The Conversations You Never Have...

This weekend was a real musical highlight of my life so far! That's a fairly strong statement I know but it is fully justified. On Friday I was lucky enough to see Ocean Colour Scene perform an acoustic set which was unbelievably good, sandwiched in the middle on Saturday was the legend Stevie Wonder and the on the Sunday was the living musical genius that is Sir Paul McCartney. There - statement well and truly justified!

Paul McCartney's set was over two and a half hours long and was packed full of songs that covered his career from the Beatles, Wings, collaborations and solo material. It was a really special event and it touched me and moved me to tears on more than one occasion.

Music and theatrical events have always had the power to do this. I have no trouble expressing my emotions about a piece of music, film, dance or theatre. I feel far more comfortable crying in situations like this than over situations that are far more personal. Over the years, many people have seen me sniffing my way through films, plays and gigs and it doesn't bother me. But Paul McCartney's set, took me on a whole new journey and one that was a bit of a struggle at times.

As you know, I'm moving back to Southport this summer. This Friday I found out I have a job so I am immensely relieved, excited and ready to go now. However, my emotions are all over the place and it was the gig on Sunday that made me face the real reason for this.

I really, really miss my mum. The last time I did a big move like this was 11 years ago when I came down here. And mum was still with us then. She was there to help me pack up. She was there to listen and advise with her usual good sense. She was there to phone me and check I was settling in ok. She was there to visit me and enjoy the sights of London.

And now of course she's not. And this fact landed on me like a ton of bricks during Sir Paul's song about John Lennon. He said the song was about all those conversations you mean to have with people but then never do and then somehow, someday it's too late.

The lyrics didn't just speak to me, they jumped off the stage and headbutted me. And now I was stuck in the glaring daylight surrounded by thousands of people, crying in front of them about my mum - something I've not done since the funeral. Every word seemed to mean something. Every word seemed to expose the gaping hole her death has left in my life. Every word made me realise that one of my motivations for remaining in London for as long as I have was to escape the grief.

I miss her hugs - if she was here now and saw me sat here typing in tears she'd just let me cry and stroke my hair until the tears stopped. She wouldn't even ask me to talk if I didn't want to. And I miss that so much. Sometimes you don't want to talk, you just want to cry and have your hair stroked and be told by your mum that everything will be fine.

I miss our shopping trips which generally involved more coffee and cakes that actual shopping.

I miss laughing with her about silly things.

I miss buying silly little gifts for her at Christmas and birthdays.

I miss our discussions about books and films and music.

I miss her singing around the house.

I miss being able to tell her all the stuff going on in my life. Getting a new job, moving back home, starting a new phase of my life - she'd have been so excited for me.

I miss being able to introduce her to people who are important to me.

And what I really, really miss most of all, is all the conversations we'll never have. So if you are lucky enough to still have your mum in your life do something for me...go and have a conversation with her because you are so lucky that you can.

Unfogettable, that's what you are

This time 9 years ago I was sitting by my Mum's bed in Queenscourt Hospice. At 11am I had taken a call from my brother. It was the last of many emergency calls I'd taken over the previous few weeks/months. I don't remember what was said and it may well be that there was no need for words. By then a phone call during work hours could only mean one thing.

And so once more I drove like a bat out of hell to reach Mum's side. The first time this happened (6 weeks earlier) Mum had rallied and emerged from her coma like sleep. We'd been able to chat and gossip - we even discussed what she wanted to wear when she was finally laid out, not really a conversation you want to have with your mum. But more importantly the chatting allowed me to tell her I loved her.
People who know us may be surprised that I'd never said this to her before. We were and still are a huggy, tactile family. Nobody looking in from the outside would doubt the depth of feeling we all have for one another. And yet we'd just never done the whole 'love you' every night before bedtime. Typical British upper lip I guess. But I'm so relieved I finally got the chance.

So this time when I arrived at the Hospice I knew there was little hope of another such rally. Mum had declined into a coma like sleep once more. We sat around her bed for the rest of the day watching and waiting. Mum had always said 'don't treat me like a watched pot' and here we were doing exactly that.

Watching anyone go through the final stages of cancer is awful and to watch a loved one suffer in this way is magnified by a million. Ironically enough it isn't the cancer that kills, it is the drugs that are given as a cure. In effect, my mum died as a drug addict with her system pumped so full of pain numbing drugs that the body and vital organs started to shut down. As the body does this, the limbs start to twitch and react to the morphine. The twitches become full on jerks and spasms. The Hospice staff had done there best to prepare us for this. But to be honest, you get to the point where you can't take anymore information. Instead you sit there watching every move, flicker and reaction. I lost track of the times I drifted off and then jerked back awake to check she was still breathing.

Having sat there for hour after hour, it got to the point where Dad and my brother urged me to get some sleep in the other room. The Hospice think of everything and have a bedroom set up for family members who need to snatch a few minutes rest.

Unfortunately, my few minutes turned into a couple of hours and the next thing I knew was a nurse waking me to tell me she'd gone. I ran through but of course I was too late. At 5.30am on April 27th my Mum's long and dignified battle with cancer had finally come to an end and I hadn't been there for it.

For years this has bothered me. For years I've suffered dreadfully with insomnia because of it. For years I have never mentioned this to my dad or brother. For years I have been angry with myself for letting her down. I've been to counselling sessions and written page after page in journals to try and face this recurring nightmare. And now, finally, writing this blog seems to have set me free. I no longer feel I should hide away the hurt, it's nothing to be ashamed of. This blog has set me free in a way I didn't think possible. And for so many reasons...

Mum was such an incredibly strong woman and facially I'm very, very like her. Before she died everybody always told me how alike we were but after she died nobody ever mentioned the resemblance. This probably sounds odd but part of me felt as if I had died too. It was as if people didn't really see me Jude, they had only ever seen me as Carol and now she was gone. Plus so many people had told me how proud she would have been because I was coping and being so strong. I'm sure they felt they were doing the right thing and helping but the reality is somewhat different. What choice did that leave me? I HAD to be strong, couldn't break down, couldn't cry in front of people because if I did I'd let her down. Thankfully, I've come to realise how unhealthy this was. I had every right to cry and scream, to shout and weep. I'd lost my mum, to cancer and I was only 26, if that isn't a reason to cry I don't know what is.

Nothing will ever erase the pain of mum's death. Nothing will make me forget those last few hours. Nothing will take away the nightmares that still haunt me from time to time. Nothing will ever bring her back. But equally nothing will ever take away the many happy and wonderful memories I have of her.

In the words of Nat King Cole she really was Unforgettable and it was a fitting tribute that this was the final song played at her funeral. An unforgettable song for a truly unforgettable lady and a lady that I was lucky enough to call mum.

INSOMNIA - explained

It's Mother's Day in just over a week. The shops are dripping with cards, cuddly toys and present ideas. At school, the children are lovingly decorating cards with things they know their mummies will love. I smile brightly and tell them Mummy will LOVE it!

It's been 9 years since I bought my mum a card and wished her Happy Mothers Day. Just a few weeks later in 2001 she had gone.

In January 1996, I was in my final year at university. A 21 year old with her whole life ahead of her. Dreams, ambitions, aspirations, all there waiting to be explored. All in all my life was pretty damn peachy.

"I've found a lump in my breast" Mum told me. We were sat on the bed in mum and dad's room. "I have to have an operation in a couple of weeks. We didn't tell you sooner because we didn't want to spoil Christmas for you"

And that sums my mum up to a complete T. Selfless, always thinking of others, always worrying about how we would cope. During her 5 year battle with cancer she only cried infront of me once. And that was just before Mother's day in 2001. She cried because she didn't have the strength to get up the stairs anymore and it took us over an hour of bum shuffling, heaving and sheer will power to get her up the stairs and onto the bed. She cried because she hated having to ask me for help. But most of all she cried because she had cried infront of me! She hated that she couldn't protect me from what was happening.

And I cried with her, for all the birthdays she would miss, for the lost girly lunches and shopping days, for the future grandchildren who would never know the woman who would have made the most amazing grandmother. I cried because there was nothing I could do to help her. But most of all, I cried because I had cried infront of her!

I'll never forget the day she died. The time and place will be forever etched upon my memory, part of who I now am


I Wasn't There

Tired from waiting
tired from watching
tired from driving
tired from looking

Excuses, excuses!
I wasn't there
Gone for a rest,
to sleep for a while

While I was sleeping
You left, you're gone
Your life slipped away,
Your soul no more

I missed it! I missed it!
I wasn't there...


I'm sorry.



And that's why my insomnia won't go!