“It’s disappointing.” Honestly they are the exact words used to tell me that my mother’s cancer had spread and that she was going to die. Imminently. Disappointing? Disappointing? I remember hearing it and thinking that. Disappointing? Disappointing? It’s not disappointing it’s devastating. Soul destroying. My worst nightmare come true. But it’s not disappointing. That word will never in a million years come close to describing what it was.

I’d been getting increasingly worried about mum for the past couple of weeks. She was getting forgetful. Confused. Agitated. We thought she was stressed and needed a break so we sent her off on holiday with Dad and told her to relax. A few days into the holiday when she still didn’t seem to be getting any better was when I really started to worry. I had the queasy feeling in my stomach that something wasn’t right, but I thought it was the onset of dementia, like my Grandma has. I never even dreamed it would turn out to be what it was.

When Mum was first diagnosed with cancer in 2014 we were relieved. They had found a cyst and when they were checking out the cyst they did a mammogram and found pre-cancerous cells. “Thank God for that cyst,” we said. If it wasn’t for the cyst the cancer wouldn’t have been found. “We’ve been so lucky.” But then suddenly we weren’t feeling so lucky anymore because that cyst wasn’t a cyst. It was secondary melanoma and that’s not so great. I’ll never forget that phone call. It was the end of the school day and I’d forgotten Mum had gone for results. It was in the days when I didn’t panic every time she rang me at a random time so I picked up the phone and said hi. What she told me floored me and I panicked. To me cancer has always been a death sentence and I was horrified. Not cancer. Not my mum. That night I did something stupid. I Googled secondary melanoma and it wasn’t pretty reading. The further the tumour was from the original one, the worse it was. We didn’t know where the original one was at the point, we had to wait to find out. The return rates were high, the survival rates were low. The next few days were a whirlwind. Mum had to go for a scan to find the original tumour. At that point I needed to be near her as much as possible. It was a comfort to be with her. When I wasn’t I fell apart. How could this be happening to us? What was I going to do? My babies weren’t going to remember their grandma. In amongst all this we celebrated Oscar’s 4^th birthday. We put brave faces on and I took pictures, taking extra care to make sure Mum was in them, because we just weren’t sure what was around the corner.

On the day of Mum’s results I didn’t go to work. I couldn’t have managed it. Instead I took a long bath and read my book, distracting myself so I didn’t have to think. The frustrating thing with Mum’s appointments were that they were always late afternoon so we always had to wait all day. All day long on tenterhooks. Was she in there yet? What were they saying? Had we not heard anything because it was bad news or were they just running late? “It’s terminal this, I know it,” I said to my husband and he just told me to wait and be patient. When the phone rang I went and sat on the end of my bed, away from the kids, just in case. I answered the phone and Mum said to me “they can manage it.” “What do you mean, ‘manage’?” I asked. Mum explained that it was ok, there was just one lump and they were going to take it out. We could manage it. Things would be ok. Within days they had taken the lump out and she recovered well. We were still nervous though. What if it came back? What if? What if?

Within a few months another lump had returned in the same place. Again they took it out and offered no further treatment. It made me twitch. We were sure they would offer radiotherapy this time. Why weren’t they? They told us as long as it didn’t spread to any organs they would just keep removing the lumps. We had to put our faith in the doctors and accept the fact that they were the experts.

In the July Mum was due to have what’s known as a PET scan. This checked her body to make sure there were no signs of cancer. I did a deal with the universe. I’d seen an advert for something called ‘Brave the Shave’ where you had all your hair shaved off to raise money for Macmillan. If Mum was cancer free then I’d do that. That was my way of saying thanks to the universe. The results came back the week of my brother’s birthday. She was cancer free, my head shave was going ahead. Mum didn’t want me too bald, plus work weren’t overly keen so I booked it in for the first Saturday of the school holidays and I was going to have a grade 2. My eldest child decided he was going to do it too and a friend of ours also joined us. Between us all we raised well over £1000 and I was happy. I’d done my bit, but more importantly Mum was ok.

In January 2016 my mum found another lump. I remember thinking, “is that it universe? 5.5 fucking months? Is that all you gave us?” The universe went back on our deal. Mum was booked in for her surgery on the Monday. When they rang on the Friday to cancel and invite her to an appointment on the Wednesday we knew that wasn’t a good sign. They had said they’d operate unless it spread to an organ. It wasn’t hard to work out what was going on. We just had to find out which organ. I don’t know if you’ve ever been in the situation like that. Where you know it’s bad but you just don’t know how bad. Those days are the longest days of your life. You can’t settle or concentrate. It just goes round and round in your head. “What if? What if?” This time I hid. It was painful to be near Mum. Had we not been through enough? She didn’t deserve this. Being near her broke my heart so I kept away.

At her appointment Mum was told the melanoma had spread to her liver. Not the worst news ever. The liver is pretty good at repairing itself and they had this new drug called Keytona which was a melanoma wonder drug. She had to go to The Christie every 3 weeks for 3 months and then they’d scan her to see how it was working. They’d had brilliant success rates so we were feeling reassured that things would be ok.

Mum went for her treatment every 3 weeks for three months and then had her first scan to see how it was working. I imagined what they would tell us. “It’s shrunk.” “It’s gone completely.” “She’s cured”. I had this scale of things to try and prepare myself for every eventuality. It started with “She’s going to die this second” and moved up to “she’s cured.” I didn’t really believe the bottom of the scale though,  I was sure we were in for good news. Dad and I were away in the far reaches of northern Scotland the day Mum went to get her results so she went with her friend Rosemary. We couldn’t settle all day. We were on edge waiting for the phone to ring and when it got to late afternoon and we’d not heard we were starting to worry it was bad news. We rang and text but got no answer. Eventually Rosemary text. “Not good news. It’s not worked. Discussing options now.” We were heartbroken. Not only had it not worked but the cancer had now also spread to her chest wall. I had pinned all my hopes on it. I was convinced it was going to work. Now what? I remember sobbing in the car park of Tesco in Wick. Just once I wanted it to be simple. I wanted good news. Why could we not just get good news for once?

Eventually the doctors came back with a plan. There was another new drug. Not as successful as the Keytona. It didn’t last as long, ten years max. But it was different and it might work. Plus look at all the drugs they had brought out in the past few years. If this could keep her going for ten years who knew where cancer treatment would be? This drug was in tablet form and every 4 weeks Mum was back at the hospital for blood tests to keep an eye on her. Scans were every three months and at her first scan we were so pleased to find out that the spread had stabilised. Another new drug was released and Mum was given it in conjunction with her other tablets.

June 2016 was the first time Mum was admitted to hospital. It was such a shock. She was poorly and they couldn’t get her temperature down so she was taken in over the weekend. We’d go in to visit and it was crazy. She looked so healthy next to all the other ladies in there. And throughout it all she was still smiling and still positive. It shook us up so much and only served to remind us that whilst she might look good on the outside, we had no idea what was going on on the inside.

By August 2016 we had been told that the combination of drugs had been having a positive impact. The tumour under her arm had gone, the one in her chest wall was barely there and even the ones in her liver had shrunk slightly. They were proving more stubborn though.

Then in amongst it all Mum was diagnosed with breast cancer. You could almost have laughed if it wasn’t so depressing. Stage 4 melanoma not enough, let’s throw breast cancer into the mix too! She had to have a mastectomy and they would check her lymph nodes to make sure it hadn’t spread. The mastectomy was a success and tests showed there was no spread. Some good news, I suppose. She was put on yet more drugs, this time to prevent the breast cancer coming back.

It was around this time that she became quite unwell. Her temperature was erratic and hard to keep down. The Nightingale Centre at Wythenshawe hospital was dealing with the breast cancer and The Christie with the melanoma. It was hard to know which one to contact. They weren’t sure what it was. A reaction to the new drugs? All the drugs reacting with each other? She was taken off the breast cancer drugs while they tried to work it out. She missed Poppy’s birthday as she was unwell. She wasn’t great over Christmas and on New Year’s Eve 2016-17 she was in bed by 10pm as she was so poorly.

This carried on for the next few months and she was eventually admitted into hospital on 26^th May 2017. I know the date as it was my eldest son’s 9^th birthday. I was gutted as was she. We were sick of her having to miss out on things because she wasn’t well. It wasn’t fair. I was determined that she would be the one to give Charlie his birthday present so we went to the hospital after school to see her. Again she was the healthiest looking one in there. “I feel like a fraud”, she said.

A few months later Mum was due another scan and this time they decided to scan her brain too. The results came back and showed a shadow on her brain. I honestly didn’t know what more could be thrown at us. It felt so desperately unfair. One thing after another after another. They sent the scans off to a specialist and booked her an appointment for her to get her results. That feeling was back. That stomach churning lurch that told me this was not good. Shadows on brains were not good. They had told her she couldn’t drive either and that was the first time she ever really lost her positivity, well in front of me anyway. We would talk about things and she used to tell me she didn’t want to miss out on the children. That upset me the most. That she thought about that. I couldn’t even entertain the idea and I hate that it went through her mind. She hated not being able to drive. It made her feel trapped and useless and it really bothered her. The day of her results was long and full of nervous waiting. I couldn’t settle on anything. It was 6pm by the time she rang me and I burst into tears when I answered the phone. “What’s the matter?” she said to me in that voice. That mummy voice that wanted me to feel ok and that wanted to make ME feel better, because that’s the type of person she was. “I’m sick of waiting,” I told her. We’d have to wait longer. They still didn’t know what it was so they were going to leave it for another 3 months and scan again to see if it was stable or not. If it was stable the chances were it was nothing to worry about. The only good news we had was that it definitely wasn’t melanoma.

After 3 months of waiting the results came back as stable but inconclusive. Mum was thrilled to be able to drive again but the shadow bothered all of us. We didn’t know what it was, how long it had been there or what it meant for the future.

2018 came around and all seemed to be going ok. I’d been to a couple of Mum’s appointments with her. They found a new lump in her chest but they weren’t worried. They were going to check it to see if it was breast cancer or melanoma but either way it would be whipped out and there was nothing to worry us. Her bloods were showing up fine. The other tumours were stable and her brain scans were showing no change. I went with Mum to one consultant appointment in February and when I commented on the thickness of her file they told us she was a success story. That was so great to hear. Everything was looking positive and I never dreamed that in less than two months she would be gone.

I suppose looking back on it now this was when things started to go a little wrong. Mum was losing her positivity. It was getting hard for her. She was tired and not feeling well. She had a couple of falls too and kept getting confused about plans we had made together. I thought it was maybe stress. She had all these different appointments and it was hard enough for anyone to get their head round never mind someone who had been through as much as Mum had over the past 3 years.

She’d been for one last lot of appointments. Her bloods were good. The new lump looked fairly likely to be melanoma but they told her to go on holiday and they would remove it when she got back. I was worried about her. She wasn’t right, but she was under a lot of stress and even the doctors thought she needed a break.

Sunday 25^th March my Dad rang me from their holiday to tell me she wasn’t well and they had diagnosed Mum with dehydration and gastroenteritis. I was really worried now. We’d had some really odd conversations whilst she’d been away. I was beginning to wonder if she had some kind of infection, but the clinic said she didn’t. Mum wouldn’t take her medication and had been a little sick. We decided they needed to come home early from their holiday and managed to get them a flight the following afternoon. I rang the Christie hotline and they told me to call them as soon as she landed. We met Mum and Dad in the airport the following evening. We took her home and I was shocked to see how unwell she looked. She could barely walk. I rang the hotline and they told us to bring her straight in. I grabbed her soap bag out of her suitcase and a few night clothes and we went straight to the hospital. I remember texting my friend to tell her and saying I hoped it was an infection, because if it wasn’t then I’d just lost my mum. I honestly thought she had dementia. My Dad thought she’d had a nervous breakdown. What was clear though was that nobody really knew.

The Christie were wonderful and within 12 hours she’d had loads of tests and they were throwing all kinds of medication at her to try and solve the problem. It was scary though. She wasn’t Mum, she was confused and forgetting things and I was terrified it was the beginning of the end. That Tuesday night I sobbed in my husband’s arms. He had to hold me up I was so hysterical. Why her? Why my mum? It wasn’t fair. We were due to fly to the states that Friday and I really didn’t want to go with things so up in the air. He kept telling me not to panic, he was sure she was ok and even if it wasn’t good news nothing was going to happen just yet. I wanted so much to believe him.

On the Tuesday they decided to do a lumbar puncture. They’d been unable to pinpoint what was going on and they were good at detecting underlying infections. The longer it went on without them finding a reason for it, the more worried I got that it was irreversible. I Googled lumbar punctures and when I saw that they were used to diagnose certain types of brain and spinal cancers my blood ran cold. It still never occurred to me the melanoma had spread though. Her bloods were fine, her CT scan showed no change. What was going on?

They’d moved Mum up to a ward in the hospital by now and the staff were lovely. They looked after her and us so very well. We’d hoped to get the results by Wednesday evening but they hadn’t arrived. My deadline for going away was getting close and I knew I was going to have to make a decision. On the Thursday morning the doctor came to see Mum. She knew who he was but was very confused. She had no real grasp of what was going on so I asked to speak to him away from the bed. He told me that the results they had so far meant it was fairly probable the melanoma had spread to the brain and that if it had there was nothing they could do. I returned to the bed to sit next to Mum with a happy smile painted on my face. I was not going to get upset in front of her. We talked about the children for a bit, they made her smile to the very end and then I left. I rang Dad to tell him what I’d be told and went home for a while. I just sat there. Not knowing what to do with myself. I went back to the hospital later in the day to meet the consultant. I was desperate to find out for sure before I cancelled my holiday. There was still that tiny glimmer of hope, not to mention the fact that the kids were so excited about their holiday and I knew they would be heartbroken if I didn’t go.

At half past 5 the consultant arrived. “We’ve had the results back and it’s what we thought. The melanoma has spread to her brain. It’s disappointing.” And that brings us back to where we started. “It’s disappointing.” We chatted for a bit but Mum really didn’t know what was going on so we went to the day room. My sister in law was with me at this point and we asked that question that I had honestly convinced myself I would never have to ask. “How long?” I don’t know what I expected but it certainly was not the answer I actually got. As he opened his mouth and said the words “4-6 weeks” we both gasped in shock. So soon? No! How was that even possible? Sure she was confused but she looked great. He was wonderful, the doctor. Talked to us for a while and reassured me that one thing Mum wouldn’t feel was pain. I was so relieved. That was one thing I really and truly didn’t want for her. My sister in law went to sit with mum whilst I got the courage to ring dad. Saying those words to him was, at that point, the hardest thing I had ever had to do in my life. Believe it or not there’s been worse things since then, but I’ll come to those another day. Dad adored my mum. We all did. What would we do without her? Over the next few hours we started ringing people to let them know. Dad and I took it in turns and as we rang people I made us write a list. I knew we would need it again soon.

I left Dad to visit Mum and I went home to tell my children they would be going on holiday without me. If Mum only had 4-6 weeks with us then I wasn’t going to miss 2 weeks of it on holiday. Plus if something had happened whilst I was away I’d never have forgiven myself. The children were so upset. They sobbed in my arms and leaving them at Nana’s whilst I went home to unpack my things from the suitcase was soul destroying.

The next morning Dad and I went to the airport to see the children off. As I sobbed watching them walking away from me through the security gate the security guard looked at me with sympathy. How little she knew. My tears weren’t for my children going away. They were for what I knew we all had to face when they got back.

The next few days went by so fast. I was told so many times to stay strong and I know it was meant well but I wanted to shout and scream. I was out of bed. I was dressed. I was breathing all while my Mum was dying in a hospital bed. That took more strength than anyone will ever know. Getting out of bed and facing it each day was the hardest part. It was Easter weekend so the consultant wouldn’t be back till the Tuesday when we would start to make end of life care plans. I was determined to take my 90 year old Grandma to see her daughter for one last time. I’ve got some lovely photos. They were smiling and so happy to see each other. I will treasure those for the rest of my life.

Mum took a massive downturn over the weekend. She couldn’t eat as everything she ate she brought back up. By Easter Monday she had lost the ability to talk. She was still with us because she would blow us kisses and roll her eyes at us but the melanoma had taken away her ability to speak. By the time the doctor came back on the Tuesday morning he told us our 4-6 weeks was now more like 2. On reflection, we’d had a few of those weeks before we’d even realised what had happened.

On Thursday 5^th April we were woken by a phone call to tell us Mum had had a fit and we needed to get to the hospital as soon as we could. Dad and I got dressed and calmly drove there are fast as we safely could. Mum was asleep and they told us it was unlikely she’d wake up again. I was terrified of losing her when we weren’t there and we made the decision that from then on we wouldn’t leave her. She was in a ward at this point so Dad wasn’t allowed to stay overnight but me and my sister in law decided we’d stay that night. It was such a beautiful sunny day that day and I remember thinking it was a good day to die.

Walking down that corridor after each visit was so hard. Having to pull ourselves together and not collapse in a heap wailing took all my energy and I was so exhausted by 10am each day. That night the ward staff wheeled in two reclining chairs for Nat and I. We stayed awake all night texting each other across the bed and keeping an eye on Mum. Miraculously she had woken again and it looked like she still had a few more days fight in her. Believe it or not I have some happy memories of that time in hospital. My Dad cared for Mum so beautifully in that time. It was wonderful to watch. All that love after so many years and he was going to be cheated of his time with her. There was one afternoon where she was asleep in her chair. She would only hold Dad’s hand so he sat next to her holding her hand as she slept. I sat in between him and my brother holding their hands. We didn’t speak, we didn’t need to. It was our special time, just the four of us. Probably the last time we would ever get that.

Over the weekend Mum was able to go into a side room which meant Dad could stay. He stayed the Friday night and I went home to get some sleep. There were so many people who wanted to visit Mum, she had a constant stream of visitors. Her eyes would light up every time someone arrived to see her and she loved it, even though she couldn’t talk. That was one of the hardest parts, watching people take that breath when they saw her and the reality hit. I started meeting people in the entrance and preparing them for what was going to meet them when they arrived in Mum’s room. It didn’t shock me anymore. I think I had become numb. It was a living nightmare but at the same time so unreal. I actually found myself comforting other people because to them it was new and it was a shock.

The Sunday was really the last day Mum woke properly. She was wasting away slowly in front of our eyes. She’d not eaten for over a week and wasn’t drinking. I wasn’t sure if she’d still be with us by the time my babies arrived home. I was so glad they’d been away for all of it. I could concentrate on my mum and not have to worry about being a mummy myself. I was nervous about them coming home as I knew I’d then have to find a way to divide my time.

I picked them up from the airport on the Tuesday morning and it was so lovely to see them. But so hard too. I couldn’t settle all day as I’d not seen Mum. I knew we didn’t have long and I really didn’t want to miss her when she passed. It was about 7pm by the time I got to see her that night and I was a wreck by the time we arrived.

Wednesday 11^th April and my mother in law took the children out for me. Gareth was back at work so I went up to see Mum in the morning. We’d decided to take the children bowling in the afternoon so we did that and then I dropped them off with Nana before heading to the hospital with Gareth. When we got there my Dad was seeing a couple of visitors out. He went to see them off and my uncle, who was also there, stepped out. I looked up at mum and noticed she wasn’t breathing. Panic gripped me. As I looked at my sister in law Mum took a deep breath. “I’ve been timing it,” she said. I told Gareth to go and find dad NOW and went to get a nurse. “It won’t be long,” she said. I saw my Dad at the ward door and explained what was going on. Not long after that Mum let out what I can only describe as a massive sigh of release. “She’s gone,” I thought as I laid my head on the bed next to her and sobbed. We got the nurse who told us she was still with us, only just though. We rang my brother and told him to get there are soon as possible. “Hang on Mum,” we thought. As we waited for my brother to arrive we talked about memories of Mum. We held her hand and we talked about growing up, when Mum and Dad met, their wedding and so much more. My brother arrived and me, him and my dad held mum’s hand. She had waited. For my children and husband to be back home with me so I wasn’t alone and for us all to be there together with her.

It was a beautiful death, if you can describe death in that way. So peaceful and exactly what I wanted for her. All of us together, Classic FM on in the background as she slipped gently off into her eternal sleep.

The nurse came in at 9.20pm and confirmed that she had gone. We made the decision to tell people in the morning. For now it was our time. We left Dad with Mum for an hour. I don’t know what he told her in that time. That’s between the two of them. Once the doctor had been and confirmed everything it was time to leave. I asked for some time alone with Mum and I told her what I needed her to hear. That she was the best Mum I could have asked for and that she had given me the best childhood I could have wanted. My beautiful, kind, caring Mum taken far too soon. My brother had some time with her too and then Dad went to say his last goodbye. We walked out of that hospital together, each leaving a piece of our hearts behind with the most wonderful woman I have ever known.