When I was in my late thirties, I had two young children and a demanding job as a cross-curriculum manager at a large further education college. Balancing work and motherhood meant I sometimes had to make sacrifices, and I spent a lot of time feeling guilty about missing out on special assemblies, or picking my children up from school. In the week before my daughter’s ninth birthday, I worked more than double my contracted hours to prepare for an Ofsted inspection. The area I was responsible for was rated very highly and the children seemed happy, but I constantly felt pulled in two directions. As for my long-held dream of writing a novel, there was no time to even think about it.
Then, on my daughter’s ninth birthday, everything changed. I’d been for an ultrasound and follow up CT-scan to investigate some troubling symptoms. I had a house full of nine-year-old girls, having a build-a-bear party, and my five-year-old son also had some friends over, when I received a call from the hospital. Hearing that I had kidney cancer is something I’ll never forget. I wanted to break down and cry, but I had to put on a brave face for my children, and so did my husband. In truth, we were both terrified and had no idea of the repercussions on our lives. The thing that terrified me most was the thought of dying and leaving my children behind without their mum. They were far too young and they needed me to be there for them.
I went through the longest two weeks of my life waiting for the operation to remove my kidney and the tumour within it. Although my brilliant consultant reassured me the cancer was at an early stage and that I had every chance of a complete recovery, nothing was certain until I’d had the operation and the follow up tests needed to confirm the prognosis. There was some unforeseen drama during the operation, when my lungs collapsed, and my poor husband was beside himself waiting hours longer than expected for news. I felt incredibly lucky when my next scan confirmed I was cancer free, and the experience changed my life in many ways. I resigned from my job and became a part-time university lecturer, giving me more time with my children, as well as the opportunity to finally pursue my dream of writing a book.
I’ve often thought about the agony of not knowing whether I’d live long enough to see my children grow up, but for a long time I didn’t feel ready to delve into those emotions and write about them. Tragically, in recent years, I’ve lost some friends to cancer. It’s made me think about how I might have reacted if things had been different and I’d had to face the reality of leaving my children behind. I couldn’t imagine not knowing who my husband might meet in the future, and having no say in who would become a mother figure to my son and daughter as a result. A woman who would be there for both their biggest moments, and all the routine aspects of their lives. It’s that thought which inspired A Mother’s Last Wish. Writing it was painful at times, but it reminded me once again just how lucky I am. The novel is dedicated to three wonderful women who had to leave their beloved children behind, and to my beautiful children who are now both adults. I’ll never forget how blessed I’ve been to see them grow up.
