I heard a story recently, of a woman who hadn’t had much luck with finding a man.

Even though she had been successful in her career, she felt there was an empty space without someone to share her life with.

She reached her late 40s and had virtually given up hope.

And then she met him. Her love. Her life. And he loved her, too.

Life was perfect.

And then he was diagnosed with cancer. The type that was inoperable and left him with only a few months to live.

Life was falling apart. Her life that was perfect for a few, short months.

They decided to get married before the cancer advanced too much further. An intimate ceremony with only immediate family, followed by dinner at the restaurant where they had their first date, just months before. He needed an oxygen mask to help him breathe.

But they were in love, and they both described it as the happiest day of their life.

After the marriage, his health seemed to improve. Everyone was hoping that the worst was behind them and maybe things were looking up.

But then he got pneumonia.

His doctors and specialists told them the worst: that there wasn’t much time left for him. But he was allowed to stay at home, away from the sterility of the hospital and the hospice. A nurse visited twice a day to assist.

And the family came together. To say their goodbyes to him. To laugh and reminice about the old days. Everyone who played a key role in his life were there.

And she sat on their bed, next to him.

And then he was gone. One month to the day since they got married.

She managed to arrange the funeral and the wake. She received flowers, fruit baskets and sympathetic arms and ears.

She’s still grieving the loss of her love, but I’m told she keeps reminding everyone how lucky she was to find him just in time.

This story still breaks my heart – and how, even with all the turmoil she’s gone through, she’s talking about how lucky she was. It’s definitely given me some perspective on what’s happening in my life at the moment.