Celebrities Speak
Amy Jenkins | Lisa Faulkner
The British drama actress Lisa Faulkner talks about her mum
My Mum was first diagnosed with cancer when I was 14. I'm not sure if we were being protected from the seriousness of the news or whether it was just that I was more into discovering boys, going to parties and all those other teenager things to take much notice. I think my Dad, who was my Mum's main carer for two years until her death, only gave my younger sister Victoria and me the information we needed to know as he didn't want to scare us, but we never felt like we were being kept in the dark. It definitely took me some time to put all the pieces of the jigsaw together.
She first thought something might be up when she had an ulcer on her tongue. Her dentist refused to accept it as anything serious, so she went to her GP who sent her to see an oncologist who diagnosed the cancer and sent her on a course of radiotherapy. She'd never been a smoker or a big drinker and they thought it was curable. Again, I don't remember being particularly concerned. We all had this rather strange belief that everything would be OK, which I think stemmed from Mum's amazing positivity. In fact, I think it actually made us quite flippant, so when the cancer did actually seem to go for about six months, we weren't that surprised.
But like most parents, what you see on the outside and what's going on inside is often very different. While she seemed strong, cancer was actually one of her biggest fears. When she went into hospital for an operation, she even wrote Victoria and me a letter saying goodbye and how much she loved us, expecting that she wouldn't pull through. As it happens, she briefly recovered, so those letters only actually got to us after she died a few months later when the cancer came back and spread to her brain.
I still keep that letter by my bedside to read whenever I feel like I need some comfort or guidance. I almost don't have to read it; I just want to see my name written in her handwriting and I feel like she's there.
I think my Dad had actually come to terms with her going during those two years leading up to her death, but it was a complete shock to me, despite all the signs. When Mum and Dad went on holiday to Niagara Falls and a whole load of other places she'd always wanted to visit, I should have twigged that things were coming to an end. Then one week I bunked off school and caught Mum and her best friend sorting her jewellery and knew something was up.
That Sunday my Dad told me things were indeed getting serious, and the next morning I said goodbye to my Mum for the last time. She squeezed my hand before I left, pretending to go to school, when in fact I was going to meet my boyfriend. When I got home, just after lunch, my grandparents were there and they told me she'd died. I rushed upstairs and got into bed with my Mum and just lay there, cuddling her and crying for god knows how long.
The overriding feeling I had relating to my Mum's death after that was one of guilt, which is probably tied in with me being a self-centred teenager at the time. But despite all the ups and downs, my Mum and I had been really close. I think she was often frustrated at me being exactly like she was when she was younger - fiery and argumentative.
The other main feeling I had after her death was of being alone; that nobody else was going through this and they couldn't understand. I then read about Madonna losing her mum when she was five years old, and seeing how strong she was, and what a success she'd made of her life, made me feel like I wasn't alone anymore. When you're a child you really cling to these things in a way that's hard to imagine.
At first, I didn't want to get any professional help. My dad was and is fantastic and we'd often cry and shout and scream, and things would feel better for a while, but then they'd come back. A year later I asked a friend of mine's parents, who were doctors, if they could recommend someone to talk to. That counsellor became a real lifeline. She was so sensitive and gave me the space to talk and talk, helping me find my own way out of that situation.
The grieving never actually stops, but you learn to deal with it and to dissociate other emotions which are tangled up in there which affect how you feel on a day-to-day level. I'm so glad nobody pushed me and I could take things at my own pace.
Since then my Dad, my sister and I have been a really close unit, talking openly about Mum and really celebrating her life. We either see each other or speak every day. I have some of Mum's furniture at home, I wear her jewellery most days and have loads of photos of her, as well as that letter in my bedside table.
We all tell my two nieces that Grandma Julie is looking down on them from heaven, protecting us all. Christmas is always tough, because that's when she died, and there's absolutely no question that we all have to be together then, come hell or high water.
One of the reasons why I'm so passionate about raising awareness for cancer is how it wasn't really talked about 20 years ago, when my Mum had it. The survival rates have improved so much it's staggering, but the most important thing is for people to share their fears and not hide their emotions.
My advice to anyone else who has a mum or dad with cancer would be to really make the most of your time when they're still with you. Ask loads of questions about their childhood, about what makes them happy and sad and everything else you can think of. And do what you need to, when you need to – cry, scream, shout, talk, don't talk, get away from everybody, whatever. The worst thing is to hold it all in and toe the line because you think it's expected of you.
Amy Jenkins | Lisa Faulkner