I’m a psychotherapist, but therapy didn’t ease my grief

A sudden bereavement tore my life apart. But even though I'm a trained therapist, I couldn't find comfort on the couch

Five years ago I flew over the Connecticut hospital mortuary where thousands of feet below my husband's dead body lay. The map on the screen flashed up New Haven as we headed east over the Atlantic" leaving him behind. During the six-hour flight back to London I sat bolt upright, tearless and unable to eat, drink or even visit the loo. I felt nothing, utterly empty, numb and as close to inanimate as I imagine a person can feel.

Andrew, at just 52, had died at 8am that morning, killed by a vicious land grabber of a cancer that had taken 14 months to overwhelm every organ in his body. This was my trauma beginning, to be followed, inevitably, by grief. We knew from the start it was bad, but I didn't somehow think he would actually die. We never discussed it. Now, this seems astounding to me. I am still perplexed by the strength of his denial. And by my complicity.