I woke up after MY FUNERAL
Somehow Amanda survived a death sentence Amanda McDonald, 50
Hearing the heartfelt speeches, I was overwhelmed.
All these lovely people were here for me.
But my friends and family hadn’t come together to celebrate my wedding or a big birthday. They’d gathered to mark the end of my life.
I was at my own funeral. Two years earlier, in October 2013, then aged 40, I was in the shower when I felt a small hard lump in my left breast. It felt about the size of a gobstopper.
As a volunteer at a cancer charity, I knew how important it was to act on anything unusual. The next week I was explaining what I’d found to my GP.
After a biopsy, a few days later, waiting in the specialist’s of ce to hear my results, I held my husband Dean’s hand tight.
‘I’m so sorry,’ the doctor said, and the world stopped. I had cancer.
Three weeks later more tests revealed that I had a high-grade, fast-growing tumour called triple-negative breast cancer.
I gripped Dean’s hand as the words sank in. It just didn’t seem possible.
To have any chance of beating it I needed to start treatment right away.
Then my heart sank even further. How was I going to tell mum, Carole, then 61, and dad, Alan, 64.
We’d lost my amazing younger sister Steph to meningitis 21 years earlier when she was just 18.
Now my parents had to hear that I was ghting for my life. Seeing their heartbroken faces, it was hard to keep it together. The only thing Mum could say was, ‘What on earth are we going to do now?’
I had a lumpectomy to remove the cancer, and six rounds of chemotherapy.
The side effects of the chemo were horrible.
There was constant sickness, and losing my hair was a huge blow.
After 23 cycles of radiotherapy and a clear mammogram in 2014, I was well enough to get back to my job in advertising. I felt positive about my future again.
But then, at the end of
2015, I was practising a presentation for work when I started to slur. The words coming out of my mouth were nonsense.
What’s happening to me? I panicked.
In hospital, a scan revealed the cancer had spread to my brain.
I was in shock.
The treatment was gruelling, I had radiotherapy and the tumour was removed. It grew back within weeks so it was removed again.
‘There’s nothing more that we can do for you,’ the doctor said gently in October 2015.
The tumour would inevitably return no matter what. ‘It’s likely that you only have a few months left,’ he said.
Stunned, I looked at Dean, the love of my life.
‘I’m only 42. I have so much more I want to do,’ I said, struggling with the grief that the end was near.
Being a Christian I had my faith to help me, but it was devastating to think of the friends and family I’d be leaving behind.
That’s when I had an idea. ‘Why wait to have a funeral once I’m gone when I can be there and celebrate with everyone while I’m still alive?’ I said to Dean.
A living funeral might have sounded like a crazy idea, but Dean supported me 100 per cent. My friend David, then 54, even offered to plan it for me.
Which is how, just three weeks later, I was walking into my favourite restaurant, a former church with high ceilings
‘I’m only 42. I have so much more I want to do’
and stained-glass windows, for my living funeral.
Amazingly, 250 friends and family, some I hadn’t seen in years, were there.
Music played and champagne was drunk as people mingled and toasted me.
A photo was taken of every guest and pinned onto a ‘Tree of Life’ on the wall. Many had written their own memories or thoughts.
I simply don’t know what I’m going to do without you, one friend wrote.
Reading the heartfelt words, I was overwhelmed.
But self-conscious of my bloated face from the steroids I was taking, I wouldn’t let anyone take a snap of me. I wanted them all to remember me how I was before I got sick.
It was almost an out-ofbody experience to see school and university pals, old colleagues and clients, friends and family together.
They’re all here because of me, I thought. They came to celebrate and to say goodbye.
One very special person wasn’t there, however.
After already losing one daughter, Mum found the idea just too upsetting, and I completely understood.
I could also see that Dean and Dad were struggling.
But their brave smiles and support meant the world to me. The room was full of love, and my tears fell as people gave tributes and shared memories.
I woke up the day after my funeral with a deep sense of peace. I wouldn’t live much longer, but the fear had gone.
Then, things took an odd turn. Over the next few months, instead of feeling weaker, I became stronger.
After tests, my oncologist had the most incredible news. It hadn’t grown back. I was cancer free. Disbelief ooded through me. ‘Are you sure?’ I asked over and over.
It was a miracle.
Dean was too stunned with relief to speak.
Now eight years after my terminal diagnosis, my life is better than ever. And
I’ve written a book about it all, The Miracle Lady.
At the darkest of times, my living funeral gave me peace and closure. I saw how much I mattered to the people I love the most.
Life is a precious gift, and I won’t waste a minute of it. ●
Their brave smiles meant the world to me
As told to Kate Graham