Three days before my 26th birthday Mum passed away. She was 61…

1986

I’m 11. It’s summer, and we’re on holiday in our usual haunt – Swanage, in Dorset. The weather is fine, the sea is warm and the hotel is lovely. Their food is great as always, except for some reason Mum seems to be a little under the weather. Food she’d previously loved (seafood for example) was suddenly and inexplicably making her ill. One night she was enjoying a glass of red wine with Dad; the next night she complained it tasted of vinegar. Her tastebuds revolted against her in the space of twenty-four hours. She never ate seafood nor drank red wine again.

March 9th, 2001

I’m woken by the phone. It’s 7:30am. I’m immediately worried.

It’s Dad. Now I’m panicking. What’s wrong?

“I can’t put this any other way. It’s your Mum. She died last night.”

“...”

I can’t comprehend the words. I’m sure he just told me something important. Something terrible.

“I was with her when she went. I woke up at half past twelve and went downstairs to check on her.” (At this point, Mum was so ill she was sleeping in her reclining chair in the living room. It was more comfortable on her frail figure than lying in bed).

“She was going, I could tell. I made her as comfortable as I could – fetched cool facecloths for her, made sure she was ok. She slipped away at three minutes past one this morning.”

I’m silent. I can’t bring myself to say the words.

“Are you ok, Martin?”

“...”

He went on to explain the arrangements. It all seemed very practical, very Dad. It was the beginning of the end of our relationship.

Three days later I turned 26. Two days after that I buried my mother.

1996

Late summer, and Mum slips and falls in Congleton town centre. She breaks her ankle quite severely – but, my mother being the indomitable character she was – she walks into the nearest building – a bank – and politely asks the bank staff for assistance. With a broken ankle! She’s in plaster for months.

In their infinite wisdom, my university decides to hold their 1996 graduation ceremony in November. Mum was looking forward to seeing me graduate. The night before the ceremony it snows in Huddersfield. The ground is thick and cloying, and traffic comes to a standstill for miles. It’s treacherous underfoot, and Mum knows she won’t be able to stay upright for long – she is only just out of plaster, and walking very gingerly with a stick. She stays at home while I graduate. Her disappointment at missing my big day echoes inside me.

March 8th, 2001

It’s evening. I’m alone in the flat I’m renting. I’ve just thawed out a portion of bolognese sauce I cooked a couple of weeks earlier, and thrown some pasta on. It’s tasteless. I put some more Parmesan cheese on. It doesn’t help. I eat it anyway and dump the plate in the sink, promising to wash it up later.

I go online. At 2:15am I switch the PC off and slip into bed.

1999

Back at home after gallavanting for a year or so, I see Mum’s health rapidly deteriorate. She goes into hospital and is diagnosed with cancer of the stomach. The surgeons operate, and remove two-thirds of her stomach. She makes a full recovery within a matter of weeks and we all breathe a sigh of relief. That was close…

March 6th, 2001

The hospital allows Mum to come home. The doctors aren’t hopeful.

2000

It’s back, and it’s back with a vengeance. The (truly excellent) surgeons at Macclesfield General Hospital tell us that sadly there’s nothing more they can do, and refer Mum to Christies Hospital in Manchester – the place to get treated for cancer. I take Mum to the hospital when I can, thanks to an understanding boss, and wait while she undergoes whatever treatment/examination/humiliation she’s subjected to. We become as close as we have been in years, and I watch in despair as the chemotherapy fails to make an impact.

In August I accept a new job – to the delight of Mum. She wants the best for me, and sees no reason for me to hang around “for my sake”. I don’t argue – it’s never a wise thing to do – and promise to visit regularly. Her 60 mile round-trip to Christies every week are now via a free driver service, operated by volunteers. She’s grateful, and always pays for the petrol and tips her driver.

My new boss – Kev – is equally understanding of the situation at home. I make trips up the M6 to see Mum whenever I can. By now, she’s weakening and getting thin. The chemo has robbed her of her beautiful silver hair, but she has a fantastic hairpiece made. I’m completely unable to distinguish between it and her hair.

March 4th, 2001

Mum’s in hospital again. I go and visit her – she looks old. So very old. Her skin is pallid and loose. She’s being fed via a drip. She tells me it’s difficult to keep any food down now. She asks to go to the toilet – my sister patiently waits as Mum struggles out of bed, and then guides her to the ladies toilet. Tracy later told me it was so Mum could have a cigarette. Her one vice.

Christmas 2000

In an unprecedented move, Mum announces she’s not “doing Christmas” this year. Every year for as long as any of us can remember she’s done Christmas for the whole family. A full turkey dinner on Christmas Day, followed by sandwiches and mince pies for a late tea. Then the same again on Boxing Day – beef this time – and the same teatime routine. By the end of it she’s always knackered. But this year will be different. She’ll finally be able to enjoy Christmas – other people will be cooking her food!

A table is booked at a restaurant in the countryside near Congleton. Christmas morning arrives, presents are opened, and we get ready for a nice meal – just myself, Mum and Dad. The weather is cold but clear. There’s a touch of frost still lingering on the grass.

The restaurant is packed. We’ve booked, but we still have to wait for our table. It looks like they’ve overbooked and are seriously understaffed. Eventually we’re led to our table and order. And we wait. And wait. The food arrives, but by now Mum is past eating. She’s tired and all the waiting has made what’s left of her stomach shut down. She eats a little food joylessly. We go home and Mum gets changed before lying down on her reclining chair and going to sleep. Her first Christmas dinner for at least twenty-five years cooked by someone else, and she couldn’t enjoy it.

February 2001

Mum is in and out of hospital. When she’s at home a district nurse visits every other day. At the time I’m unaware of the details, but later I would put an awful lot of pain medication into medical waste bags.

New Years Eve 2000

Normally Mum and Dad go out for New Years Eve. Nothing huge, but a nice meal at one of the better restaurants in Congleton. This year all Mum wants to do is sleep. The Millenial celebrations of a year ago seem a lifetime away as I kiss her gently on the cheek, before heading out with my friends. It’s all she can do to smile and gently chide me to not drink too much.

Now

This is the most personal post I have ever written, but I feel it needed to be written. Our lives are the sum of our experiences, and 3 years ago I was in the worst place I have ever been. But I’m stronger now, happier now, and looking forward to a new life with my new family.

Mum taught me to do what I wanted. She was fond of saying, “You only live once.” Clichés only become clichés because they’re true. She wanted me to see things she could never see, do things she never got a chance to do, and live this life to its fullest. People ask me, why are you moving? I usually answer with a barbed comment about the weather in England, or the cost of living, or some other trite garbage. The truth of it is this: I’m moving to America because Mum would want me to.

There’s a beautiful photo of Mum and her dog, Rufus, at home. My wife found it and had it framed for me as a Christmas present. Some days I can’t look at it, other days it makes me smile. This morning I passed it and I felt tears welling up. It all happened three years ago today, and I knew it was time to write it all down.