LIN’S STORY
It was Laura who chose my outfit for my wake. I described to her a dress I’d owned years ago and loved. After just a few taps on her phone she found something remarkably similar – I couldn’t believe it.
Shopping for something to wear to your own wake may not be a very typical mother-anddaughter activity. But Laura and I have learnt to cherish every experience.
We both know there will be moments we won’t get to share. I’ll never help her choose a wedding dress, celebrate her 40th birthday or hold her children in my arms. However, when you know your time is running out, everything takes on special meaning. And when I look back on my life, my wake is certainly one of those unforgettable moments.
I stopped treatment for cancer in February this year. The same month, I threw a party to bring together everyone I love so they could remember me in a positive way. People who say they don’t want a fuss when they die…
LIN WITH LAURA ON HER
SECOND BIRTHDAY IN 1986, ABOVE LEFT, AND AT LIN’S GRADUATION IN 2015 – SHE GAINED A FIRST-CLASS HONOURS DEGREE IN BUSINESS
ADMINISTRATION
well, that’s not me! As my mind turned to the end of my life I realised I shouldn’t miss out on the chance to celebrate it. I didn’t want a sombre affair, I wanted to go out with a bang and for people to look back on what a brilliant night we had.
Eighty-five family and friends came together for an evening of dancing and drinking. I booked a singer, a friend paid for a professional photographer as a gift and there was lots of reminiscing. It was all very upbeat – I didn’t want people sitting around feeling sad.
There’s something very surreal about standing in front of everyone you love, preparing to make a farewell speech. How do you find the right words? I could see people in the crowd crying, but I felt empowered. Cancer has robbed me of so much control, but this chance to say thank you and goodbye was something I was determined to do.
I spoke about all the people who had helped me on my journey. From the family who had sat by my bedside when I was recovering from chemo, friends who had left meals on my doorstep or talked on the phone late into the night, to the stranger who hugged me outside hospital one day when we got chatting about why I was there. I admitted that while cancer was sh*t, receiving so much care and love as a result of it was anything but. And I repeated my wish that this night was to be a celebration.
When I finished speaking, it felt like everyone in the room was hugging me. I felt sad but not for me, because I will be gone and they’ll be left with pain and sadness.
I was diagnosed with rectal cancer in January 2017 and in June 2018 I was told it was incurable, despite gruelling radiotherapy and chemotherapy. My consultant told me future treatment would prolong, but not save, my life.
I persevered at first, deciding to have more chemotherapy. Being a mother influenced that decision. I wasn’t ready to die, and I wanted to prolong my life for Laura and my son Chris’s sake. It’s been a fine line to walk since then, trying to work out what’s best for me – and them.
In February, after another horrific cycle of chemotherapy, I made the decision to stop. I’ve reached the point where I want quality not quantity of life. I’ve made peace with the fact I’m going to die, albeit I don’t know exactly when.
Two days before my wake, I was rushed to hospital in agony due to a blockage in my small bowel. I was given pain relief, IV fluids and the wonderful staff promised they’d do everything they could to get me to my party, but I didn’t know if I’d make it. I was temporarily discharged before the party, with a portable morphine pump attached to my tummy, snaked down the sleeve of my dress and fitted in my handbag.
Apart from a few family members, no one knew I was hooked up to the pump, and when I left just before midnight, I returned to hospital. I’d been so worried cancer was going to deny me this night. I arrived back to the ward exhausted but elated.
An unexpected silver lining has been Laura moving back home from London, to spend more time with me. I felt guilty that she was uprooting herself from the life she had forged there. But I also felt so much joy at the prospect of seeing her more.
I don’t know if that was selfish of me, but I was thrilled. We’ve always been close, but going through something like this together creates a unique bond.
She was by my side throughout the evening of my wake and it was important to me that she saw me enjoying myself – because I really was. I truly had the most marvellous night.
I want her to hold tight to those memories of me, particularly as I know her final one will be of my death. I’m planning to die at a local hospice and would like Laura and Chris to be with me. I was with my parents when they died
Lin
Lin
If there’s one thing we’ve all learned in the last few weeks it is that high maintenance beauty does not lockdown well. We’ve seen the pictures of roots growing ever longer and ever greyer on social media. We’ve seen the at-home attempts at gel nail removal and over-zealous eyebrow dyeing, that has made us truly appreciate the professionals.
But there is one thing that I have been feeling pretty smug about – my curls. And that’s because in February I got a curly ‘dry cut’ for the first time ever and it was a game changer in how my hair looks in its natural state.
Now, in lockdown and far away from their glam squads, many celebs from J-Lo and Ariana Grande to Nicole Kidman, are embracing their hair in all its naturally textured glory. Me? I feel like I was slightly ahead of the game in trying to love mine.
But let me rewind a little. I haven’t always appreciated my curly hair. I think our falling out began somewhere between the advent of the first GHD hair straightener in 2001, and the rise of the curly blow dry during the summer of 2006 (courtesy of the WAGs of the English football team). Along the line I began to feel ashamed of my spirals.
If I didn’t blow-dry my hair, I felt unpolished, and even judged, fearful that others might think I didn’t bother making an effort.
Reflecting on that now in my 30s, with all the confidence and perspective that comes with life experience, I’m sad that I let myself feel curl-shamed.
And I’m not the only one. TV presenter Rochelle Humes recently admitted that the reason she had given up blowdries in favour of her natural texture was to help her daughter’s confidence. Apparently sixyear-old Alaia-Mai told her mother that she didn’t ‘look like a princess’ with her naturally curly hair. Tell me that’s not heartbreaking.
My own ‘aha’ moment came when I was on a weekend hotel break in West Cork. As I battled with my Babyliss Big Hair dryer, taming my locks into dinner-worthy submission, I looked at my fiancé enjoying a glass of wine on the balcony looking out at the sea. His grooming routine was done in 15 minutes, including shower. I was an hour in and still had another to go just to make our reservation on time.
Feck this, I thought and marched back into the bathroom. I re-wet my hair, scrunched it, grabbed a glass and joined him. And you know what? The world didn’t end and nobody looked at me funny.
Thankfully the movement towards women embracing what makes them unique, whether that’s skin tone, body shape or a wild head of curls, is gaining traction. A happy upshot of this is that women like me are gaining back huge swathes of time as a result. Imagine what we can do with an extra hour in our day?
Unfortunately though, when it comes to curls, they don’t just bounce back. Years of dyeing and heat styling had left mine in bad condition. They looked flat, frizzy and tired looking, and no amount of conditioning or curl product would revive them overnight.