I was both relieved and saddened as I held my daughter’s hand as she took her last breath. Both her suffering and my lovely whirlwind of a girl were gone. Being a mother to a deceased kid is difficult every day, but tomorrow is particularly difficult.
I will always be a mother of three, despite the death of one of my children. However, my grandsons, who lost their amazing mother, are on my mind today. It’s unacceptable for them to simply let her hug them or send her a note or present. All I can do today, as I have done every day for the last 21 months, is to love and support them.
Dame Deborah James, my eldest daughter, passed away five and a half years after receiving a diagnosis of intestinal cancer. Her age was forty. The fact that the world has continued without her is still difficult to accept. From the time she was a young child, she was a natural powerhouse.
Deborah had two children, ages 7 and 9, and was diagnosed in December 2016 at the age of 35. She was an active, healthy young lady who abstained from meat and smoking. However, she was experiencing fatigue, bloody stools, and weight loss. It was rather distressing to learn that she had bowel cancer because first it was assumed to be stress or IBS. However, I believed that she would soon recover from her surgery and chemotherapy.
After a few weeks and additional testing, I was startled to learn that the disease had progressed to its fourth stage. I wasn’t surprised by Deborah’s bravery and determination; it was just who she was. She wanted to assist others in addition to coping with her own disease.
She wanted to raise awareness about cancer, its signs, and the significance of listening to your body. She wished her children lived in a better world. Shortly after learning she had cancer, she began writing a column for The Sun and launched the Bowelbabe blog.
She went on to co-host the well-liked podcast You, Me, and the Big C, discuss feces whenever she could, and collaborate with The Sun to reduce the NHS screening age. The most significant aspect of her life was her children. She hoped it would be better for them. One day, she thought, they wouldn’t have to worry about developing cancer.
So she came to live with us. It was a great time for all of us to spend seven weeks with her. For her 33-year-old brother Ben and his fiancée, she organized movie evenings and an impromptu engagement celebration. Prince William even stopped by for tea after Buckingham Palace declared her a dame.
It was an odd period, filled with love, sorrow, and joy. I’ll never forget it. Most evenings, Deborah and I stayed up together since we both had trouble falling asleep. Both of us were worried that she would not awaken.
We had a lengthy conversation. I assured her that she was resilient and pledged to support her children. As a child, my dying daughter used to rely on me; it was like getting my baby back. Our affection for one another became stronger as we were unable to stay apart.
When she died, I held her hand in mine. I’m relieved that she passed away quietly after everything she had been through. For the first year following her death, I was on a high. I tried my hardest to support Deborah’s husband Seb and their children.
I didn’t fully cope with my grief, but I kept myself occupied to distract myself from how awful things were. I suffered horrible panic attacks that prevented me from leaving the house on the anniversary of her death.
I was exhausted, psychologically and physically, and everything had caught up with me. I was prescribed antidepressants even though I initially didn’t want to take them. However, discussing Deborah and viewing her photos also makes me feel better.
At the start of this year, I felt better. Sarah turned 40 this month, and my son Ben is getting married in April. We know Deborah would want us to enjoy these significant days for her, even though we miss her a lot.
Although Deborah is no longer with us, her legacy endures via her work raising money and awareness, as well as through her family, particularly her children.
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