I was diagnosed with cancer and at 69 with no husband or children, I've realised how truly alone I am. It feels shameful and embarrassing... but this is what childless women in their 40s need to hear about their future

Last September, I received a bleak diagnosis delivered with little empathy by a young doctor: ‘You have superficial spreading melanoma, Maria.’In layman’s terms, I had a fast-growing skin cancer, and if it had spread – urgent scans would be needed to find out – it would likely kill me.I stared at her in utter disbelief. I’d only had a small mole excised from my upper arm a week earlier.As she rattled off the next steps – MRI and PET scans on my spine and brain – I didn’t cry. With no one’s hand to hold, I clutched on to the hanky in my lap. As I stumbled out of the doctor’s office, I reached for my phone. Then it dawned on me: I didn’t have anyone to tell my terrifying news.The truth is – and I feel a mixture of shame and embarrassment admitting this – at the age of 69, I am all alone.My parents are both dead, I don’t have any siblings and, despite being married twice, I never had children.Both of my ex-husbands are dead too, so when I say I am alone, I mean it.Given that one in five British women in their mid-40s haven’t had children, I suspect I’m not an anomaly – and that I’m not the only one who has discovered that nothing crystallises your loneliness more than facing a serious health scare like cancer without a shoulder to cry on.It’s a subject that comes up a lot on Childless Not By Choice networks, which offer support for people like me as they navigate this later, unexpected, stage in life without a partner or the children or grandchildren they once longed for. Maria-Louise Warne says she feels a mixture of shame and embarrassment in admitting that, at the age of 69, she is all aloneI’m fortunate in that I own my home and car outright. I have a modest pension and still work one day a week as an English tutor in a beautiful part of south-west France, where I have lived for the past 24 years since moving from my home in Devon aged 45. But most of my friends are busy with husbands, children and grandchildren or scattered hundreds of miles away.At a follow-up appointment a week later, my doctor told me ‘I don’t like you facing this alone’ – before urging me to call her any time. But who’s going to call their GP in the early hours, when they’re scared out of their wits?I busied myself with the practicalities. I made a will, leaving everything to two charities: one for dementia and one for guide dogs.It was also recommended I arrange a Power of Attorney, so someone could make decisions on my behalf should I become incapacitated.My ‘in case of emergency’ contacts were old friends in their 80s, and geographically the closest contacts I had were two casual acquaintances whose children I taught English once a week. These mothers were friendly, but I didn’t know them that well.Yet I had no choice but to ask them. They were a little taken aback but, after giving it some thought, thankfully agreed – the pity evident in their eyes.How did it come to this?My first marriage when I was very young was short-lived. I met my second husband when I was 25 – a man who was 22 years older than me and already married with two daughters. He left his wife for me but wouldn’t countenance having more children. I sadly reconciled myself to the fact ours would be a childless marriage. My relationship with his daughters, meanwhile, was understandably difficult.Together 26 years, we had started a new life in south-west France after my husband retired. But he missed his children so much he left me six years later to return to the UK.Then aged 51, I had an off-on relationship for the next 16 years. Things ended in 2024 when he was admitted to a care home, a decision I had no say in given we weren’t married.Instead of retiring together, I was alone again. While Maria was being told that she had a fast-growing skin cancer, she realised that she didn't have anyone to tell about her diagnosis That’s when I moved to a rural area for a fresh start. But without neighbours or friends to pop in, I can go a week without speaking to anyone.Thankfully, the tests showed my fast-growing skin cancer hadn’t spread, but I still faced a major operation under general anaesthetic to remove a 9cm sq section of flesh where the mole had been, along with five lymph nodes.In preparation, I filled the freezer with batch-cooked meals as I wouldn’t be able to drive, or shop, for six weeks.I also transferred £15,000 to one of my Power of Attorney’s, in case I didn’t wake up from the anaesthetic and she needed to pay any bills while my house was sold.I turned up at the hospital alone and returned home alone after the procedure that evening. I had to lie to the doctors that someone would be at home with me in order to be discharged.After 15 days I was given the all-clear. Just as there was no one to share my initial despair with, there was no one to celebrate my good news either.The whole experience feels like a warning. I need to face up to the fact that as a childless, single woman I am staring down the barrel of ill health and old age alone.I can’t afford to move into a retirement community. People say I should ‘get a man’, but at this stage I don’t want to take on someone else’s baggage.There’s no point moving back to the UK; given I haven’t paid into the system for decades, I wouldn’t be eligible for financial support.So, please spare a thought for women like me. The sad truth is, I will most likely face death alone, which leads to another disturbing thought: who on earth will find me?As told to Samantha Brick