My mum’s terminal cancer diagnosis left me feeling something unexpected

He cried, but was consoled by knowing that we’d be visiting them instead.

Except, as I was reassuring him, it occurred to me that Mum would probably never see our house again.

She wouldn’t walk my children to school again, or take them for cake and a milkshake at their favourite café. 

Wouldn’t spend another Christmas with us.

I felt like I’d started grieving her before she’d even passed away.

I feel lucky and blessed that I’ve had both of my parents around for 40 years, but that doesn’t make my mum’s incurable cancer diagnosis any easier to digest.

In fact, I’ve spent the 18 months since her diagnosis going through anticipatory grief – and it’s been a real period of emotional instability. 

Sometimes it’s intense, sometimes I feel conflicted – conflicted between having hope that the doctors will find a miracle cure for Mum, and anguish at the idea of her dying.

Mum previously had breast cancer back in 2016, and was just about to reach her five years ‘all clear’ in 2021 when she started getting pain in her leg and pelvis. She became more tired than normal for a 70-year-old.

The GP was swift to get her seen by oncology and within weeks, after scans and blood tests, it was confirmed that she had secondary, incurable, bone cancer.

My parents live on the other side of the country from us, and during the pandemic, we spent 18 months unable to see each other. Mum’s diagnosis came just after we’d managed a long overdue catch-up once restrictions were lifted.

I felt robbed. Not only had we spent almost two years apart, but we were also now faced with the possibility of only having a few months left with her.

I was devastated, and I was angry – angry for us, but also for Mum, that this was the way she was going to go. That she was having to go through radiotherapy and chemotherapy once again to give her more time.

The first couple of months while Mum started her treatment were fraught with worry and it was awful speaking with her on the phone, hearing her sound so frail and tired.

I suppose, looking back, I was unaware that this is when my anticipatory grief began. 

Each night, I’d fall asleep reflecting on my childhood and the memories I have of Mum, and cry myself to sleep.

I was in panic mode if Mum was having a really bad day, and the lead up to her appointments left me fearful and worried sick. It was exhausting.

She was given a strong dose of chemo tablets to be taken everyday and the side effects weren’t kind. A bad stomach, no appetite and severe fatigue were just some of them, and on visiting her during treatment, it was awful to see her fragility. It looked like she’d aged about 15 years, and had lost a lot of weight.

The anticipation that this is the beginning of the end can be all-consuming

It seemed like Mum was slipping away before my very eyes. That I was losing her already.

Those first few months, I tried to focus on the here and now – not allowing myself to think of the future. The oncologist couldn’t give a time frame but was optimistic that, if the course of treatment worked, she’d have at least a year.

It was very much a case of taking things month by month.

Gradually, Mum’s body started adapting to the chemo and the side effects started to ease.

She seemed to return to the Mum we knew – her naughty sense of humour was back, she was bossing Dad about again and was organising coffee and cake with her friends. Albeit with mobility problems, and a sadness lurking behind her eyes.

Scans were showing that, although the tumours were still there, there were no signs of them growing or of the cancer spreading – a huge relief to us all. It helped me push the grief to the back of mind, and the end didn’t seem so imminent.

It felt like we could breathe a little, with the prospect of her making it past her initial year timeframe seeming much more likely.

Now, 18 months on, Mum is thankfully still here – but the cancer has slowly started spreading. Daily chemo is keeping her alive, but the anticipatory grief I feel continues.

It’s started to hit me that, due to Mum’s ever-increasing mobility issues, it’s unlikely that she will ever make the journey to visit our home again.

That there’ll be no more impromptu visits to see the kids on their birthdays, or Christmases at our house.

As each occasion passes, I ask myself: will she be around for the next?

There’s a near constant feeling of dread and, while her sudden death would be extremely hard to come to terms with, this slow, drawn-out farewell is hard to endure.

Being in what feels like a life and death state of limbo is an emotional rollercoaster. 

Every scan, every appointment – the anticipation that this is the beginning of the end can be all-consuming, and I feel guilty, when it’s Mum whose life hangs in the balance.

The oncologists are pleased with how Mum’s doing and nothing more has been said about a time frame. But what we do know is that her time is up when the drugs no longer work. And this makes me feel anxious sometimes, because… when will that be?

Instead, I’m trying to see it as Mum living with cancer, rather than dying from it – and talking with friends really helps. 

My feelings are validated. I’m not alone in my head and changing the narrative from dying to living with, means I feel much more positive.

It’s helping Mum too – accepting that this is her life now means she is living it a bit more.

Of course, the grief hasn’t just disappeared, though.

I still have moments which catch me off-guard – stumbling across photos of Mum and I when I was a baby, for instance. And, recently when a friend’s mum was diagnosed with the same type of cancer, I found myself a sobbing mess.

It’s not something that everyone will experience, which can make it difficult for friends and family members to understand. It’s partly why I’m writing this anonymously – because I don’t want them to know, or my mum to read this.

But I have found that looking after myself – exercise, eating well and journaling – helps keep my mind at rest more, alongside leaning on my partner and friends as and when I need to.

My biggest piece of advice for anyone else feeling this way is: don’t be afraid, or ashamed to talk about it. 

If you don’t feel you have a friend who will understand, or you feel embarrassed, Marie Curie, Cancer Research UK, and Macmillan Cancer Support are all helpful charities, where you can talk to someone in confidence.

These are all practical ways to cope – and, as I continue to navigate my way through Mum’s illness and the anticipatory grief it brings, I know I’ll need them more than ever.