Jill and I were only two and a half years apart in age. We grew up close and remained that way as we became adults, both marrying brothers. Jill was very kind, compassionate and always had time to look out for others, especially the elderly, children and animals.

She was the kind of neighbour and friend that everyone cherished, often looking after other people’s children. On many weekends the house was full of children, sleeping on air beds and mattresses in the lounge. There was always lots of fun and laughter, exactly how she liked it.

Jill was 21 when she realised something wasn’t right. She was pregnant with her son and had what we described as tightening’s in her hands and jaw. Jill was diagnosed with epilepsy and several years later she began having nocturnal tonic clonic seizures. She would have several in succession that left her exhausted and often in pain for days.

On a day-to-day basis Jill didn’t allow her epilepsy to change her life. She had a supportive husband, children and family, and although she wasn’t able to do things like learn to drive, she rarely complained about her epilepsy. She got on with life, remaining happy and making the best of what she had. Unless you knew her story, you would never guess she had epilepsy, or any injuries sustained from a seizure.

I last saw Jill on a Friday evening; she visited us with her husband and came with me to the station to pick up my daughter. We were in the car laughing about life events and such (I wish I could remember everything we shared). She left my home happy and healthy. The very next night Jill went to bed and had several seizures in succession. Her husband settled her down to sleep and put the TV on so he could stay awake to watch out for her. Sadly, she didn’t regain consciousness; her heart just couldn’t cope with the number of seizures. Jill was just 41.

I had to call my parents to tell them their daughter had died; it was the most difficult thing I ever had to do. Nothing seemed real in the hours that followed. It was like looking into someone else’s window; this couldn’t possibly be happening to our family.

I struggled deeply with my grief. A few years later, I realised I had to do something—no matter how small—to help others.