Real Life the picture that means so much
Sandra Barnbrook found a way to honour her son
Looking up towards the sky as a medal was put around my neck, it was no use fighting the tears. This time last year I was a smoker, who had never run a race in my life, so the prospect of me completing a half-marathon would have seemed laughable. and yet, after months of gruelling training, here I was – exhausted, proud but also aching with sadness. Because if it wasn’t for my son, Stuart, I wouldn’t have even contemplated doing this race. He was the reason I was here, because I knew he would have given anything to complete it himself.
I was just 18 when I fell pregnant with Stuart. Raising him as a single parent, we were so close. And, although I never thought it would be possible to love anyone else as much as I loved Stuart when, six years later, his brother Sam arrived, I realised a mother’s love isn’t halved – it’s doubled.
As the boys grew older, I was so proud of the people they were becoming. Stuart was cheeky but charming, and loved playing music. Together, he and Sam were like a little tag team. On our annual holidays to Southport, they made friends wherever they went. As Stuart reached his teens, he proved just as popular with the girls – which was hardly surprising, as he was so handsome.
When Stuart was 17, he joined the army and became obsessed with fitness. He went to the gym five times a week and watched what he was eating. He spent a few stints away from home with the army but got homesick, so he often came home.
When I had my daughter, Charlotte, in 2002, Stuart quickly took on the role of protective older brother. In 2006, I married my partner Andrew, 35, and Stuart and Sam adored him. They were always out playing football, or going on long walks. Stuart and Sam called him Dad, too, and Andrew treated them like sons.
By now, Stuart was a manager at a supermarket, then he worked as a security guard before moving on to a shed-making business. And, it was there he met one of many friends, Dazz. They were both keen runners and would go on long jogs every week.
‘You should join us, Mam,’ Stuart said. ‘Not a chance!’ I laughed. I’d never run in my life, but Stuart wasn’t impressed by my excuses and would often tease that he’d get me out there with him one day. He was the type of person who lived life to the full and when he became a dad in 2008, it inspired a maturity in my boy that was wonderful to see.
Stuart only wanted everyone to get along, and to help those in need. So I wasn’t surprised when he told me last summer that he was running the Birmingham International Marathon in October to raise money for Help for Heroes.
I couldn’t even contemplate how someone could run 26.2 miles – it seemed a superhuman achievement. But Stuart threw himself into training, hauling himself out of bed at dawn to go on a run before work. I was in awe of his determination.
something was wrong
Only, less than two months before the race, he came home complaining of a headache. ‘It’s really bad,’ he said, wincing and clutching his head. Despite drinking loads of water and taking painkillers, the pain only got worse.
When he skipped his gym workouts that weekend, I knew something wasn’t right. The GP referred him to Russells Hall Hospital in Dudley for an MRI scan the next day. But over the next
‘stuart Lived Life to the full’
24 hours, Stuart grew so weak one night at work his manager had to drive him to hospital.
I tried to reassure myself it was just an infection or a virus that was taking hold, but honestly I was terrified. Stuart was awake and conscious, but his energy seemed to be draining by the hour. After the scan, we were told we’d have to wait overnight for the results. That night I lay in bed, willing my boy to be OK. The next day, when the consultant called us both into his office, the atmosphere felt heavy. ‘I’m so sorry, Stuart, but you have a brain tumour,’ he said, before flipping a scan of Stuart’s brain around to show us. The right side was nearly engulfed in a huge tumour, and the left was peppered with smaller ones.
fears confirmed
I reached over to pull Stuart into my arms, and as I did, I tried to think of the right words to say to erase his pain – but there was nothing. My mind was blank, save for the one, harrowing realisation: I might outlive my child.
Stuart was told he’d need to be kept in hospital for further tests to assess how advanced the tumour was. A week later, on 7 September, our worst fears were confirmed – Stuart’s tumour was rare and aggressive.
In the barrage of information that followed, just one sentence resounded through my mind. ‘Stuart might have weeks to live,’ the consultant said. ‘Chemotherapy will only prolong his suffering.’
By now, Stuart couldn’t walk and could hardly talk. As an early birthday present, I took him out of hospital and to Southport, where we shared so many happy memories from his childhood holidays. Sat on the promenade, staring out at the sea, I fought the urge to cry. ‘Today has been the best day,’ he said. ‘I want my ashes thrown off the pier when I pass.’
On 11 September, Macmillan nurses came to our home to make Stuart comfortable – Stuart didn’t want to spend his last days at hospital – and he talked to the nurses about his end-of-life plan. They were incredible and Stuart called them his ‘angels’. But when he started talking about his own funeral, I couldn’t bear it and had to leave the room, stifling tears. Why had this happened to my family? We didn’t deserve this. He was only 32.
Two weeks later, Stuart was taken to The Mary Stevens Hospice in Stourbridge where we – me, Andrew, 46, Sam, 25, and Charlotte, 15 – were allowed to say our goodbyes, and on 1 October I watched as my son died.
His funeral passed in an agonising blur, as did the weeks afterwards. And when the day of the International Marathon arrived, just three weeks later, I felt heartbroken. Instead of cheering my son on, I was at home on antidepressants, shutting myself away.
I would’ve given anything to see him cross that finish line. Then the idea struck me, why not do a race myself in his honour?
‘i fought the urge to cry’
So determined
It was just the inspiration I needed and it helped pull me from the din. On my first run in February, even though it was snowing, my lungs burnt and my face flushed crimson from the exertion, I’d never felt so determined. Maybe I was running from my troubles, or my grief, but it worked. I felt so free, like nothing else mattered. Of course, some days it felt impossible. But whenever I felt my motivation ebb I reminded myself why I was doing this. Because my beautiful boy couldn’t. And on 14 October, a year after Stuart’s death, I ran the Great Birmingham Run half-marathon in under three hours, raising £800 for The Mary Stevens Hospice. Dazz ran it with me, too, and he raised £1,500 for Help for Heroes. Although I know running won’t bring Stuart back, it does help me feel closer to him. To run the same streets he once ran, and to feel the same thrill of adrenaline he would have felt – it gives me hope.