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My best mate's missing

I live to make you proud, Mum...


Published by: Jessica Gibb
Published on: 5 January 2012

They say your mum is your best friend, and with us that was definitely true. Do you remember when I came home after my first term at university? As far as I was concerned, Christmas didn't start until I got home. I crashed through the front door and there you were, waiting with open arms.
‘I missed you so much,' you whispered into my hair. Then you glanced down at my suitcase.
‘Is that full of washing?'
‘Er... yes,' I smiled sheepishly. And we both burst out laughing.
‘Hey, the Christmas tree looks great,' I smiled. When I went to the fridge, you'd crammed it full of my favourite things!
‘I just wanted everything to be perfect,' you smiled. Typical you.
Me leaving for college had been even harder for you than for me. We spoke three times a day and, although you always sounded upbeat, when we said goodbye I'd hear
your voice catch.
It was hardly surprising we were so close, though. It'd been just you, me and my brother Damon, 23, since I was about seven.
You worked as a supermarket cashier to make sure we never went without. Scrimped to save up the tuition fees for me to do a degree - and when I'd got the confirmation of my place at Manchester University to study criminology and sociology, you'd been thrilled.
Moving away had been a real wrench, which was why this homecoming was so special. And you had the whole thing planned.
‘We've got The X Factor to watch,' you said. ‘Then Man U are playing on Boxing Day.'
We loved our footie and the talent show.
On Christmas Eve, you came down with a rotten cold. ‘How about we get a takeaway and watch The Royle Family?' I offered. That was your favourite.
I tucked you up on the sofa with a duvet and hot water bottle. That night you went to bed early, but I heard you sneaking around the house at the crack of dawn putting out the presents, just like you always did.
And when I got up, we all sat round opening prezzies and showing each other what we'd got.
‘That's lovely,' you gasped, then started coughing like you had a 60-a-day habit.
‘You sound terrible,' I frowned, worried.
‘There's something on my chest,' you said, waving my concerns aside. ‘Let's see what you've got!'
You smiled proudly as I opened the TV you'd bought me. And you were thrilled with the jeans and new tops I'd got you. Later that morning, your mum Patricia, 67, and dad Alec, 76, came over.
But you were hacking so violently, they insisted you go with them to the NHS walk-in centre.
You were back a short while later. ‘He says it's just a cold,' you told me. ‘But I'm sorry, I don't feel well enough for Christmas dinner.'
Bless you, you curled up in bed, while we enjoyed ourselves... but it wasn't the same without you.
All Boxing Day, I looked after you. The next morning, I went downstairs and you were with Damon on the sofa, staring out of the window.
‘She's hallucinating,' he whispered. What?! ‘She thinks someone is outside looking over the wall at her.'
‘Mum?' I choked.
‘Katie,' you smiled weakly.
‘Are you okay?' I asked.
‘It feels like someone's pushing down on my chest so I can't breathe,' you wheezed.
God, Mum, that frightened me so much. I phoned Nan, and she took you to North Staffordshire Hospital's A&E.
Then Nan came home without you, Mum. ‘She's got swine flu and pneumonia,' she said.
‘Swine flu?' I cried. ‘Is she going to be okay?'
‘Yes, she'll be fine,' she reassured me. ‘They're giving her Tamiflu, and have put her on a drip. She's in an isolation unit...'
Mum, I didn't sleep a wink that night for worrying. I just counted the minutes until I could see you.
The next day, we were finally given the go-ahead. Me and Damon had to put on sterile masks, gloves and aprons before we could go in. You had drips coming out of you, looked pale and clammy.
I didn't expect you to look so ill - you seemed to have aged overnight. Minutes later, the doctor came in. ‘She was in so much pain, we had to sedate her,' she said.
‘I'll leave you to it,' I smiled, kissing you goodbye.
When we came to see you the following morning, you were still
asleep. Hadn't woken by that evening, either.
‘Come on, get better,' I urged. ‘It's the January sales, Mum, we've got shopping to do!'
But your eyes stayed firmly shut.
The next evening, I was on my way to visit you with Nan, Damon and your friend Pauline, when the hospital called Nan's mobile. Her face paled - we were losing you.
As she parked, I jumped out and ran all the way to your ward - towards the screeching of your machine... ‘Mum!' I screamed.
A doctor ushered us into a family room. We sat down and held hands. Ten minutes later, he was back. ‘I'm... I'm sorry... she's passed away.'
Mum, in that second, my world shattered. I burst into tears, and stumbled in to see you.
All the machines were turned off, and suddenly it seemed so eerily silent. But the worst thing was your beautiful face, frozen in a grimace of pain. It didn't look
like you laying there.
My tears splashed on to your bed as I reached out to hold your hand. ‘I love you,' I whispered.
The next day was New Year's Eve, but there were no celebrations in our house.
Two weeks later, we played Run by Leona Lewis at your cremation. I can still remember us singing her songs as we did the housework together.
It still feels too soon to say goodbye, so we've kept your bedroom exactly the way you left it. I've gone back to my studies, because I know that's what you would want, but come home every weekend. I lay on your bed and talk to your ashes. It makes me feel close to you.
Sometimes I cry and you'd hate it, but I can't help myself.
In October, I did a skydive and raised more than £1,400 for the intensive care unit that looked
after you. When I jumped out of the plane in your beloved Manchester United shirt, I could feel you by my side.
Mum, it'll be a year this New Year that you've been gone. I miss you more every day. You were my best friend and I will spend the rest of my life making you proud of me.
Katie Chandler, 20, Leek, Staffordshire