You CAN love again, even when you've lost everything: Her daughter and husband died months apart, but Rebecca proves happiness can grow from grief... Reflecting on my life, it feels as if I've been two different women. That's what losing your husband and eight-year-old daughter just ten months apart does to you. You're so broken, you have to piece yourself together again, but it can only ever be an approximation of who you used to be. 'During those intervening years I felt stretched thin, trying my best to paper over the yawning gap left in my life by their loss,' said Rebecca Alexander of the deaths of her husband and daughter I was 31 when these tragedies struck, and it was 12 long years before the "second me" went on to marry again. During those intervening years I felt stretched thin, trying my best to paper over the yawning gap left in my life by their loss. Happiness was to find me again, but, goodness, did I have to suffer first. I was 16 when I met Steve, then 18, at college in Portsmouth. An easy-going, outdoorsy man, I loved the fact he relished the countryside and cycled everywhere. I could tell him anything, we became best friends and fell in love while I completed my A-levels. We went on to marry when I was 18 and scrimped and saved to buy our first house. Although we were happy, looking back we were two children playing at being adults. A set of tragedies soon made us grow up - the first a stillbirth at seven months, when I was 21. Despite all the heartbreak I have endured since, I honestly think it was my hardest bereavement, because I was completely unprepared for it. I was angry and desperately low for a long time, but Steve and I were both so wrapped up in our own grief that it was hard to help each other. In time, we found our way back to each other, and started to plan our future again, still madly in love and together. Two years after we lost our first baby, I was delighted to discover I was expecting again, but this turned to terror that I was going to lose this baby, too, and I fretted throughout my pregnancy. The birth should have been a moment of joy and relief, but I had a sixth sense that something was wrong. I was devastated to be right - doctors told us our daughter Leonie had spina bifida, a fault in the development of the spine. She would be paralysed from the chest down and wasn't expected to live past the age of five. Rebecca and her first husband Steve married when she was 18 and scrimped and saved to buy their first house. 'Although we were happy, looking back we were two children playing at being adults,' she said After she was born, Leonie was rushed from Portsmouth to Southampton General Hospital for two life-saving operations. One, to close the defect in her back, the other to drain fluids from her brain. The doctors asked us there and then whether we wanted to let nature take its course, as her life would be so difficult. But we were young, full of hope and desperate to save her: it's a decision I will never regret. Leonie was beautiful, always beaming and affectionate, but her life was punctuated by the pain of endless surgery and infections. By the time I was pregnant with her sister, Sophie, Leonie, then three, was suffering headaches caused by a cyst. After risky surgery to remove it, she spent four months in a coma, which left her brain-damaged, partially sighted and even less mobile. When our son, Carey, arrived in 1990 - thankfully completely healthy, like Sophie had been - Leonie, then six, was constantly in and out of hospital. She endured 33 operations in her short life. Deep down, I always knew Leonie was going to die, but Steve was in denial. Every time her condition worsened, he would demand we try yet more surgery. We spent every day trying to ensure each of our children had some positive memories - a game of blowing bubbles, a walk in the frost, piggy backs with Daddy - and ended each day with a hug. But Steve's wonderful, happy-go-lucky nature was being slowly crushed by the reality of having a disabled child and in October 1991 he developed a chest infection that just wouldn't budge. The doctors were flummoxed, tests came back blank and he didn't get any better. He was finally admitted to hospital in Portsmouth, where things took a terrible turn - his skin became blotched with bruises and he was gasping for breath. I tried to calm him, reassuring him he'd be taken to intensive care if need be. "Like they do with Leonie," I said, clutching his hand. Steve smiled weakly, then his head fell back on the pillow. Suddenly there were alarms and the room filled with doctors. Rebecca's daughter Leonie had spina bifida, a fault in the development of the spine. She would be paralysed from the chest down and wasn't expected to live past the age of five It turned out, unbeknownst to everyone, Steve had been battling leukaemia. He had suffered a bleed on the brain; five hours later the machines were switched off. I didn't even get to say goodbye. I fell apart, knowing this would be the only time I could afford to break down before I had to go home and tell the children. When I was calm enough to leave hospital, I drove home in a daze and drifted into our bedroom to see his shirts I'd ironed hanging on the wardrobe door. The shock crushed the breath out of me. When I walked into the living room, Sophie, then four, was watching TV. She turned to me with a deep frown and asked: "Where's Daddy?" I found myself blurting: "He died," but she just glared at me and turned back to the screen. It wasn't until the next day that she cried, and started suffering night terrors. I tried to comfort her, although sometimes it was all I could do not to wail alongside her. The real difficulty was helping Leonie understand. One day she would seem to take it in, the next she would have forgotten and I would find her sitting by the front door with our retriever, Candy, at 6pm, waiting for Daddy to come home. Every time I explained, she would sob and break my heart afresh. Meanwhile, I knew another storm awaited me. Sure enough, ten months later, I lost Leonie, too. She had reached the point where she was in constant pain and there was nothing doctors could do. Thankfully, the last ten days of her life were amazingly calm. I was lost in a deep grief, but Leonie, then eight, quietly accepted her fate. Each day she asked to see someone new - from her grandparents to the taxi drivers who used to take her to school - as if gradually saying her goodbyes. I felt so connected to her in those last few hours, as she gently became sleepier and sleepier, as if we breathed in time. The end was as simple as me taking a breath where she didn't. I had a few minutes to hug her and say goodbye before I had to break the news to Sophie and Carey. They said their goodbyes and my brother, a nurse, dealt with the formalities. The enormity of what had happened within 12 short months didn't hit me until after the funeral in August 1992. There were many people who said I must feel relieved to no longer have the stress of such a disabled child, but it wasn't like that: I missed Leonie bitterly and was crushed with grief for Steve as well. Dinner was the hardest part of the day - sometimes I'd forget and lay the table for five rather than three. Of husband Russell: 'I discovered he was warm, funny, creative, and a loving father,' said Rebecca We sleepwalked through that first year. I'd been told by my bereavement counsellor not to make any big changes but, despite the advice, I moved us to a Victorian house by the sea on the Isle of Wight. Moving away from memories of Leonie and Steve was hard, but I have always loved the sea for its ability to give a sense of perspective and calm. I started working as a carer for children with special needs and then qualified as a hospice psychologist, all the while writing about Leonie in my spare time. It was almost as if I feared I'd forget her if I didn't. I decided to home-educate Sophie and Carey and helped set up a support group for other families who did the same. It was through this great group of friends that I met Russell, then 42, in 2000. At the time he was the husband of a fellow mother, Maya, in the home-educating group. But in December 2002, he rang from hospital with terrible news: she had been killed in a car accident. My heart went out to him. He was devastated and had no idea how to find the words to tell their four children - who had been in the back seats and were seriously injured - that their mother was dead. I promised I would help him however I could. After all, I had plenty of experience dealing with grief. The last thing I was looking for was a relationship - I'd had a few short-lived dates since Steve had died, but nothing serious. I hadn't even warmed to Russell when we first met. But as I got to know him through his desolation, I discovered he was warm, funny, creative, and a loving father. I tried to deny my blossoming feelings, but even the children picked up on the closeness. Sophie, then 15, began to tease me, saying: "You two should just get on with it." Eventually, six months after his wife's death, Russell said to me: "There's something happening between us, isn't there?" I agreed, but felt guilty to find myself falling head over heels. With Steve I'd fallen gently and gradually as our friendship built, yet this breathtaking love had taken me by surprise. It wasn't easy, though. Though it had been 12 years since I'd lost Steve, Russell's loss was raw, and our relationship caused consternation within our tight-knit community - many thought it was far too soon for him to move on. But he and his children - Jenny, then 16, Sam, 11, Isaac, nine, and Rosie, three - were really struggling and I felt I could help. I made sure we talked about Maya as often as he needed and after the first anniversary of her death, the guilt he felt at falling in love again started to recede. In April 2004, when I was 44, we had a quiet wedding and celebrated with our six children. Nearly ten years later, we're as much in love as we ever were - and talk about Steve and Maya all the time. The happiness I've found with Russell has allowed me to fall in love with life all over again - and discover the confidence to revisit my passion for writing. I'd always wanted to be a novelist but put my dream aside to look after Leonie. Finally, almost 20 years on, my historical thriller, The Secrets Of Life And Death, was published this month. It was a momentous occasion but to celebrate I spent a quiet day in with Russell, the children and our three cats: when you've been through the tragedies we have experienced, that kind of comfortable normality is a blessing. I've learnt that whatever life throws at you, it's important to keep your heart open - whether it's to new friends, new partners or even new children - and, with time, your wounds will abate, if not heal. Grief never dies, but new love can grow around it. The Secrets Of Life And Death by Rebecca Alexander published by Del Rey, £12.99, is available now.