When mum first noticed a lump
My dad Mark and I were splashing around in our pool when a shrill scream pierced the air.
It was echoing from inside the house.
Mum!
Dad got out and bolted inside, with me trailing behind him sopping wet.
I was only five and was worried something had frightened her.
Next thing I knew, I was being sent to the neighbours’ house while Dad helped Mum into the car.
It all seemed very sudden. I remember hoping she hadn’t hurt herself.
When they picked me up later that day, it was like nothing had happened.
“Mummy needs to have a few tests, but everything will be okay,” she said, pulling me into a hug.
That was the end of it.
I all but forgot about it, until three weeks later when Mum explained she was going to hospital for an operation. It was to remove something called ‘cancer’.
The day she’d called out to us in the pool was when she’d first noticed a 5cm lump in her left breast.
Mum loved taking me to ballet classes.
Still it didn’t mean much to me, but soon I noticed strands of her beautiful blonde hair on the carpet.
“I’ll be better soon,” she promised, smiling just as wide as ever.
She continued taking me to ballet lessons each week, watching on as I spun around the hall in my leotard and tutu.
She’d worked as a performer on a cruise ship before and was delighted that I’d inherited her passion for performing.
At home, we’d play music and she and I would dance round the living room together, laughing and singing along to pop group Five’s song, Keep on Moving.
“I know it’s not much, but it’s okay. We’ll keep on movin’ on anyway,” they sang.
Sometimes, even Dad joined in with us.
When Mum started chemo and radiation, she didn’t always have the energy to dance. And soon she had trouble leaving the house, too.
But then, as the months passed, slowly the colour came back to her cheeks. She looked like my mummy again.
She returned to her office job and for the next four years, life was perfect. We went on lots of family holidays and finally settled into our new home. Those horrible days of chemo just seemed like a bad dream.
But when I was 10, my parents sat me down for a talk. I knew from the looks on their faces that it was serious.
The cancer was back.
“I’ll beat this again, my darling,” Mum said, gently stroking my face.
This time, I understood what cancer was and didn’t want to see Mum go through the same pain she’d gone through years earlier.
Curling up into a ball on my bedroom floor, I cried until I had no tears left.
One year later, I was sitting on the edge of Mum’s bed when she started to shake violently.
“Dad!” I cried, gripping onto her jittering hand.
I knew she’d had a seizure before but it was the first time I’d actually seen it.
I was terrified.
Me, aged 11, and Mum one Christmas.
Despite everything life threw at her, Mum never once talked of giving up. She even became an ambassador for the National Breast Cancer Foundation, telling her story at fundraising events.
I loved that she was a fighter.
She didn’t blink at having to go through more chemo and, for a time, it even reduced the tumours.
But she continued to grow frailer and frailer, losing her hair and spending more time in bed.
We knew how precious time was now, so we went on as many family trips to our beach house as we could.
One afternoon Dad picked me up from school and took me to the hospital.
“Mum’s back in there again,” he told me.
I hated it. It just wasn’t fair. All I wanted was my mummy back so we could dance and laugh together.
“Sweetie, we only have a few days left,” he said softly.
I refused to let those words sink in.
Dancing helped ease my heartache.
Mum had just turned 50
“I’m bringing her home,” Dad continued.
I knew he didn’t want to risk her dying alone. So, we put a hospital bed in our lounge room where she slept, oblivious to time. And Dad learnt how to inject her with morphine to help ease the pain.
I spent every minute I could with her. Sometimes I clutched her hand and sang to her.
“I need you, Mummy,” I’d whisper, desperately hoping she could hear me.
One day I went off to primary school for my graduation. I was going to receive an award for my dancing and wished that Mum could have seen me. She would have been so proud.
As I looked through the crowd, I noticed Dad had left early. When I returned home, his face was streaked with tears.
Sitting down next to me, he pulled me into his chest.
“Mum’s gone,” he whispered, barely able to manage the words.
All we could do was hold each other as we cried.
“Do you want to see her?” Dad asked.
Sobbing, I nodded.
I leaned in to kiss her on the cheek. “I love you,” I wept.
Dad and I want to help make a difference.
The next few days were a blur. Christmas was coming up but we had no reason to celebrate.
Without Mum’s presence, the house was unbearable, too.
Dancing helped to ease the pain in my broken heart. But nothing felt the same without Mum.
When I was 16, I spoke at a National Breast Cancer Foundation’s fundraising event, where I shared Mum’s story and the impact cancer had on our lives.
After meeting with other sufferers, their families and friends, I realised so many people had gone through such immense pain. I was surprised to learn that men also died from breast cancer.
Determined to make a difference, Dad and I joined the National Breast Cancer Foundation’s ‘Real Men Wear Pink’ campaign to raise funds for life-changing research, with a target of zero deaths by 2030.
At 21, I’ve followed in Mum footsteps, travelling the world as a dancer on a cruise ship.
My work is not done yet.
I know I can’t bring Mum back, but I’ll do everything I can to stop breast cancer from taking any more lives.
