A letter to… My beautiful music-mad girl…
I missed the sound of you singing along to your ukulele
Dear Jessica,
Holding you in my arms for the first time, I’d never felt such love.
I prayed nothing would ever hurt you. Neither a broken leg or a broken heart. I couldn’t bear to think of you suffering.
You grew up so quickly. Became an independent young woman, utterly music-mad!
When you weren’t blasting tunes from your speakers, I’d hear you practising. Tinkering on the keys of your dad Barry’s old keyboard. Plucking the strings of a guitar. Or just humming along with your ukulele in hand.
‘You’ll never be sad listening to a ukulele,’ you told me once.
You were right. Your beautiful music was the soundtrack to my daily life.
And when you were old enough… ‘We’re taking you to Glastonbury,’ we told you.
You screamed so loud I thought the hallway mirror might shatter!
It would become our family tradition. From just 14 years old, you became a real festival bunny.
Rocking out with us, having fun. But that all stopped suddenly in November 2014. You were 16, still just a kid. You had severe pains in your tummy and groin.
I knew something wasn’t right. I phoned 999. They gave us an out-of-hours appointment.
They said you were very anaemic.
Then your blood tests came back. You had a soft-tissue cancer. It was extremely rare – and deadly…
It was called rhabdomyosarcoma. My world shattered. ‘Are you OK, Mum?’ you asked me. You were looking after me, when it should have been the other way around.
But that was what you were like. Brave, selfless, caring.
You were given a less than five per cent chance of survival.
‘It’s still a chance,’ your dad said to me. We clung to it.
Your cancer was vicious, and I knew you were in pain.
But still you smiled. Playing your ukulele for the other boys and girls on the ward. You were like a big sister to them. You even wrote that song with the hospital name in the title – The Alder Hey Blues.
Then, in September 2015, you went into remission.
I was so happy. We’d get to bring you home, watch you grow up, after all.
But that didn’t happen, did it?
You started bleeding again.
After more tests... ‘The cancer’s back,’ a doctor said just one month later. ‘There’s nothing more we can do.’ You looked at us and sighed. ‘I’m sorry,’ you said. You had nothing to be sorry for, my beautiful girl.
In November, we marked your 18th birthday. Just a few close friends back at home.
It wasn’t the 18th birthday I’d imagined for you. But you beamed to me.
‘I’ve had a wonderful day, Mum,’ you said, squeezing my hand.
And just 13 days later, we lost you.
My baby girl, gone forever.
I didn’t know how I’d carry on. The house was too quiet – I missed the tinkling piano, the sound of you singing along to your ukulele. Nothing dulled the ache in my heart.
But I needed to do something for you.
‘Something really incredible,’ I decided.
It was Rachel, your CLIC Sargent social worker who helped you every single day, who came up with the idea. ‘Jesstival!’ she smiled. A phenomenal idea. A festival, for charity, and for you.
We even got your favourite act, Beans on Toast, to play.
So will Chasing Shadows and Evil Blizzard.
Jesstival will take place on the 30 June-1 July to raise money for Teenage Cancer Trust and CLIC Sargent.
We can’t wait to see it all come together.
It breaks my heart that we didn’t get more time.
But I’m grateful for every second we did have.
I know you’ll be with us on those days. Music is your legacy. So, this one’s for you, Jess. Love you. Always and forever,
Mum xxx Tracy Fairclough, 46, Liverpool