A heartmelting words of a dying mother will make you see your life anew

The moving words below are that of Claire Wood (pictured above), from Southend-on-Sea-UK. She has terminal breast cancer diagnosed a year ago. Claire doesn't know how long she has left to live and will never see her 3-year-old daughter Jessica grow but she has frozen her eggs so that husband Barry can have another child.

Read what she wrote below...

Since I was diagnosed a year ago with terminal breast cancer, I’ve learned a great many things. How the mundane stuff — the ordinary chores of everyday life — become an intense and special pleasure when you know your life will be short.

The way your heart swells with pride and love as your toddler runs from nursery into your arms at hometime. The fantastic luck in having a husband who is solid, constant, dependable.

But the lesson I cherish most lies in the outpouring of love I’ve received from my friends. For the support they have given me has been selfless and unstinting.

Perhaps it takes a crisis to fully understand what friends mean to you — but it’s no overstatement to say they have sustained me through my darkest hours, that their countless acts of kindness have carried me through the worst of times.

They have weighed down the postman with cards, and the thoughts invested in them have buoyed me up. ‘We’re there for you if you need us,’ they write — and they mean it. Whenever I’ve picked up the phone and asked if they’d pop round for a coffee or to go to the park with my three-year-old Jessica and me, they have never failed me.

Yet as time trickles away, I’ve found myself more and more concerned that their sorrow will become a burden to them. Or perhaps it already is.

It’s one of the unspoken consequences of my illness that I feel a grave responsibility for causing sadness and anxiety in my friends. I’d rather they did not mourn for me but simply accepted my gratitude and love and hopes for their future.

It’s not myself that I feel sorry for, but them and their grief. I want them to share the wonderful knowledge that each of them has made my 38 years richer and sweeter than I

could have imagined. That throughout my illness they have given me the most precious gift of all in allowing me simply to keep a grip on normality, to still be one of the girls.

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer in May 2012, I was convinced I would beat this disease, and I told my friends as much. I was going to get better.

I’d just finished breastfeeding my daughter when I realised something was wrong. My right breast returned to its normal size but the left was twice as big.

My GP found a lump under my arm. Three weeks on, a mammogram revealed it was part of a malignant tumour that had taken over the whole of my left breast.

When my consultant told me I had cancer, I said, indignant and incredulous: ‘But I’ve got an 11-month-old daughter’ — as if it might make him say: ‘OK, you’ve got a reprieve. You haven’t got it after all.’

When the truth sank in, the shock was suffocating. I needed my friends then so very much. I remember emailing them with the news, and adding the cheerful rider: ‘On a positive note, I’m off to London to have some of my eggs frozen.’

I was due to have chemotherapy before a mastectomy on my left breast, followed by a course of radiotherapy. I knew the treatment might make me infertile, and my husband Barry and I wanted another child. ‘I might well need those eggs when I’m better,’ I thought.

But even as I sent that email, I felt for those friends who were receiving it. I knew how their hearts would sink, how my news would cast a dark shadow.

So at first I tried to make light of my illness. I met the eight friends I still cherish from my antenatal group and told them: ‘Don’t worry, girls. One in eight women gets breast cancer — and it’s me. You’re all safe.’ And we laughed through our tears.

I remember, too, how my closest friend Alison tried valiantly to keep my spirits up. Although she’s 13 years older than me, and her two daughters are grown, we’ve never felt the age gap. Now we had more excuse than ever for our girly days out: afternoon tea at the Ritz and Claridge’s spa days and shopping trips. Each outing was like a chink of light in a grey sky; a remission from the pain, a time for forgetting about the cancer and just being myself again.

After my treatment ended, I thought my life would resume its normal course. But of course it didn’t. I had burns on my chest from the radiotherapy that wouldn’t heal, and though I was convinced I’d just got an infection, in December 2013, at an appointment to plan my reconstructive surgery, my surgeon decided to send me for a biopsy. The prognosis was so dreadful I felt the room spin. The cancer had returned and it was incurable. My doctor didn’t need to say the words: I knew I was going to die.

But I didn’t write a bucket list. I didn’t want to parachute from a plane or swim with dolphins. I just wanted to keep being myself: Claire, Jessica’s mummy, Barry’s wife, a good friend.

At first, Barry and I, who have been married for four years, were lost in shock and grief, unable to take in the news. And although his love and support have been unflagging — I know I can rely on him to keep life running on its tracks for Jessica — I’m conscious he does not deal well with emotion, and that his role is different from those of my friends.

With the girls, I can cry and laugh and share my thoughts and fears. And it is a rare gift.

In the company of those I do not know well, I must put on a mask of coping. Around my parents, I must try not to succumb to sadness, for it merely adds to their devastation. But with Alison, Sandra and Jo — my oldest and dearest friends — when I need to give in, they indulge me.

They know I do not want their pity. But neither do I want to be the cause of their hurt.

Sandra couldn’t stop the tears when I told her the cancer had come back. As she sobbed, she said: ‘I’m useless. I’m so sorry.’ And her pain weighed heavily on me. I hated to inflict my suffering on her. After all, Sandra, her sister Jo and I have been friends since we were in our 20s. We met at a friend’s wedding and hit it off instantly; we even pledged to have our babies at the same time — and we did.

I count myself blessed that my Jessica will have their daughters, Madison and Darcy, both four, to grow up with. It is a reason to be cheerful, and I want them to smile with me so very much.

Telling Alison that the cancer had returned was a release of sorts. I remember standing on her doorstep — we hugged each other so tight I wondered who would let go first.

‘It’s not fair, it’s not fair,’ she said through tears, and then I was crying, too.

‘I can’t go through the chemo again. The bone-weariness, the awful sickness,’ I said, and Alison immediately promised she would go with me.

And, every three weeks, when I go to hospital for treatment, she’s there, as she said she would be, cheering me up, holding my hand.

Then there is Bekki, Alison’s daughter, a wigmaker — what luck! — who produced a wonderful, lustrous blonde mane for me when I lost my hair. She took so long weaving it, with such skill and care, that my own hair was growing back by the time it was finished — but still I loved it, my very own Nordic-goddess tresses.

I won’t forget dear Lucy, either, who quietly left a box of homemade chocolate brownies tied up with ribbon on my doorstep, not stopping to ring the bell, not wishing to intrude.

My friends, between them, have sent me enough flowers to fill a garden.

I’ve made new friends, too. I count Kim, my wonderful palliative care nurse, among them. When I wanted desperately to do something useful, to help others, Kim helped me organise a charity ball in aid of The J’s Hospice in Chelmsford, Essex. I was worried I’d be too ill to see it through, but Kim kept me going, and this September I realised a dream by raising £14,000.

Half the fun was planning it all. We milked every opportunity to make an outing of it — having afternoon tea at the venue (a smart hotel in Southend) when we went for a recce.

Six of us girls spent a fun hour in the bridal shop that lent us tiaras to wear. And when Alison and I got ready for the big event in our hotel room, we were like teenagers — tweaking our hairdos, putting on make-up, giggling. ‘You look beautiful,’ she told me as I shimmered in a silver sequined gown.

I want my friends to know that every new memory I make I hold dear. And that even the most normal of days are thrillingly alive for me. This is what it is like when you know your time is short — you can no longer afford the luxury of discarding memories because they are too banal. Each day is a gift to be treasured.

Take the week we spent at Center Parcs — Jo, her husband Adam, Madison, Barry, Jessica and I. I refused to let the dreary weather dampen our spirits. After a day cycling — towing the girls in trucks — we tucked them up in bed and cracked open the sparkling wine. Then Adam appeared, poker-faced, wearing Jo’s animal-print onesie. He’s 6ft. She’s barely 5ft. Yet he walked into the room as if it were the most natural thing in the world — and we laughed until tears ran down our cheeks.

In the morning, when I lifted my huge bag of chemo drugs on to the worktop and lined up the tablets to take, Jo was there with a surreptitious cuddle. I appreciated that.

The precious days I have left are becoming scarcer — I don’t know how long I have to live. But I know I won’t see my beloved Jessica go to university. I won’t be there to weep tears of joy on her wedding day. I won’t see my grandchildren.

When I’m gone, the lives of my friends will carry on, and they have all told me they will miss me.

But I would like to say to them, please don’t dwell on the sadness —think of the happy times. Know as I write this I am not yet in pain. I have a multitude of reasons to be grateful: I have you all beside me.

And I love life with an intensity and passion sharpened by the knowledge that it is running through my fingers like sand. If I were to bequeath my friends a lesson as I leave life, I would like them to learn how to grasp each day and live it as if it were their last. As I am now, with their precious help.

Source: Daily Mail