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Mother of all angels

My amazing mum will always be there for me....


Published by: Amy Thompson
Published on: 8th November 2010

There isn’t much a mum can’t do. The lightest kiss from her can lessen the pain of a nasty cut, an encouraging smile can brighten your day, and even the most horrendous heartbreak can start to heal when you know at least one person will always love you.
Yep, mums are amazing people. And mine was no different.
Of course we had our moments when I was growing up. Thing is, I’d inherited her stubborn streak.
Whereas my younger sister Hayley was the spitting image of Mum in the looks department, personality-wise, me and Mum were two peas in a pod.
But at the end of the day, we’d always make up, snuggling together on the sofa to watch a film or have a natter. ‘Never go to bed on an argument,’ Mum always told me.
At the age of 35, you’d think mine and Mum’s bickering would have fizzled out, though. Yet here we were, arguing the toss over whether or not she should go to hospital…
‘I’m fine,’ she insisted, rubbing her bloated stomach and trying not to wince. ‘Stop fussing, love, I’ve got a doctor’s appointment tomorrow. It’s no big deal.’
I rolled my eyes.
Typical Mum! She hated people making a fuss. I looked at Dad, but he just shrugged as if to say ‘you know what she’s like’.
‘Fine,’ I sighed. ‘But I’m coming, too.’
‘Okay,’ she replied.
It turned out Mum was right, though – it wasn’t anything serious, just irritable bowl syndrome. But the pills they gave her to ease the stomach cramps didn’t work, so she was sent for tests. She had to have a camera put down her throat to check her stomach.
‘Nothing jumps out at me,’ her doctor told us after. ‘But your stomach does seem quite swollen and sore. We’ll book you in for a scan of your womb to check everything’s okay there.’
Poor Mum. Over the next two months, while we waited to hear when her appointment would be, I couldn’t help worrying about her.
The pains in her stomach were getting worse and she could barely eat. ‘I wish they knew what was making her so ill,’ I told my hubby Kevin back home.
‘Your mum’s a fighter,’ he smiled. ‘Whatever it is, she won’t be poorly for long.’
I tried to stay positive, and soon had something to take my mind off Mum’s illness a little. ‘We’ve got some news…’ I beamed at Mum one evening. ‘I’m pregnant.’
Her eyes welled up. ‘Oh my God!’ she smiled, hugging me and Kev. ‘I’m going to be a nanna?’ I nodded.
She gave me the tightest squeeze. ‘I’m so happy for you,’ she smiled. It certainly lifted Mum’s spirits for a bit.
‘Oh Joanne, remind me to get Mickey and Minnie Mouse out for you,’ she told me one afternoon when I visited. They were candles she’d put on every birthday cake I’d ever had. She’d never lit them, but they’d become a family tradition.
‘We can use them for the baby’s first birthday,’ she smiled.
Yet just a month later, at Christmas, that twinkle in her eye had vanished. Her face was drawn and pale, she’d lost weight everywhere apart from her stomach. She looked like she was the pregnant one, not me!
She could barely even muster the strength to open her Christmas presents. Weakly, she pulled at the paper on the present I’d bought her.
Enough was enough. A few days later, she finally let me and Dad take her to hospital, where they carried out more tests. Laying in her hospital bed, hooked up to drips, she looked so frail. Not the strong, confident Mum I’d grown up with.
And when her consultant came in with her test results, we found out why. ‘Ovarian cancer?’ I repeated, stunned. Mum’s face was ashen, but she said nothing.
‘I’m afraid it’s too advanced for us to treat,’ the doctor said. ‘You may only have a few weeks left.’
Shock hit me like a ton of bricks. While I prepared to become a mum for the first time, I’d be watching my own slip away. She was only 55.
But Mum wouldn’t let any of us wallow. Me, Dad, Hayley, 31, and our brother Kristofer, 29, visited her every day in hospital.
I even brought her a surprise – my three-month scan photo.
‘See, here’s the baby’s head and legs…’ I pointed excitedly.
‘I know what a baby looks like!’ she smiled. ‘It’s a girl by the way.’
‘How can you tell?’ I chuckled. ‘Even the nurse can’t tell us until I’m 20 weeks!’
‘You’ll be a brilliant mother,’ Mum smiled, touching my hand gently. ‘So I’ve only got one piece of advice – always trust your first instinct when it comes to your baby. Mother knows best.’
I felt a lump in my throat. How long did she have left? Would she ever see her first grandchild?
The next day, I took a book of baby names to the hospital to read to Mum. She was getting weaker, though, and could barely talk. ‘How about Sarah?’ I said while Mum held my hand. Her grip tightened whenever I said a name she liked.
‘Zoe… Heather… Anne… Megan…’ Ooh, that was a good hard squeeze!
‘Yeah,’ I smiled. ‘I like Megan.’
Moving on to the boys’ names, though, Mum was having none of it. Whatever I read out, she shook her head and said ‘no’ quietly.
‘You’re that sure it’s going to be a girl?’ I laughed. ‘And people think I’m stubborn!’
I cherished every second. Sadly, there weren’t enough of them. Two days later, she took her last breath surrounded by her family.
At her funeral, I put my scan photo in her coffin, along with a note I’d written telling her how much I loved her. I felt like the tears and grief would never end.
Until four months later… As my baby was placed on my chest I felt nothing but overwhelming love.
‘Congratulations,’ the midwife said. ‘You’ve got a girl.’
A girl! I looked at Kev with tears in my eyes. ‘You know what Mum would be saying right now…’ I grinned.
‘I told you so?’ he chuckled. I nodded, gazing at our daughter.
‘Hello Megan,’ I smiled. ‘I was thinking, her middle name could be Lily, after Mum?’
‘Perfect,’ agreed Kev.
Megan’s two now and I show her Mum’s picture every day and ask her who it is. ‘My nanna,’ she replies proudly.
I wish Mum could be here to see her, to be my shoulder to cry on, the person I can always go to… But all I can do is hope that wherever she is, she’s as proud of me as I’ve always been of her.

Joanne Hogg, 37, South Shields, Tyne and Wear