I love you, Mum

The thirteenth of October looms in the calendar like a horrid monster. I hate it. It really is a date that I am not fond of. I mean, what else can you do or think about on the anniversary of your Mother's death? Three years ago, on Tuesday 13th of October 2009, my Mum sadly departed this World. Here's her story.

My Mum was completely amazing. The loveliest woman you could ever want to meet. Born and raised in North London, to Irish parents, she was the warmest person on the planet. She was devoted to her husband, to my younger Sister and myself. She loved her parents and her Sister, and had many friends. You could always find her making new ones. She didn't have any enemies in the world and throughout her life she deserved all the good fortune and happiness that came her way.

Sadly, good fortune and happiness didn't come her way. She was slim, she didn't drink to excess or smoked. She exercised regularly and she ate a varied diet. Mum was full of life. Falling ill wasn't even in question. Yet, towards the back end of 2008, she started complaining about stomach pains. This, coupled with the fact that she was finding it difficult to finish her meals, meant she seemed to be a little anxious about something. Initially, it was something she originally shrugged off as indigestion, but as the pain worsened into early 2009 and she was forced to go off sick from work, she went to the doctors.

The doctors originally thought that she had a stomach ulcer, so she got treatment immediately for that. The pain, however, didn't subside. Further trips to the doctors continued, and it was in mid-February 2009 when we finally heard the news we had been fearing. My Mum had been diagnosed with stomach cancer.

I remember my Dad and my Mum sat together in our living room when they told me the tragic news. I had just returned home from a weary day at work, and was confronted by Mum and Dad. I listened and didn't really understand the situation. It was all a blur. My Dad hastily mentioned that the doctors said Mum had six months to live if the cancer was left untreated, and 18 months to 2 years with therapy. It sounded ridiculous. It sounded untrue. I was in shock. Both my Dad and I agreed to brush those figures under the carpet and take the therapy option, but my Mum instantly lost the glint in her eye. I lost the person who I knew as my Mum that day. I feared that deep down she knew what fate bestowed her.

My Sister, who was away at University in Southampton, immediately quit her studies. She rang me in tears at hearing the news of what she had heard from Dad. How could I explain to her in great detail what I've just said above? I softened the blow, and Dad and I never told my Sister about how much time my Mum had left to live. We always remained positive that it would clear up completely. We wanted Mum to take the treatments, and hoped that this would be the cure.

She was due for several bouts of chemotherapy; on a new trial drug, which meant that we never really knew what was being tested. Several months went by under the treatment. It got really tough for my Mum, and she deteriorated in front of my eyes. To say I was devastated by how things were developing would be an understatement. I couldn't believe what was happening. She completely lost her appetite and found eating so difficult. My heart sank every time I saw her turn away food. Conflicting reports from the doctors that the cancer lump had shrunk to the size of a pea; then news that it had spread made me feel uneasy. It was a torrid time for all of us. Mum was hardly able to get out of bed. Sadly in late May of 2009 it all got too much, and she was so weak that she suffered a severe stroke.

Somehow, following the stroke she recovered. Amazingly within six weeks she was back on her feet again. The doctors at the hospital were baffled by her determination. We were told on the night of the stroke by doctors, that this could be the end. She battled back. In a bid to get back to feeling in good health, the chemotherapy was ditched. The test of her inner strength and resolve was shown by the fact that during the administering of the chemotherapy drug, and through the stresses of the stroke, she never lost her blonde hair at all.

I continued to work throughout the year, but all my spare time was sitting in various hospital wards at my Mum's bedside. I don't really know to this day how my Dad stayed so strong, he was always at my Mother's side. My Sister was chief carer. We all were strong. Never once did any of us, (including my Mum's sister and my Nan) cry in front of my Mum.

We managed to plan a weekend away in Brighton in the middle of August, and those days I will always cherish as the last time as a family of four we went out together. We literally carried Mum out for dinner one night at Harry Ramsden's Fish and Chip shop on the seafront; in hindsight I realise that this was our last family meal. She was so frail. Later on that evening, after tucking an exhausted Mum in the hotel bedroom, I walked the Promenade with my Sister. We watched some fireworks going off that evening on the seafront, with both of us thinking of Mum. We realised that at that stage Mum was too unwell and drained to even raise her head from the pillow to see them from the hotel window. The realisation over what was happening was beginning to kick in.

I buckled and gave way to tears on my birthday for the first time, and I sat in the beautiful Hospice gardens with my Sister in the sunset, feeling completely empty and helpless. I just couldn't see an escape route from the suffering my Mum was going through. Mum got moved to the amazing Hospice of St Francis in Berkhamsted, and it was here where I realised (to myself) that this was where she would spend her final days. She was unsafe at home, with numerous seizures after her stroke, and there were a couple of terrifying ambulance trips for her from home to Watford General at 4 in the morning.

Gradually, she became weaker, and without the chemotherapy, the cancer decided to rear its ugly head again. She was given more pills to make her sleepy and free from pain, and she ate less and less. We turned visitors away. A couple of days into October she gave my Sister and I each a card, with her handwriting, and the message hit me like a ton of bricks. She knew her fate. The card was wishing me luck for the future. A future without her. The card will stay with me forever. I cried and cried when I had a moment to myself.

She finally passed on a bright sunny Autumnal morning of the 13th of October 2009, the day after my Sister's 20th birthday. Of course, Mum was holding out to celebrate it. My Dad was at her side, fittingly, when she stopped breathing.

The funeral came and went in a haze of memories and tales, and suddenly there were no trips to see Mum. There was no need to be racing around to be at her bedside. There were no more hospital visits. The mass of equipment and drugs to help her at home were not necessary any more. She just wasn't there. I have felt empty ever since.

We realised that the pain that my Mum had gone through was too much. We were glad that she didn't suffer for too long. She's in a better place now. I long for a hug from my Mum, and if I point to other blog entries, I miss her terribly. I see her as a shining light in my life now, and that she is guiding me in some way to my future happiness.

So, why am I writing this, apart from to mark the the anniversary? Well, there's really three messages. If your Mum is still around, go and tell her how much you love her. When she was alive I did, and I'm so glad I did. This goes for other close family members and friends too. There's no need for petty squabbles or arguments.

Secondly, I would not wish the illness my Mum had on anyone. It was a hideous illness. My Mum was in agony. This was akin to a horror film. So please, if you feel unwell or you have any doubts about your health, then see a doctor. They can save your life. Here's a piece of advice I read recently; "if your pain is stubborn, then make sure you are stubborn too".

The other message is to live your life. My Mum was 46 when she passed away, but before the cancer our family had a whale of a time. I cherish and remember those moments the most. Go and do the things that you keep putting off. Take a holiday. Relax. Life really is too short. The scary bits of my Mum's story that I've explained above are slowly and gradually being replaced with happier memories. Slowly and gradually.

Tomorrow, on the twelfth of this month a group of us are going for dinner to celebrate my Sister's 23rd birthday. We'll raise a toast to Mum at the dinner table. On the thirteenth, I'm going to where my Mum's ashes are scattered in her favourite place. I will talk to her knowing she's listening. I can feel her presence when I'm there.

I love you Mum.
(In loving memory of Deborah Valerie Fox. 05/12/1962- 13/10/2009).

Rich. xx