Christmas was all about presents until mum’s shock diagnosis

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I woke up at 6am with the soft glow of my nightlamp cutting through the dark. I sprang out of bed and pulled back the curtains to look for snow. It was 2003 and I was just five years old, but the memory of the excitement bubbling in my chest that Christmas morning is still with me to this day.

Like most families that celebrate Christmas, mine had its own set of festive traditions. As a child, and through my teens, the focus for me was the presents. But when my mum was diagnosed with stage 3 incurable breast cancer in 2016, our world tipped on its axis, bringing not only fear, but a newfound gratitude for the important things in life.

Fond memories

Up until then, Christmas morning usually began with a race to the bannister to find a bulging pillowcase of presents from Santa. I’d dash into my older sister’s room and we’d talk in muted squeals, wondering when we could wake up my parents. 

Eventually, we’d make our way in to their room, dragging our bountiful pillowcases, and Mum and Dad would watch us open our presents through sleepy, contented eyes.

We’d have breakfast in our dressing gowns, the Christmas tree glittering in the early morning light with the ornaments we’d placed there together. Then we’d unwrap and put on our new ‘Christmas clothes’ so we could spend the day looking lovely.

We always danced around the kitchen to festive songs, our favourite being Fairytale of New York, before tucking into Mum’s Christmas dinner around a candlelit dining table, chatting and laughing.

My sister and I always wolfed our food down in an attempt to speed up my parents and get to the presents. Mum would nurse her wine and chuckle until we began pleading. When we finally had the go ahead, we’d scramble to the sitting room, sorting our presents into piles and happily ploughing through them.

Christmas 2015 was the last Christmas before everything changed. A few weeks earlier, Mum had found a lump in her breast. She’d only told my dad, and kept my sister and I in the dark. She tried to get a doctor’s appointment but the surgery was booked until January.

With hindsight, I can see that Mum and Dad were keeping their anxiety hidden, lest they worry us over Christmas. Meanwhile, we unwrapped stockings from Mum packed with gifts she knew would make us laugh. 

Soldiering on

She carried on, cooking a huge Christmas dinner complete with my favourite chocolate Yule log dessert. We toasted our health and happiness round the table, oblivious to the fact that it was the last Christmas our family members would all have a clean bill of health for. 

Later, we tucked into turkey sandwiches and watched festive television and I smiled broadly, warm from our mad family banter.

January 2016 rolled around and so did my 18th birthday party. Mum and Dad agreed to let me have a marquee party in our garden. The New Year was off with a bang.

A week later, Mum and Dad sat us down at the kitchen table as she explained she’d found a lump in her breast weeks earlier, and now, a biopsy had confirmed she had stage 3 metastatic breast cancer. We sat and cried together, holding hands and trying desperately not to fall apart as it sank in that in the best case scenario, Mum had 10 or so years left. Her cancer, which had spread was treatable but not curable.

Just 10 more years. Ten Christmases, birthdays and years of milestones. How could it possibly be? The notion was hard to accept.

Treatment begins

Mum’s intensive chemotherapy began soon after, as I tried to finish my A Levels. It was difficult watching one of the people I loved the most in pain, and not being able to help.

We got through those months with humour, teamwork, cuddling Mum when her nose bled from the treatment and marvelling at how much her light brown wig looked like her real hair. Dad had decided she should have a custom natural wig made to look as close to her own hair as possible. It was very convincing.

Somehow, I managed to complete my A levels and made Mum proud as I got into University of Liverpool, my first choice, to study English Literature and French. Her intensive chemotherapy ended after six months and she started maintenance chemo every three weeks, to keep the cancer at bay for as long as possible.

That Christmas was one of absolute gratitude and joy. After a rollercoaster year, we were all so happy Mum had survived and we were all still together. The presents under the tree and the treats in my stocking seemed so irrelevant. 

My heart sang as Mum cracked silly jokes, and relief washed through me every time I felt her arms wrap around me.

Making memories

We started taking lots of photos, something that hadn’t come naturally to us as a family before, knowing how important it was to mark precious memories and moments together. We printed them off and put them up in every room, knowing one day, we wouldn’t be able to take new ones.

Sadly, Mum’s cancer returned in the summer of 2017 and she underwent a mastectomy the following January. It was hard to see her going through it all, but we were so grateful to see her come out the other side.

She remains on targeted chemotherapy treatment every three weeks and has a scan every four months.

Mum has looked cancer in the eye and her mortality has been front and centre of my mind since her diagnosis, but I have, to my own surprise, experienced positive changes, too.

I am now a much more optimistic person and have learnt to enjoy the little things in life like laughing with my mum, going on walks, chatting to friends and spending time with my boyfriend, enjoying good food, and not letting the small stuff grate on me anymore.

Mum’s diagnosis has also taught me to have hope. Hope that she will defy her 10-year prognosis and live a long and happy life. That she’ll be here to see us both get married and meet her grandchildren.

Mum is one of the strongest people I know and I have a new world of admiration for the person that she is, and how strong she’s been through all of this.

Despite her cancer, Mum hasn’t let her life grind to a halt. She still works 25 hours a week doing a worthy job she loves and that helps the most vulnerable in our society. She always makes time for family and friends - coronavirus allowing - and is giving and loyal.

Every day with my mum is a blessing, and I’ve come to understand that there is no greater gift than time, with each Christmas together feeling incredibly significant.

Though 2020 has been a strange and sad year for so many, we count ourselves lucky that despite Mum’s treatment being suspended for 11 weeks, the cancer has not returned.

This Christmas, we will celebrate our little family with more silliness, joy and playfulness than ever before, and laugh until our stomachs hurt. And in the quiet moments in between, we will repeatedly count our blessings - my Mum’s presence being the most important Christmas gift of all.

*If you have been affected by cancer, please visit Macmillan for a wealth of information and support.

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