Russell T Davies joins Jason Davidson On the Marie Curie Couch, to talk about the death of husband, Andrew, in 2018, and the years he cared for him.
Russell is an award winning screenwriter and television producer. In 1999, he created the groundbreaking series Queer as Folk, and in 2005 revived the classic sci-fi series Doctor Who, returning to the series as showrunner for a second time in 2021. Russell's credits also include the award-winning shows A Very English Scandal and It's a Sin. In 2008, he was awarded an OBE for his services to drama.
Watch: On the Marie Curie Couch with Russell T Davies (full episode)Watch: On the Marie Curie Couch with Russell T Davies (full episode)
“Andrew didn’t want to know his diagnosis”
My greatest loss was my husband. We'd been together for 20 years. Andrew Smith, bless him. There was 12 years without cancer, then the last eight years he was diagnosed with brain cancer. He had a glioblastoma multiform, which eventually took him. It's almost the anniversary – he died in September 2018. He was a lovely man.
When first diagnosed, he actually did a remarkable thing, which is that he never wanted to know the prognosis. I think he's the only person in Great Britain who never looked up his own diagnosis.
I had a quiet word with the nurse saying, 'Look, I know how bad it is. Shouldn't he know how bad it is?' Because it is a very, very bad diagnosis – I should say that – with a bad prognosis. ‘Actually,’ she said, 'we get this a lot. You'd be surprised. As long as someone close to him knows the truth. We'll just keep monitoring that as the months go on.' It was initially a prognosis of something like 18 months or a year. He lived for eight years. It was amazing.
“I finally discovered why we give money for those daffodils!”
I had no experience with a Marie Curie Nurse until these final weeks when Andrew was ill. And my goodness me, it's like a saint visiting the house. Just the night off, just the care, the quietness, the subtlety of those people as they enter into your house. The way they so quietly and unassumingly just slot into the patterns and the rhythms to sit with him.
On the last Saturday, I thought we’d booked a Marie Curie Nurse then no one arrived. I thought to myself, ‘Oh, wait a minute. No, the district nurse books the Marie Curie Nurse, and I forgot to say.’ I was like, 'Oh gosh, I got this wrong. Never mind, let’s have our tea and sit with him.' That was the night that he died. I was sitting holding his hand and my sister was holding his other hand.
This sounds like a reverse compliment but if the Marie Curie Nurse had come, I wouldn't have been there. I would have gone upstairs to my bedroom, just been pottering about. Strangely, one mistaken booking that failed to be made meant that I was there holding his hand at the end, which is very important to me. I was trying to say thank you for not turning up, whereas I'm actually saying thank you for being such a magnificent institution.
“Some people know they handle it badly”
You cannot stop people saying clumsy things. Everyone has the person, the friend who doesn't handle it well. Everyone has the friend who crosses the street when they see you coming. Everyone has the friend who never replies to that text – or the family member. Everyone has the friend who can't even refer to the dead person once they're gone.
You know what I say? The only piece of advice I give to people – I can't give medical advice or anything like that – but I think one piece of psychological advice I give is: forgive them. Forgive them. Look at your own life. You've been that clumsy in the past. They know and they just handle it badly. That's not a crime and it doesn't mean they're horrible people.
“My mind goes to the eight years”
We had 12 years together, and then eight years with cancer but I can barely remember the first 12 years. It's not that I can't remember them, it's just that's not where my mind goes. We must have had a million meals in restaurants, we had holidays, we went to New York together, we did all sorts of things. When I summon them up now I can remember them very clearly. But they're not where my mind goes.
I'm not dwelling on suffering, I don't think. All barriers were down and we talked about life and literally spent every second of every day together, in a sense. They were very good days. But I wish if you said to me, ‘Andrew Smith’, that I could go, 'Oh yes, when we went to New York together. That was great.' It doesn't. And there's no sign of that shifting. I wish it could but, equally, I'm not beating myself up.
"It was hard work, but I'd go through it for another 50 years”
It was hard work looking after Andrew. It was exhausting and it was kind of enervating. And I would go through it for another 50 years. I would so have wished that to continue. Without a single complaint, I would absolutely take that burden on. I didn't think it was a burden. I thought it was our life. It was as simple as that. Weirdly, strangely, and I know I'm lucky in terms of caring for him, in that it wasn't exhaustive, but there were actually some of the happiest days of our life.
Listen now
This blog is adapted from Russell's conversation on the On the Marie Curie Couch podcast. To listen to the full episode, tap the Acast player below, watch the subtitled version in the YouTube player above or listen on Spotify, Apple Podcasts or wherever you get your podcasts.
If you need support with bereavement or grief, call the Marie Curie Support Line on 0800 090 2309 or visit mariecurie.org.uk/information
