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A boxful of love

Our memories must last a lifetime...


Published by: Amy Thompson and Nicola Skinner
Published on: 31st March 2010

Writing this letter is hard enough. But imagine trying to write something I know will have an impact on you in years to come.
You won’t read my words until long after I’m gone, so how do I choose the right ones? How do I explain just how much I love you?
When we found out I had cervical cancer, I wasn’t overly worried at first.
I’d beaten it once before, and even defied the doctor’s prediction that I wouldn’t have any more children.
Jai and Jaq, you were my little miracle babies.
But shortly after Jaq was born, your daddy drove me back to the hospital for my test results.
‘Jaq’s birth triggered the cancer cells in your cervix,’ my doctor told us. ‘I’m afraid the cancer’s back.’
Even then, I felt positive. They could operate and do a hysterectomy to get rid of the cancer once and for all.
But then things took an unexpected turn…
Just after Jaq’s first birthday, and shortly before my op, doctors discovered I’d developed a rare blood disorder called aplastic anaemia.
‘Your blood can’t renew itself,’ the doctor said. ‘If we operate, you’ll bleed to death.’
Seconds ticked by like hours as I stared at him, gripping your daddy’s hand.
‘So… what now?’ I asked, slowly.
The doctor shook his head, sadly.
‘I’m sorry, there’s nothing more we can do,’ he answered.
Nothing! Taking a deep breath, I tried to hide the tremble in my voice.
‘H-how long do I have?’ I forced myself to ask.
‘About five years,’ he replied quietly.
Five years?!
To me it might as well have been five minutes. You were only nine, Nicole. Jai, you were just two, and what about you, Jaq? Only a baby.
All the things I’d miss flashed before me – first days at school, your first crush… even seeing
 you turn into difficult teenagers.
You had your whole lives ahead of you.
While I’d never expected to see your entire lives, I’d never dreamed I’d see so little of them either.
I finally had my dream family, my own little miracles, but it was being cruelly ripped away from me too soon.
Back home, I didn’t have the strength to break it to you. Instead, your dad found the right words, sitting you, Nicole, on his knee.
‘Mummy’s very poorly,’ he told you. ‘The doctors have given her medicine, but it hasn’t worked. One day she’ll have to go away…’
‘Where to?’ you frowned.
‘Well, that’s up to you,’ Daddy smiled, pointing out of the window. ‘Mummy’s going to live on a star so she can always look down and see us, but you get to pick which one.’
I fought back tears as you picked the brightest star in the sky.
Days passed in a blur. At first, all I could focus on was how quickly each day went. I spent every minute I could with the three of you, trying to absorb every expression that flickered across your faces. I clung to the memories, trying to make them last forever.
Then, wandering up to bed one evening, I stopped at the top of the stairs, a piece of paper, folded in half, grabbing my attention.
To Mummy, it said on the front in your neat writing, Nicole.
I love you lots and lots and I wish you didn’t have cancer, I read. We have all been through tough times, but we have helped each other. All the time I have spent with you, I will never forget. Love from Nicole.
The words disappeared in a blur of tears as I tried to read it again and again.
You probably didn’t know it then Nicole, but that letter meant everything to me.
And it made me wonder, too – you’d told me you’d never forget the time we’d shared, but what about the boys? They were only little – would they remember me as well? Would your memories be strong enough to last forever?
Maybe. I knew mine would. I had to be sure, though. I had to know that even if I couldn’t be with you, you’d always have a piece of me. You’d always be able to look up at my star. But I wanted you to have something you could hold, too – something to remind you.
‘I’ve had an idea,’ I told your dad that night in bed.
‘Being a mum means I can’t waste my time being sad and resentful about what life has thrown at me.
At least this way I know I’ve got a short time to live – so I can make the most of it.’
‘How?’ Daddy asked, frowning.
As I explained my idea, though, his frown turned to a smile.
‘Perfect!’ he whispered, kissing me.
So, the next day, I sat the three of you down and gave you each an empty shoebox.
‘These are our memory boxes,’ I explained, smiling. ‘Everything we do together now, we can put something in the box to remind us of it later.’
You couldn’t wait to get started.
Watching you decorating your boxes, I couldn’t help smiling as you stamped your personalities all over them.
Nicole, my little mother hen, you drew a big heart on top of your box. I thought about how loving you’d always been, helping me look after the boys, insisting I take a nap when I was tired while you watched over your brothers with your daddy.
Jai, you were always the sensitive, careful one – you’d just started to write, and spent hours covering your box with your name, copying it each time with painstaking precision.
Then there was your box, Jaq. Carefree and headstrong, you covered your box in multi-coloured scribbles. I couldn’t help laughing when you told me they were pictures of Thomas the Tank Engine.
We filled the boxes with tickets to the zoo and photographs of us together, pictures you’d drawn for me and little notes you’d written.
Anything and everything went into those boxes.
‘There’s only one house rule in this place,’ I told you all. ‘Cherish every moment.’
‘Mummy wants to have as much fun as possible,’ your dad added.
And as time went on, although I knew I’d never get to see you grow up, I started to see it all in my mind.
You already looked out for each other in your own little ways. You had such different characters, but you seemed to fit together like a jigsaw puzzle – like a family.
It broke my heart that one day I’d have to take a piece of that puzzle away with me.
That’s why I started writing you letters, too. I made my own special memory box with letters to each of you to open on your first Christmas without me, your 16th birthdays, your wedding days…
The number of times I’ve gone back and rewritten them, though! There always seems to be something I’ve missed, or something I want to say differently.
And all the time I’m haunted by the fear that if I get a word wrong, or forget to mention something, it could have a massive impact on you – and I won’t be around to pick up the pieces, or explain what I really meant.
I know that I’ll probably have wanted to say something different again in 10 years’ time, too.
But I hope by the time I have to leave you, I’ll have managed to write down as much as I can. At least enough to convince you that, if I’d been faced with giving one of you up or having cancer, well, I’d have taken the cancer every time.
I’m grateful for every memory you three have given me.
All I can do is make as many memories as possible for each of you now, and pray they are enough to last a lifetime.

Lots of love,
Mummy xx
Beckii Bomford, 30, Evesham, Worcester