I’d lived with her for twenty-six years. She originally came from South Wales, but when I first met her she was living in West London. We fell in love and she came up to be with me in the North East of England. A Geordie by naturalisation! She left grown-up kids back in ‘The Smoke’. We never married, because as she used to say: “It’s just a piece of paper”. Twenty-six years. That was like half a lifetime. She died in less than three months. First of all she had a pain in her side that wouldn’t go away. I nagged her to go to her GP, but being the kind of self-willed and stubborn person she was, she just wouldn’t comply. Then it was late June and we went on holiday to a cottage in the Lakes. Beautiful weather. But the pain got worse and worse, to the extent that by the third day of our break she couldn’t sleep at all. I was worried sick, and eventually convinced her that she needed medical help. So I packed our bags, put her in the car and took her home. I remember that journey so well: the anxiety and the urgency. The hope that it wasn’t something so serious as it seemed. When we got home I rang our GP who immediately referred her to hospital. There they urgently tested her. It was advanced lymphoma, and she was admitted immediately. I remember her frightened face, and my attempt to stay optimistic. “You’ll be OK: medical technology is wonderful these days!”. I wonder how many people say this when their nearest is admitted to hospital with a late cancer diagnosis? It’s what you say to yourself rather than to the sufferer. Of course it’s true; but it would have been more true had time been on our side. Then came the long days of visiting hospital, and giving as much emotional support as I could. I was there every day; and then at home alone. Trying to force down food and get some sleep whilst feeling desperate. Telling people who need to know: relatives, friends and neighbours. The reaction from them: sometimes emotional, sometimes shocked, sometimes unable to take it all in. But always that feeling of my being held at arms length in case I might break down and cry. Or need to embarrassingly open my heart to them. So of course, I kept on trying to look chipper, even though that’s the last thing I felt. She deteriorated, and I kept on being positive. Still on my own. Then her children arrived, and they metaphorically pushed me to one side. Because they were blood relatives and I was just the ‘live-in-lover’. It became increasingly difficult to get time with my partner alone, and then almost impossible to see her at all. Did I tell you? I’m transgender. Yes it does make a difference, even when the person you love is dying. You get excluded because of the acute shame of having you around at the patient’s bedside. How could her children explain who I was to visitors? Their mother has a transgender partner? Better not to have me there at all. Twenty-six years. When she died I was not present. Nor was I told about the date or location of her funeral. I was only able to go because a friend took me. It was the worst day of my life. I’m still recovering from the trauma. The legacy is one of guilt. That I was needing support whilst my beloved was dying. I still feel like I should have been stronger at that time. More able to be the person she probably needed. Do you feel that too? Are you feeling that already? Then I have an idea how things are for you. But the moral of the story is one of attending to unspoken need. Need hidden by social discrimination. It’s possible to be the victim of prejudice even when someone close has a terminal prognosis. If you’re the non-married LGBT+ partner, then being excluded is a likelihood. The remedy? Better training for support services and a more pro-active approach to seeking out those who need help. Currently you have to ask for emotional support, but maybe they should be asking you as a relative or partner of someone with cancer? That’s why we need organisations like Northern Cancer Voices. That’s why I want to offer my support for what they do, and their good work around making sure cancer patients (and their nearest-and-dearest) can tell their stories. More power to their elbow! Mrs Beatrix Elizabeth (‘Bea’) Groves-McDaniel, 10/11/2022