grieving

When Cancer Meets Christmas

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

Christmas has always been a special time of year in our household. Aside from the fact that my parents are both Christian, we’ve grown up in a little village, so Christmas has always involved the primary school nativity, the church party and carol service, and the vicar demonstrating each child’s favourite gift on Christmas morning (he once skateboarded down the aisle).

We have lots of lovely family traditions too; wrapping up warmly to go and dig up the Christmas tree with Dad (and it always being too tall and always needing the top cut off in order to fit Mum’s star on), baking mince pies, gingerbread houses and shortbread Christmas trees with Mum, and all three children, however big we got, snuggling up to Mum in Mum and Dad’s bed on Christmas Eve listening her read the Farmyard Tales Christmas book, finding the yellow duck on every page.

Every other year, we’d host a big Christmas with cousins (and later, their various families), aunties, uncles and grandparents descending upon us from all over the country. The house would be full from Christmas to New Year and we’d never be short of someone to play with. Mum would be ‘on call’ for the hospital and the children’s hospice the years we were home, and we’d always hope that she wouldn’t be called during Christmas dinner.

The last few years, Christmas has still been special, but there’s no denying that cancer has squeezed it’s way into it.


2012: The Christmas of diagnosis one.

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Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer at the end of August 2012.

Christmas fell during the chemo weeks. Mum would have a dose of chemo, take a week off work, then head back to work for two weeks before the next lot. I don’t remember Christmas being affected that year, though. I imagine that since I was on a gap year, I had more time to help out with baking and other things. She looks tired on this picture, but we were happy and hopeful of a better 2013.

2013: The remission Christmas.

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2013 and Mum was in remission! (As of about April). From memory we were determined to make it the best Christmas ever (or at least I was…). I’m fairly sure I spent far too much money. I was at uni by this point but I know I came home as soon as term was over and spent a lot of time in the kitchen baking with Mum. I’m pretty certain we baked quite literally everything and anything we could think of. Thanks to my extreme wrapping practice from working in a Toy Shop, I remember spending an entire afternoon with Mum in the spare room wrapping everything and singing along to Christmas songs.

Mum went on a two week cruise down the Rhine to multiple Christmas markets with my auntie, too. They had wanted to do it the year before but had to postpone it (for obvious reasons). They loved it and it probably only fuelled our Christmas fever even more. I remember my auntie posting this picture on Facebook with a comment wishing good health in the following year. We all felt so hopeful, lucky and blessed.

2014: Mum’s final Christmas.

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I think on some level we all knew it would be Mum’s final Christmas. She’d been diagnosed as terminal in the February and hospitalised once in September and again in November. I can’t remember if there was another hospitalisation in between. We were well-practiced at gowning up, putting on plastic gloves, and giving air-hugs across the room. Things were a bit more rushed due to the November hospitalisation, but I don’t remember us missing out on anything. Mum was better than she had been in weeks. After the second hospitalisation, she’d stopped chemo and I can clearly remember her being full of energy and life. You wouldn’t have known she was sick if it wasn’t for the headscarf.

2015: The first Christmas without Mum.

I don’t feel Christmassy this year. I’ve tried to hide from it, if I’m honest. It reminds me of Mum and I don’t feel strong enough for that at the moment. We’re going to a family friend’s house. We’ve known them since I was six weeks old and they’re practically family, but we’ve never been to their house on Christmas day before so it’s a new kind of Christmas for us.

Perhaps we’ll make some new traditions this year – I don’t know. I know we will laugh. I expect we will play cards and probably some board games. I imagine we’ll watch a Christmas film or two. We will definitely eat some turkey. We will probably be happy (I hope so!). The room will be filled with sounds of family and friends sharing good times together and genuinely appreciating one another.

Mum won’t be there in physical form, but I hope she’s there in her own little ways. When I eat a sprout and remember how every year Dad tried to get her to ‘try’ one (“if the children have to try things, you should too!”), and every year she put it back on his plate because she hated them with a passion. When I’m too full for pudding, I’ll remember how before she got sick, however full she might have been there was always room for chocolate. When we play Articulate, I’ll remember how whenever her and Viv teamed up to play that or Pictionary, the rest of us wouldn’t stand a chance.

Mum will be around on Christmas, I just wish she was around in person so that I could well and truly beat her at Gin Rummy.

Featured: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/naomibarrow/when-cancer-meets-christmas_b_8857354.html

One Month Without Mum

~ Naomi ~ 2 Comments

It’s been a month since Mum died. Thirty-one days. Seven hundred and seventy-four hours. Four thousand, four hundred and 60 minutes.

It feels like a long time, as though it’s been years, but also feels as though she could have died yesterday or last week. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from grief it’s that time stops making sense and you just have to roll with it. Sometimes hours can feel like days and other times days can seem like hours, but as long as you’re moving forward it doesn’t really matter.

I miss Mum more than ever. Christmas is beginning to enter the shops and it’s always been such a special time of year for us. Mum made the cake in October, and we’d start making mince pies around then, too, most of which were frozen until Christmas. As Christmas got nearer we’d make a shortbread Christmas tree and a gingerbread house. We’d always planned for her to visit me at uni and go Christmas shopping together, in York, but it never happened. The Christmas market is being constructed at the moment, and I remember going around Leeds Christmas market with Mum during cancer round one. We wrapped up in our woollies, ate caramelised nuts and browsed the stalls assigning presents to people.

I’ve encountered a few situations over the past month where I’ve really, really, needed Mum. I’ve gone to Dad or older female friends for advice and though they have been fantastic and incredibly helpful, it’s not the same. I still often find myself going to text Mum or drop her a Facebook message only to remember that she can’t reply. The one thing that sticks with me, whatever the situation, is the message ‘be kind to yourself’, because that’s what Mum always used to say to me, and it’s pretty good advice for most situations.

I didn’t realise how often I spoke to Mum. The first time she was diagnosed, I was on my gap year, so when Mum was on a chemo week and I wasn’t at work, we’d spend time together knitting and watching TV. We grew a lot closer over that time. I think when your Mum has a brush with cancer you appreciate her a lot more. I would text her most days and if I didn’t we’d normally end up in a Facebook conversation later on in the evening. In February we thought she was going to die and since then our communications have only intensified, I would speak to her about even more things and we’d wish each other goodnight most days. I miss her wishing me goodnight.

But it’s the hangover from Mum’s illness and death which surprises me the most. For months I have had my phone on me at all times, waiting for a text or call to say that she’d died, or was about to die. Now I jump when I get a phone call. I panic if I can’t find my phone. I am more anxious and jittery then I ever was before Mum’s illness. I rarely have a full night of sleep, I often dream of Mum, or of her dying again, or of Dad being diagnosed with something. Often when a family member contacts me I expect it to be them telling me that somebody else is poorly or has died. Some days I struggle to leave the house for fear of someone asking me how Mum is, because that’s something which happened for a long time. I’m struggling to go out with people my age because I can’t remember how to do it, it feels like it’s been such a long time. I’m slowly building my life back up, but part of that is realising how far things have slipped from where they were, and that’s something I learn more about every day.

One month has passed. We’ve survived the funeral. Things are beginning to settle and everybody has gone back to work, school, and wherever else they might go. One month of questions for Mum float around my head. One month of things I want to tell her. One month of smiles she hasn’t seen. One month of problems she hasn’t solved. One month of moments she hasn’t shared. One month of conversations from which she’s been absent.

Some days are okay; I can smile, laugh, work, see people and generally live life. Other days are hard and I have to just be patient with myself. I miss her. I miss her so much. But I can live my life alongside missing her. Most importantly, despite missing her, I can still be kind to myself.

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I Miss You

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

You never cry as freely as when wrapped in a Mum’s hug. I keep lying there imagining you next to me, warm. Perhaps my head on your stomach, maybe our feet touching. It’s safe, though. Then I realise my head is on a cushion and my feet are cold only because they’re outside of the cover, not because they’re touching yours, and a fresh wave of grief hits me. I keep dreaming of your hugs, both the ones I wanted and the ones I wanted but tried to tell you I didn’t… even the ones I didn’t want at all. I wake up in the morning and look in the mirror. There are salt lines down my face. I miss your hugs. I miss sleeping through the night. I wish I never knew what my face looked like with eyeliner and mascara streaks decorating my cheeks – the only visible sign of grief. I miss being able to tell you when I had a good day, a bad day, a nothing day. I miss you.

Submissions?

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

So, over the past few weeks I’ve been working on getting myself back and working out where on earth I am in life/the universe/everything (and also sleeping a lot).

Today I managed proper social contact, getting up on time, showering, clearing my desk and clearing my inboxes (not necessarily in that order), but today was definitely a ‘win’ day.

A few things have occurred to me recently and I wanted to get people’s opinions on them. I’ve had quite a lot of messages in recent times from people who have been/are in a similar situation to me. I’ve had all sorts of grand ideas and plans floating through my head, but the truth of it is, I’m not in the right head space to do any of that right at this moment.

One thing I was considering doing, is setting up a way for people to submit their stories (anonymously or not), and having a page on this blog where they’d all be held. Would anyone be up for that or interested in that?

Over time, once my degree is further/done and my head’s a little clearer, I potentially want to look at how we can promote conversations about terminal illness and about loved ones dying. I have a few ideas around it but they are literally just ideas at this stage and nothing more.

Anyway, I’ll leave it here, because I’ve got to head out and I’m sure this is long enough for today, but please let me know if submissions are something you’d be interested in reading and/or contributing 🙂

Funerals Are Weird

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

Mum’s funeral was last Friday. We chose to have a small service at the crematorium in the morning followed by a larger thanksgiving service at the church in the afternoon.

I’ve been to a few funerals before now. The first I ever went to was my Grandma’s. I was only eight and all I can remember is walking into a lamppost on the way there, and hiding upstairs when everyone came round to the house afterwards. The second was my step-granddad’s. I was 14 by this point and I remember being panicked about missing a maths lesson because it was close to my first GCSE exam. The third was the funeral for my friend’s Dad. I was 17, the church was full, she sang and her brother played the piano. It was beautiful.

On Friday morning, we stood outside the crematorium for about 10-15 minutes before we went in. It was cold and people arrived in small handfuls, there were around 30 family and close friends in total. We sat there as Mum was carried in silently by six of our friends. We opted for a simple wooden coffin; we’ve never placed a huge value on ‘things’ in our household. One aunt came up with the idea of having flowers near Mum’s coffin for people to place on top if they wanted to, which nearly everyone did. I didn’t, though – I placed a letter that I had written to Mum the night before and had folded into an origami crane. Initially, I didn’t really understand the purpose of the flowers, but I found it touching to watch each person place a flower on the coffin and say their goodbyes.

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At the afternoon thanksgiving service, Dad and I stood with the stewards to welcome people at the door. Hundreds of people came, which we had prepared for, and I had sort of assumed I wouldn’t recognise a lot of people there. I was surprised that I knew most of them – but then Mum’s been dying for months and we’ve had a lot of visitors in and out of the house over that time. There were a few people I didn’t recognise who clearly knew me, which was a little odd, but not unexpected. Generally, it was really lovely to see people, including some we hadn’t seen in a long time.

The service involved a couple of talks, a slideshow of memories of Mum, a short sermon, two hymns and some prayers. I found out quite a bit about Mum that I didn’t know, which was actually really nice – it’s always fun to hear about your parent’s early lives! I’d put together over 300 photos to roll at the start and end of the service, too (Mum was so ginger when she was younger!).

It was a strange event. There was quite a lot of laughter and tears. I didn’t feel able to cry through either service. I don’t really do public crying, and it felt almost like our family was hosting this event for others to publicly express their sorrow and grief. My brothers didn’t cry all day, either.

We stood at the door again after the service to say goodbye to people. Lots of people say ‘I’m sorry’, but I don’t really know why because they haven’t done anything wrong and it’s not their fault that Mum died. I’m really lucky that I had some fabulous friends around me checking I was okay – it’s quite exhausting seeing, talking to, and hugging that many people. Once we were home, Dad wondered out loud how many of them we will never see again.

So, the funeral is over, Mum is cremated, and the extended family have all gone home. For the first time in weeks, there are no visitors in the house (which is a big deal when you have two or three nearly every day for months on end), and the silence is allowed to settle. Everyone is moving on with their lives. A new palliative care consultant is taking Mum’s place in the office. Her book club will continue to meet, band will continue to practice and church will continue to have coffee mornings, all without Mum.

My life is on hold a bit at the moment, I’ve taken a leave of absence from university until January. Hopefully it will give me the time I need to get my head back on the ground, reignite my passion for learning and find my motivation to attend lectures. Uni feels like a bit of a strange place right now – as Dad said to me, I’ve never been at uni without a poorly Mum. I’d previously learned to ‘maybe’ in response to every social invitation, to keep my phone on me at all times and to check in with home daily. Getting out of that mindset is going to take some re-learning.

As each day goes by, there are more things I want to tell her, and it still isn’t sinking in that I can’t. I’m just sort of wandering around attempting to complete ‘to do’ lists, and sleeping a lot. People keep telling me to just take everything one day at a time, and that’s what I’m trying to do.

Featured: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/naomibarrow/funerals-are-weird_b_8569848.html

Slow Down, Your Mum Died Last Week

~ Naomi ~ 2 Comments

Mum had terminal cancer for 20 months, and the more ill she got, the more my life changed. I went from changing pretty much nothing in my life (other than implementing a little extra support), to dropping almost everything, attending lectures sporadically, accessing a lot of extra support, and going home every night to visit Mum and the rest of my family.

Perhaps naively, I assumed that once Mum died, things would go back to normal, whatever normal may be. That’s not exactly how things have gone, though.

For one, I’d forgotten to factor in emotions. Emotions are often useful, but since Mum died the majority of the time they’ve been a nuisance. They’ve left me lying in bed on a morning trying to remember how to get dressed and what I’m doing that day. They’ve made it difficult to get to lectures or to engage in social commitments. Sometimes they make it hard to get to sleep, to write, to see people or to speak.

I keep getting really annoyed at myself for feeling unable to do things that I could do two or three years ago. I used to be super busy, incredibly active and fairly extroverted. I wouldn’t have a spare five minutes in the day – always on the go seeing someone or doing something. Some days at the moment, it’s an achievement to get up, showered, and dressed.

I hate letting my friends down. They’ve put up with so much over the past months and years when I’ve been unable to plan anything or had to cancel last minute. When I’ve fallen off the radar and stopped replying to texts and other messages, they’ve kept contacting me and inviting me to things. I want to see them all again and do fun things with them. I want to be going out on an evening, going on day trips, chilling at home and watching a film, all of the things people my age usually do. All of the things I used to do.

Since Mum got ill, I’ve had increased anxiety, too. It’s not surprising really when you’ve been through what we have over the past few years. I’ve had to adapt to Mum’s changing health and the changes that it has brought for my family. I’ve had times when any moment my phone could have rung telling me that Mum was in hospital again. When walking around the village, there was a period of time when I couldn’t leave the house without someone asking me how Mum was – all because people care, but nonetheless catching me off guard as I went about my daily life.

I’d half thought that when Mum died this would disappear, because I’d no longer be waiting on a call to hear about her health, and nobody in the village would ask me how she was because she’d be dead. It’s not quite worked out like that though, I still find myself getting anxious about things and it makes it incredibly difficult to do the things I’ve always done.

I’m getting frustrated. I feel like I shouldn’t be accessing the help I’ve needed before because Mum’s died now and I should just move on with my life. I feel like I should just be able to dive back into my degree, attend all my lectures and engage with them fully. I feel like I should be jumping back into my social life and my volunteer work and everything I did and was before Mum got diagnosed again.

Last week, I sat down with someone and was airing some of my frustrations, they looked at me and basically said “Naomi, your Mum died last week”. Mum died and my body is grieving. It’s why some days feel like sludge. It’s why I’m so tired all the time no matter how much I sleep. It’s frustrating and annoying but it’s how my life is.

I expected to feel a lot of things when Mum died. Low, sad, upset, angry, tearful, yep, but frustration was not something I expected to feel. I’m probably expecting too much too soon, in fact I expect nearly everyone around me would tell me that I’m expecting too much too soon and that I need to be kind to myself (as my Mum would say) and be patient with myself. I can see where they’re coming from and the more I try and do things and can’t, the more I realise that they’re right. I just so desperately want to be a ‘normal’ 21 year old again, and some days it can feel like that’s never going to happen.

We’re currently collecting for Yorkshire Cancer Research in Mum’s memory. If you would like to donate, please do so here.

Featured: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/naomibarrow/grief-bereavement_b_8463826.html

Dear Mum.

~ Naomi ~ Leave a comment

Dear Mum.

I really, really miss you.

It’s so hard having to make decisions and not having you to run them by. I can guess what you’d say, but I don’t know. I can hear your voice in my head saying ‘be kind to yourself’, but translating that into real life decisions can be tricky.

There have been lots of decisions to make lately. Whether to put an obituary in the paper, which song to put with the video of your photos, whether to bother washing my hair or whether it can wait one more day… One of the harder ones is what to wear to your funeral. I should have seen that one coming really and asked for your help in advance. I’ve always been useless at that sort of stuff. I don’t want to wear black because that seems a bit morbid, but I need to be smart. I’ve ordered a few bits online, I’m hoping that they don’t all fit/I don’t like them all because if I do I’ll be skint. I’m afraid it’s probably going to be Primark shoes, your nemesis, but some things never change!

I’ve had to make a really difficult decision today – whether or not to take a Leave of Absence from uni. It’s been mentioned by people for a few weeks, but the time has come for the decision to be made. There is no right or wrong answer on this – keep going, work hard, attend all my lectures from now on and hope my head is in it enough to pass an exam and write a 5000 word essay in January, or take a break until January, do this term next year, graduate 6 months after my peers, and hope it was all worth it.

You’ve always been good at the academic stuff and I’m struggling to motivate myself to do it without you. You’ve always read through my essay, talked to me about my subject, debated with me, been interested in my work and helped me to come to new conclusions about things. I really needed you today to help me make this decision, but you’re not here.

Today I sat down to catch up on lectures and perhaps make a start on the research proposal which was due in yesterday. I spent 3 hours listlessly flicking through lecture slides with zero motivation or energy. I think that was my answer, so after discussing it with pretty much every man and his dog, I’m taking a break.

I miss you, Mum. I keep seeing things that remind me of you, or see something in a shop and think of buying it for you then realise you’re not there and it hits me again. I think of texting you, but you wouldn’t get it. I don’t want anything big, I just want to talk to you, I miss you. I just want a hug. Or to rest my head on your stomach while you stroke my hair and we chat about the day or something medical or something else. I just really, really, miss you.

Love you lots xxx

One Week Since Mum Died

~ Naomi ~ 1 Comment

Half past twelve today marked one week since Mum died.

It’s been a strange week. I both can’t believe it’s been a whole week since Mum died, and can’t believe it’s only been a week since Mum died. Time is weird.

As each day goes by, I am constantly amazed and humbled by people’s incredible kindness. Looking around my uni room I can see cards, letters, chocolates, flowers, and a teddy. I know that when I go home tomorrow there will be more flowers, cards and little gifts from people. I have received more hugs and offers of help than I can count. I have had texts, tweets, Facebook messages, emails, phone calls, visits, and comments on my blog. People are incredible.

I naively thought that when Mum died, life would go back to ‘normal’, but I don’t think I realised how far from ‘normal’ things had slipped. I’m slowly beginning to realise that I am going to need time, patience from both myself and others, and lots of hugs, to build myself back up again. My daily targets have gone from ‘attend all lectures, get all work in on time, do all reading and catch up on work I missed’, to ‘get up, shower, get dressed and eat something’, and as people keep telling me, that’s okay.

Some days feel like sludge. Today is a bit lighter than sludge, which is nice, but some days even breathing feels hard work, so it’s no wonder I can’t concentrate on the research proposal I need to do.

I hope that in time this will get easier, people assure me it will. Grief feels unpredictable right now, some days I feel more okay than others. People assure me that it’s okay to be like that, and for now I have to trust them because I’ve never been through this before, so that’s all I can do.

Mum has died, but I still know what she’d say in some situations, I still have our memories, I still have everything she’s taught me. I also have some fantastic friends and supports around me. Some lovely, wonderful, people who care about me and want what’s best for me. People who will let me cry to them and will listen. I’m so lucky to have these people. I’m so grateful.

The First Days of Grief

~ Naomi ~ 3 Comments

Mum died on Friday.

She had a ‘good death’. Those in palliative medicine define a ‘good death’ as one where the dying person is symptom free, in the place they want to be, with the people they want to be with. Mum died symptom free, in our lounge, with Dad by her side.

Saying ‘Mum died’ might seem blunt to some, but that’s what happened. Mum worked in palliative medicine all of her life and as a family we’ve always spoken about death and end of life care openly and honestly, so it seems only appropriate that we continue that when discussing Mum’s death.

It’s been a few days since she died now, and everything’s a bit weird. Time seems to have become somewhat fluid and lost any sense of meaning. Hours can fly by and minutes can get stuck. It’s very strange.

You would think that after three years of cancer, and 20 months of terminal cancer, you might be somewhat prepared for the dying stage – but I don’t think anything prepares you for your Mum’s death.

When I got the call, I knew that Mum had died before Dad told me – why else would he be ringing me at 12:45 on a Friday? Everyone I then called for the rest of the day knew, too. Mum deteriorated rapidly in the two weeks before she died, so though hearing of her death still came as a shock to people, it wasn’t completely unexpected.

The rest of the day passed by in a blur of hugs, visitors, many cups of tea, phone calls, visits to people and cake. I am learning that tea and food, often in the form of cake or stew, are essentials in the ‘visiting a bereaved person’ tool kit… no complaints from our end!

Over the weekend, life was on pause. The distinction between day and night disappeared and I kept finding myself forgetting how to do basic things that I’ve known how to do since I was a toddler. I wasn’t really upset or sad, just didn’t really feel like doing much. Talking and other noises sounded very loud and I found myself being drawn to my room where I could control the sound and light levels.

It seemed strange that people were being so nice to me, and to us. The offers of help, and ‘if I can do anything let me know’ came in thick and fast, we have an amazing bunch of family and friends around us. I didn’t feel like anything had changed, though, it felt like Mum was just at work, or in hospital or something, and like she’d come back at any point.

On Monday it hit me. I woke up feeling a little fragile, but was doing okay. I went to talk to someone in my college who’s been brilliant since Mum got diagnosed, she gave me a hug, I sat in her chair and began to talk to her, and I just broke. I cried for about forty minutes. My college administrator sat next to me with a hand on my knee, moving my hair from my face like my Mum used to, and I just cried. I stayed in her office for a further hour just sitting, staring, and sometimes talking before heading to the GP who’s another person who has been outstanding and gone above and beyond more times than I can count throughout Mum’s illness. The GP had rung me on Friday afternoon and arranged to see me on Monday. I ended up crying on her, too, she’s another one who gives brilliant hugs. She gave me the time I needed, and took the time to understand what was going on and how I was doing, focussing on the basics like eating and sleeping, with a plan to see her again on Friday.

Today I’m just tired. I’ve replied to some messages, watched TV, done a few jobs, and stayed under my blanket. I’m not particularly upset or sad today, just really, really tired.

It’s going to be a while before we develop a new normal as a family of four. My Mum was incredible and developing a life without her is going to be strange. I’m learning that there is no grief rule book, no pattern that everybody follows. Everybody is hit differently, and copes in a different way – and that’s okay.

I’ve been blogging about terminal cancer for a few months now, and that journey has now ended. My journey hasn’t ended, though, and neither has my family’s. I plan to continue to write about how things go, and how everything plays out, because I think it’s important. I will not be the only one to have ever gone through this, or who will ever go through this, and I think it’s important to be able to talk about it and write about it openly and honestly.

Mum was amazing. She achieved so much and touched so many people over her 53 years. I’ve written more about her on the donation page she requested we set up in her memory. The next days, weeks, months, and years are going to be tough. But we’re incredibly lucky to have a brilliant bunch of family, friends, and other supports around us, who will help us through.

Featured: http://www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/naomibarrow/the-first-days-of-grief_b_8403720.html

Mum Died Yesterday

~ Naomi ~ 11 Comments

Ever since I started writing about Mum’s illness, part of my brain must have known that I would have to write this post at some point, but it doesn’t make it any easier to write.

At lunchtime yesterday, Mum passed away. It was very quick and Dad was by her side.

Dad rang me at uni. Even though I knew as soon as I saw his name on my phone screen, and even though I’d known this was coming, it doesn’t make it any less of a surprise. Mum seemed a little better the night before – if not better, at least the same as the previous night, a stark difference from the rest of the week where she seemed to deteriorate noticeably every 24 hours.

A week or so ago I arranged for someone to contact a list of people who needed to know, and thankfully the whole system worked seamlessly. Within 5/10 minutes I had two welfare tutors in my room until a family friend came to take me home. My college have been amazing.

Yesterday afternoon, I walked into the lounge to see Mum for the last time. She was lying asleep on the bed. I put my hands under the duvet, found her hand, and held it, stroking her fingers like I did the night before. Holding the hand that held mine for the last 21 years. It was still warm. I put my head on the duvet and cried. Before I left, I stroked her hair and kissed her forehead just like she used to do for me whenever I was upset. It was cold.

Everything feels in slow motion today. I’m trying to remember the steps that people take each day in order to function. I keep catching myself sitting, or standing, thinking of nothing – but I’m doing okay.

I’m lucky to have an incredible bunch of people around me who are offering hugs, wise words and hot orange squash. I miss my Mum. Normally when something this upsetting happens, it’s her who I’d go to.

It has been a long 3 years since Mum was first diagnosed with cancer, and an even longer 18 months since she was diagnosed as terminal. We now have a long road ahead of us dealing with the grief that comes with Mum’s passing, but there’s no rush, and in some small way we can at least take comfort in the fact that Mum is no longer hurting. It’s time to begin to develop a new normal as a family of four.

Mummyyy

R.I.P. Mum. 24/09/62-23/10/15