‘it was my way of saying thank You’
Petra mcmillan, 43, lives in Dundee
As a single parent to five children, my mum certainly had her hands full. She worked two jobs and money was tight. But when I look back on my childhood, I only have happy memories. Mum showered us with cuddles and kisses, and we’d dance around the house to her favourite Tina Turner songs.
I moved out at 22, and married my husband Tommy three years later. Our son Jack was born in April 1999, followed by Heidi in July 2001. Mum doted on her grandkids. She loved to babysit – often keeping them up past their bedtime sharing jokes and stories.
But in December 2008, Mum started acting strangely. She’d struggle to pay attention, forget what she was saying mid-sentence, and suffered terrible headaches.
In March 2009, after a brain scan, there was devastating news: Mum had a brain tumour.
Doctors had explained that Mum’s condition was terminal and that palliative care was now the only option.
In that moment, I didn’t cry, or question why this was happening to us. All I could think about was how we were going to look after her.
We wanted Mum to be at home rather than among strangers in hospital, so my siblings and I organised a 24-hour care plan. At the time, Tommy and I owned our own hotel business, but I knew I’d have to give up work – from 6am to 3pm, I’d be at my mum’s side.
I wish I could say I enjoyed those days, but caring for Mum was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. Suddenly, she was the child and I was the parent. The image of her frail body in the bath as I washed her, or her confused face as I helped her get dressed, are memories that will never leave me.
In the evenings I’d be so tired, all I could do was kiss Jack, then 10, and Heidi, seven, goodnight before collapsing into bed. All the things I used to do as a mum – helping with homework, going to school plays – could no longer be a priority.
In the mornings, I’d wake up and, for one cruel second, I’d have forgotten all about Mum’s illness. Then there would be a tightening in my chest as the realisation hit me, and Tommy would hold me as I sobbed.
I lost touch with friends – unable to accept invites to meals out when I had to get up so early to be with Mum. And I couldn’t plan ahead with her future so uncertain.
Mum’s health deteriorated until, in June 2009, she was moved into a hospice. By then, she was unconscious, but we filled her room with flowers, and sang songs with her, like we did as children.
I knew it was coming, but nothing could have prepared me for the moment Mum took her final breath. The feeling of loss was instant, the pain so intense I thought my heart might break.
After Mum’s death, there was so much to do – registering her death and sorting through her things. After her funeral I stayed at her graveside late into the night. I still wanted to make sure she was safe.
Moving on was difficult. I had counselling and went back to work, but I missed Mum so much. Then, that Christmas, Heidi suggested we raise money for Marie Curie. We organised a craft sale at the school fair, and raised £600. It was the start of a huge fundraising effort in Mum’s name. Since then, I’ve abseiled, climbed mountains and run marathons. Along with others, we’ve raised over £250,000 and I’m now a Marie Curie patron in Scotland.
When I heard about Carol Vorderman postponing her trip, I totally understood her decision. When the person you love needs you, you don’t hesitate to be there for them. I don’t regret putting my life on hold for my mum for a second – and Carol won’t either.
‘i couldn’t plan ahead’