‘It’s Jodey’, I wept. ‘She’s gone, Jamie ...We’ve lost her’

Despite suffering from major health problems and needing daily care, the powers-that-be callously halted benefit payments to Jodey Whiting, a mum-of-nine.

While waiting for her appeal, and with no money coming in, Jodey killed herself, aged just 42. A Mother’s Job is the story of how Jodey’s mum Joy Dove, 67, took on the system to win justice for her daughter.

HEARTBREAK

Jodey was sitting upright and stiff on the sofa, dressed in black leggings and a black T-shirt. All in black. Her face was waxy pale, one eye was closed, one was open; glassy, unseeing, yet that familiar dazzling blue.

As I ran towards her, I thought I saw a single tear roll slowly down her cheek. One last, lonely, tear. She had a bandage on her leg, and it had been troubling her for days. Everything was so normal, so instantly recognisable, and yet at once so grotesque and completely alien. With my head in my hands, I screamed and screamed.

WE’VE LOST HER

“Mam. Don’t be screaming.”

Someone was ushering me into the hallway, and out of the flat. A paramedic, a nice young man with a kind face, said: “I think she’s been dead for quite some time. I’m so sorry. Can we ask you to wait outside for a while?”

Like a zombie, I called Eric [Jodey’s dad] and Jamie [her brother]. My voice, when I spoke, came as a strangled sob.

“Who is that?” Jamie asked. “Mam? Is that you?” It broke my heart to form the words, knowing that at the end of my sentence, his life, like mine, would be shattered.

“It’s Jodey,” I wept. “She’s gone, Jamie. We’ve lost her.”

We took the lift back down to the foyer, and a couple got in alongside us.

“Something awful has happened on the third floor,” one said to me. “God knows what.”

A FINAL FAREWELL

Downstairs, the concierge found us some chairs. One by one, Jodey’s children and her close friends began arriving. Jamie came too. Donna’s [Jodey’s sister] phone was switched off and I couldn’t get hold of her and really, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to break her heart.

A police officer took me aside and explained that as Jodey’s next of kin, I would need to make a statement. I nodded numbly. I told him everything I could, knowing nothing would bring her back. Afterwards, he suggested we might like a few moments with Jodey, before the undertakers arrived.

“You might want to spend those last few minutes with her in her home,” he suggested.

I was so grateful. Together with my granddaughters, we pushed her favourite fluffy slippers onto her feet, and draped her dressing gown around her shoulders.

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