Elizabeth Grace’s Story

My Mum, Jane died last year on 4th March. She had lung cancer that had spread to her brain and spine and was diagnosed less than a year before.

As she had never smoked, she was offered a pioneering type of biological treatment. At first, we were all hopeful and she had even talked about going back to work part time. After a few months, it became clear that there is no overcoming advanced cancer. It took over her body so quickly, and week by week she lost every shred of her joie de vivre, her energy and the glamour that made her so intrinsically ‘her’.

On the night she died, we were by her side. Her partner and my little sister and I sat in that hospital room talking to her, holding her hand and kissing her. By that point, we weren’t even sure if she could hear us or understand. She looked more like a trapped animal than the woman we knew. I still can’t think about that night without the horror rising in my throat.

It’s a cliché, but my Mum was unique. She had me young and by accident. By Dad had had a vasectomy, but on rare occasions, pregnancy can still happen. And it did! Life was very hard for her as a single parent. She taught me to have faith in myself. That having femininity and brains are not exclusive and that choosing not to forgive will cause more suffering than anything else in life.

She always wore bright red Dior lipstick and turned heads wherever she went. She was incredibly intelligent and had a first class degree in Philosophy by going to university as a mature student just after my sister was born.

She couldn’t sing, but insisted on doing so loudly at Christmas time, which was her favourite time of year. Her laugh was infectious and she was so down to earth that her bluntness could sometimes take your breath away. I miss that brutal honesty, the witty retorts and the way Mum would never, ever judge. Nothing could shock her and believe me, my sister and I gave it a good try over the years.

The grief comes unexpectedly and the depth of my sadness is often difficult to access. I don’t think my sister and I have really started to properly process it yet, because it’s easier to skirt around on the surface of life rather than to fully accept that our Mum is gone forever.

The surprising impact of her death has been the forced realisation that I am now the adult; the matriarch in my family. And it’s been hard to reconcile who I am now that I can no longer define myself in relation to my Mum.

Sometimes I wonder where exactly she is, because the essence of her must be somewhere. Where has that vibrancy, that personality, that love gone? It’s something that I hope to come to terms with in time. I make sure that my children and I talk about her often and they know that she loved them. I’m scared they will forget her. I’m scared that I will forget her.

I just miss her, and every day that passes widens the gap between now and the last time I saw her. Sometimes it’s unbearable, but I know that so many other women are going through the exact same thing, and that is a comfort in the same way that I know that the sun will still come up every single day, whether I like it or not!