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They used to say that 1 in 4 people would be touched by cancer - now I know that might be an old and out of date statistic - but it has always stuck with me. Scary as it is the bit that gets me is the touched part; cancer doesn't touch; it devastates, it rapes, it hounds, it kills people. Cancer casts a far-reaching shadow that lasts longer than the disease itself. A touch is a caring thing. One in four will be affected - this doesn't provide enough depth. Cancer be it affecting you directly, or a loved one, does so much more than anyone knows - until it happens.  I am a firm believer that cancer has been around for years and that in the past many of the people that were recorded of dying of natural causes or old age actually died of some form of cancer or another. It is just that nowadays we know it's name - or we have given this monster a name. Maybe it it nature's way of culling us, but does it need to be so cruel, so brutal? Cancer doesn't care how old...

There are so many things that make me think of you. Daily. Today as I was walking to the station I realised that I am not left with a hole, with a sense of grief, sad that you died; I am left with a sense of happiness, of gladness that you lived. Is it because I have grieved well or is it because you lived magnificently and brought us up to be thankful? I am grateful that we have so many memories and stories. That I see you in so many of the things I do. Your memory lives on when I let the children know that you loved this or would have enjoyed that or even that you would have hated something. When I tell Eliza how proud you would have been of her recent school report. When we talk to Dexter about you and point you out in photos. I love that we have “your beach”. A place we can go as a family to enjoy the seaside and to remember you. I love that I can laugh with you still. Or that I say hello if I see a Robin in the garden. Or I smile at a random white feather fl...

It seems amazing to me that I am writing another post.   As I rounded the corner at the hospice this morning, walking towards the bay you are in, I held my breath.  I was greeted by smiles and there you were. More amazingly I said hello and you spoke back!  Mum you are incredible, amazing, an inspiration. Lying there listening, with Alex and I, to some Graham Kendrick.  We have moved you to your own room to give you some peace and the freedom to leave us when it feels right for you. In the meantime I am in awe, as a Biologist, that you are still here.  All of the staff are amazed and all we are pleased able to offer you respite.  You aren't in pain, at least we don't think so, and we know you can hear us. I think you are just catching up on all the sleep you have missed over the years.  All of those early mornings; all of those sleepless nights due to your "hot legs". We thought we would lose you to the MS but we were wrong. ...

I saw you the other day and I knew it was close. So frail. So yellow.   But all your own teeth - and the yellow makes them look so white. And mum - your hair looks so thick as it frames your tiny face. Your warm eyes and ski-slope nose.   I am going to miss you. I don't know how it is going to feel. I am not one of those daughters that calls every day - or even every week. But you are never far from my thoughts and always in my prayers.   It wasn't that our lives were too busy just that we knew the other was there and that we loved them. Would I have more moments if I could?   Yes!   Of course. More memories and laughs. Time with just you. Time with Eliza and you. You.   But I want that time when you were well and able to enjoy the walks by the sea.   Thank you for the memories and for making me into the person I am.   I love you forever and think of you always.   Mum x

I'm running out of time.   I know that all we are guaranteed in this life, other than taxes, is death. But I am not ready for yours.   There are so many more moments I wasn't to share with you, I want to experience with you, rejoice in with you.   The sands of time slip through our hands without us noticing. Then we find ourselves grappling with the few tiniest grains that we can find. The type that would have just passed us by, like walking across a soft sandy beach with no shoes on. I find myself trying to hold on to those specks and feel their warmth.   As life ebbs out of your weakened body my heart grows ever prouder that you are my mum.   Kind and funny and loving. My mum: Christine Gelling; I love you; for always: and I thank you; forever.  

We have always been open and talked about death and funerals.   I think one of the first things we spoke about after your diagnosis was about your funeral and the scattering of your ashes.   Some people think it's macabre but I do it to prepare myself. The more I do now the less I HAVE to do later.   We know your wishes and we have the addresses. I have your scatter tube and soon your order of service.   I know what I will read and that Rachel won't be able to. But I don't want them; I want you. The promise of you, not forever, just for longer.   Don't go yet Mum, please, stay a while x  

So we have discussed the ins and outs of your funeral.   We have spoken about the type of coffin you want (you said willow originally and now seem happy with a cardboard one).  In fact Googling them became quite a fun thing to do - so many to choose from.  I have even chosen my own and Alex his (I wonder if there is a bulk option or maybe we can buy flat-packed and store for later use)?  I know you want to be scattered so I am ready to order your scatter tube. I have even looked at Ashes in to Glass - so that we can each have a special "something" to remember you by. We have spoken of readings and hymns.  And ministers.  We haven't spoken flowers or donations but I am sure that is yet to come. We have spoken about how I can let people know of your death and how I am NOT to use the word passed or passing at any point as you really don't like that. I don't like the phrase "lost their fight" or "given up their fight". ...

In 1996 Mum was diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis (MS) and our lives changed forever.  Rachel and I were to realise just how fallible our parents were.  Both she and I recalled a time when we lived with Mum and were watching a documentary on the TV; it was about a man that had MS and his story.  He fell ill and got worse and worse until one day he lost all control of his muscles and could do nothing for himself or speak.  We both vividly remember Mum saying "Girls if ever i should become like that please kill me".  Little did we know that less than 10 years later fate would diagnose our mum with this horrible illness. I was away at Uni in 1996 and felt useless.  When I would come home I would do all I could and make sure others rallied around.  Mum started to be able to talk and walk again and her symptoms went in to remission. .  Neurologists decided this was not the first episode but probably the second - her specialist having written on ...