on the bed next to him and read out the questions on the form. He responded and I wrote down his answers, detailing his physical situation.

The truth was there in black and white. That day, Paul was confronted with a long, growing list of ailments and faced becoming more and more disabled. His quality of life was rapidly diminishing. About halfway through the form he stopped, exhausted, and said to me: “We will finish it tomorrow.”

Later that day the pain was obvious. He tried not to, but he moaned with the agony. I did not want to leave him, but we needed food and I needed air, so I went out. Not far into my journey I had to stop. I was worried. So I turned around and came back home. I went up to the bedroom with sweetpeas in a vase. They had just come out that day. I put them by his bedside. They were his favourite flowers. I said to him: “Please do not do anything silly. I will be back soon, then I can give you a massage.”

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