It's not like you see on TV!

The car pulled up outside at the exact time the young constable had told me it would. The police were nothing if not punctual. One small mercy - it was an unmarked car. A bog standard grey hatchback with nothing to identify the driver or the mission it was about to undertake. Taking a deep breath, I wrapped my coat around my shoulders and headed out into the cold wet December night.

Vinnie was already in the back seat. Vinnie was Chris' best man at our wedding only 2 months previous. He was in the car because the police had asked me who else knew Chris well. They told me that the task might prove too much for me, so suggested I invite another person to come with me.

'Invite' makes it sound like we were headed somewhere nice and fun. 'Invite' is the word when you want to enjoy someone else's company. 'Invite' makes it sound like we were off to a party.

Far from it.

I slipped into the back seat and Vinnie reached out to grab my hand. My knee-jerk reaction was to snatch it away but somehow I stopped myself. It felt extremely odd and yet strangely comforting all at the same time. Sinking back into the seat, I closed my eyes briefly and allowed the wave of exhaustion to wash through me. It was only 6pm in the evening, but I was shattered. Both physically and mentally. I really was dead on my feet.

The young constable driving leaned over his left shoulder to look at me. "The journey into town will take about 45 minutes. Do you want the radio on, if so what station suits you?" he rattled off without a breath.

Before I could get my brain to engage and form the words, Vinnie answered. "Stick Radio 2 on mate"

The journey from Wishaw on that cold December night seemed to take forever. The traffic on the M8 through Glasgow was heavy.

No wonder - it was the last Thursday night before Christmas. There was an air of expectation and more than a whiff of booze from the streets. Office parties were about to kick off and the revellers wouldn't be home until the wee small hours.

As we trundled over the Kingston Bridge at a mere 40 miles per hour the feeling of dread crept back into my stomach.

It had settled heavily there earlier in the day and now was making its presence known once more. Nausea swept over me. As I looked out into the evening, I knew there were only 15 minutes left to go off my journey.

Eventually, we pulled up outside a new modern facility. Nothing else on the hospital campus was open or functioning yet, but the mortuary was the first department to be operational. There is something quite ironic about phase 1 of a new hospital build being the premises where dead bodies are taken.

A tall elegant lady in a white lab coat opened the door. She must have been expecting us. She ushered Vinnie and me to a small seating area. You'd have been forgiven for thinking that it was a doctor's waiting room. She said that they would be ready for me in about 5 mins, but first, they needed to check my ID. I slipped my passport from my coat pocket and passed it to her.

It's at this point I must burst a bubble. You see, it’s not like you see on TV. They don’t wheel in the body neatly covered by a green sheet and then ask you if you’re ready. They don’t gently lower the sheet past the head so you can look at your loved one’s face one last time.

No.

I was shown to a door and told to enter. I entered a room, no bigger than a small bedroom with a tiny CCTV monitor in one corner. The tall elegant lady saw me safely inside and then disappeared with not so much as a backwards glance. The door clicked softly behind her. I was all alone in a stark and empty room.

The CCTV screen was an old-fashioned computer monitor. Not the flat screen type, the big fat bottomed type. It was perched on a brown chest of drawers, probably bought from Ikea just over the water from where I stood.

After less than a minute, a crackly voice broke the silence. Seemingly, from out of nowhere a voice asked: “Is this Christopher Andrew Lynch?” It was the tall elegant lady. I looked around, expecting the door to have opened but quickly realised it was an intercom system.

Flashed up on the CCTV screen came a grainy black-and-white image of my husband's face. His eyes were closed, and he looked like he was sleeping. The image was just his head and maybe an inch of his neck under his chin. That was it. It wasn't even in focus.

But it was totally recognisable. Yes, it was Chris.

My Chris.

The man I'd tried to breathe life into just 13 hours earlier. There on the screen was my husband's face, but at the same time, it wasn't him at all. Gone was his smile. Gone were his chestnut brown eyes. Gone was the dimple on his left cheek.

It was all I could do to mumble a single word "yes".

It took every ounce of strength I had not to run from that room. I'd been inside for about 3 minutes but I had to get out. I turned, open the door and slowly walked back into the waiting room. Not looking up, I went straight past Vinnie and the police constable and headed for the main building door. I needed some fresh air. No matter how cold or wet, there was no way that I could stay in that building a moment longer.

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would have to Identify my husband's body.

He died in his own home, but by some cruel twist, that’s what I found myself having to do just 63 days after we said our vows.