My Best Friend

Mum, six and a half years ago I was four months pregnant. Six and a half years ago you got sick.

Incurable. Treatable. Five to ten years they hoped.

We made the most of it. We had always been close but the news prompted a new closeness, visits on the train, multiple daily phone calls. I treasure the memories of our picnics by the river, our shopping trips for new baby clothes, the days out to stately homes and museums. When people asked, I told them you were my best friend.

There was something I could never tell you though. I was scared.

When you went into hospital for the stem cell transplant and you felt too sick to talk on the phone for long I was scared. We came to pick you up, it was your birthday and you were so happy to be going home, you really hated staying in hospital. When we arrived, newish baby in tow, I smiled and hugged and laughed and joked like normal but I was scared. Your hair had fallen out, your skin was grey and you had lost weight. I could feel the world slipping out from beneath me.

Remission. Daily phone calls with my best friend, shopping trips, days out. But it didn’t last long, you needed treatment again.

I never told you that I deliberately walked a little slower than usual. You got tired more quickly than before but we didn’t mention it.

You rocked a bald head, I told you so many times. And it was true, it really did suit you. But it made me scared, it reminded me of your illness whenever I saw you. I started to get the feeling that you were putting on a brave face, that perhaps you were scared too. Our phone calls consisted of discussing books and TV shows, doing online quizzes, parenting advise and planning our next trips. Our visits were full of hugs and laughing, chatting over cups of tea and you spoiling your newest grandson. But we never talked about anything real. Never mentioned the cancer slowly eating away at you.

I got married and you were my maid of honour. Planning it all together was precious. But dad paid for it all. We wanted to save for our dream wedding but he said we should just get it done “while everyone is still here.” The words hung about me like a shadow. It was a glorious day, one I will never forget, but it was rushed to make sure you could be there. I feel guilty when I think of the dress that I didn’t really like. If we had waited for our dream wedding, the dream dress, you wouldn’t have been at my side. I should be more grateful for the ill-fitting gown. I feel selfish and vain.

You got sicker. Your last Christmas you had a fall hanging a wreath. And the cancer doubled its efforts. Scheduling treatment became tricky. No space for chemo, try again tomorrow. Without the proper treatment you got worse. I didn’t help, I didn’t come to be by your side, to help you make those appointments. I had a son, a husband, a job, a life. And you never asked for help. We laughed, we joked instead. When you should have been making our boxing day buffet you sat on the sofa, your back too sore to move. But you smiled and pretended it wasn’t too bad as me and dad prepped and peeled, coming to you for advise every few minutes. I was scared when you taught me how to make your famous trifle. Terrified, like you were passing the torch to me. I’ve never made it again since that day. But of course, I’d never have told you that.

In the dead of winter you were hospitalised. Phone calls became shorter, it was the first time I’d heard you sound down. I tried to lift your spirits when I could get through, I kept my fear a secret. But the fear was there, every time you left a call quickly the fear permeated deeper and deeper into my soul. I was losing you. My best friend.

I came to visit and when I saw you I wanted to cry. Bent double with the pain and weakness in your back. We sat and talked in the visitors room. All I wanted to do was to tell you how scared I was but I tried to be strong for you. You tried to be strong for me too. I took a photo of us together. The last photo of us together. I can’t look at it now, you don’t look like the mum in my memories. It hurts too much.

You never came out of hospital. You stayed there for weeks, waiting for the end to come.

Dad called me. You had told him you thought you were going to die that day. I was on a train. I had never been so terrified. But you fought and I was at your side, sleeping curled in a squeaky plastic chair. The nurses were kind to me, gave me tea and toast in the cancer ward.

Pneumonia, sepsis. If the antibiotics don’t work in the next two days there’s nothing else we can do. And her bones are so weak we cannot resuscitate.

I went home, the longest two days of my life. I couldn’t think straight, all I could see was your body lying in that bed. You couldn’t eat, you couldn’t walk. And yet we had joked and laughed, kept it light. Why could I still not admit to you that I was scared?

We have moved her to a side room.

Everyone knows what that means. I came back to your side and your other daughter Vicky flew half way around the world to join me in my vigil.

Twenty-four more hours. Your breathing slowed. I called dad, he was trying to find somewhere to park. Your breathing slowed. We called for a nurse. We watched you, waiting for another breath. It never came. You had raged and raged against the dying of the light but now, somehow, you were gone.

And now for the biggest confession.

There was relief.

You had been in pain for so long. And I had been scared for so long. Now we could both be at peace.

From the darkness there came light. Vicky stayed with us for another two weeks. I was relieved to have her there, we took our pain and moulded it into a new closeness. She’s now my best friend.

I went home to my son and my husband and found love and support there. I had missed them, had been at your side, at dad’s side, so long that I had neglected my boy. I was relieved that I could stay with him now, help him to recover from the severe separation anxiety he had gained from my absence. He was only three and a half. He needed his mum just as I needed mine.

Going through your things I found a diary tucked at the back of your wardrobe. It took me through your diagnosis, showed me the depth of your fear. It told the story of the day you had told me you had cancer. You were terrified to tell me and when you did I wept in your arms, the one and only time I showed a trace of fear. You had hidden your fear from me, this was a secret you never intended on telling me. I’m sorry you felt like you couldn’t tell me. And I’m sorry I never told you. Perhaps we could have helped each other through it. They say a problem shared is a problem halved, I wish you would have shared that problem with me instead of being so strong.

Three years later and I still pick up the phone to call you. Sometimes I whisper my secrets into the wind, hoping you will hear them. So now I add this confession to the wind. I was scared mum. I was scared.