The first couple years seem a little bit blurred. I don’t remember them as clearly as the following years. But I think I was 22 when I found out my mum had breast cancer. I remember it being around Christmas when she told us. She went to the operation the beginning of the next year, I think, and everything seemed quite fine.
Then a year later, I was 23, I had heard that my mum hadn’t been all good. Just a few months prior to this, I had told my boyfriend that my mum had had breast cancer. I didn’t think that it was important, I just thought that it would be good for him to know, in case it ever came up somehow. Then, the morning before Mother’s Day in the UK, I got a phone call from my mum. She told me that the cancer had metastasized to the brain, and that the doctor said she could live a couple of months, or maybe a year.
That year, I spent every day, every month, knowing that my mum would be dead by the next Mother’s Day. And it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t easy knowing that every birthday, every day of celebration would be the last when my mum would still be alive.
But then, somehow, my mum lived past the dreaded next Mother’s Day. I still don’t know how. And somehow she’s still alive. Not doing very well, but still alive.
It was 2014 when I got the phone call, it’s 2017 when I’m writing this, over 3 years since I got that call. And it is still one of the few things I remember so clearly of that year, I don’t think I will ever forget receiving that phone call, and the moments that followed it.