Carrying the weight of a prognosis 

I first considered starting a blog back in October 2025, when my mum was diagnosed with stage 4 ovarian cancer.

At the time of her diagnosis, we were still managing to live a relatively normal life. I say relatively, because anyone who has ever had a loved one diagnosed with cancer knows that life is hardly normal. Your world turns upside down and inside out in an instant. Everything seems to stop, and somehow, you have to learn to navigate this new version of normal.

One thing is certain, though: life is never going to be the same again. You and your loved one are forever changed.

Anyway, life was still carrying on around us. I still had three children to raise, work to juggle and, somewhere in between, I was trying to fit in my weekly gym and reformer Pilates sessions. The reality was that I didn't really have the time or headspace to start blogging.

But two weeks ago, life changed dramatically once again.

My sister and I had taken the girls away for a week in North Norfolk, a place they absolutely adore and somewhere that holds so many special memories for us. It's a place that reminds us so much of Mum.

Neither Charlotte nor I particularly wanted to go. Mum was in hospital, and the thought of leaving her was difficult. But the girls were desperate to go, and Mum wanted us to go too. So, we went.

What was supposed to be a week-long break turned into just two days before we had to rush home.

We had literally just arrived at the beach for a walk. The girls had all run off to play (thank goodness they weren't close enough to hear what was about to happen), when my sister received a phone call from our brother.

I looked at Charlotte and immediately knew something was wrong. I stood there staring at her, repeatedly asking, "What's he saying? Tell me!"

She looked at me and said the words I don't think I'll ever forget:

"There's nothing more they can do."

I can't really remember what happened next. Somehow, we made our way back to the chalets, packed up our belongings, stuffed everything in the car and drove home.

I'm still not quite sure how either of us managed to drive that day. I suppose it was adrenaline, instinct and pure survival mode.

The girls sat silently in the car. There was no music playing, no chatter, just silence. And I cried. I sobbed, almost uncontrollably, for the entire journey home.

I remember fantasising about what it would be like to have a loving partner waiting for me at home. Someone who could simply take over with the children, and let me curl up in a ball underneath my duvet, where I could stay for the foreseeable future.

But that wasn't my reality.

I didn't have a partner to take over the childcare or take care of the everyday responsibilities. What I did have, though, was an incredibly supportive family, and somehow, together, we were going to get through this.

The days that followed were probably the most traumatic days I have ever lived through.

My sister and I drove to the hospital together. All we wanted was to be by Mum's side, to hold her and hug her.

When we walked into the room, there was an Orthodox priest praying over her. I remember having to hold my emotions in for just a little bit longer.

Was this really happening?

Seeing my mum so weak and fragile absolutely broke my heart. It was unbearable watching her like that. So poorly, so helpless and so incredibly weak. The woman who had always been there, who had always been Mum, suddenly looked so vulnerable.

As soon as the priest had left, I sat on the end of her hospital bed. I remember hugging her knees, which were wrapped in a blanket, and just wailing uncontrollably.

I can't remember exactly what I said, but I think I kept repeating the same words over and over again:

"Please don't leave us, Mum. I don't want you to go. I can't cope without you."

It's a pain that I think only those who have experienced it will truly understand. A pain that makes your entire body ache. You feel as though your heart is physically breaking.

My mum is meant to live forever!

She's my mum, for goodness' sake. How am I supposed to live in a world without my mum?

That's like asking me to live in a world without a sky.

But how could this be happening? Why couldn't the doctors do anything? There must be something? Surely there was something else they could try?

This isn't right, I kept thinking. Maybe we need a second opinion? But from whom? Where do we even turn now?

I started thinking about my own age. I am only 37. If I lived to an old age, I would potentially spend more years of my life without my mum than I had spent with her. How was that fair?

Then my thoughts turned to my children. I desperately didn't want them to experience the pain I was feeling. I wanted so badly to protect them from this excruciating heartache. As a mum myself, my instinct was to shield them from everything, but how on earth was I supposed to protect them from losing their grandma?

I thought about my sister and her little four-year-old girl, Shiloh. How was she going to understand any of this? How would Charlotte even begin to explain what was happening to her?

But perhaps what hurt the most was seeing the sadness in my mum's face and hearing her sob:

"I'm not ready to leave. I don't want to die. I still want to be here for you all, and I want to watch my grandchildren grow up."

Those words absolutely shattered me.

How could my mum possibly be dying when she wasn't ready to leave? Aren't people who die supposed to be at peace with it? Aren't they supposed to have reached a point of acceptance?

I know that's not necessarily how death works, but these were the thoughts I was battling with. I couldn't comprehend how someone who still had so much love to give, so much life they wanted to live and so many things they wanted to see could be facing the end of their life.

I also kept thinking about my mum's five siblings. All five of them are in good health, living their lives, enjoying their families and getting older, while my mum, the second youngest of them, was withering away with cancer.

And please don't misunderstand me. I wouldn't wish this on any of them. But why my mum? Why did it have to be her?

How was I supposed to comprehend the fact that my grandad is 97 years old and still healthy, while his daughter, my mum, is dying at just 61?

NO. This wasn't fair.

I became so aware of other women around me. Women who were my mum's age, or even older. I'd see them walking past and feel this overwhelming urge to stop them and say:

"You are so lucky to be the age you are. Do you realise that?"

Of course, I never actually said it. But that's where my head was. Seeing women enjoying their lives, growing older and simply getting on with their everyday routines became another painful reminder of what my mum was being denied.

Why her? Why us? Why now?

These were the thoughts that consumed me in the days following the prognosis. My mind was constantly searching for answers, looking for a way out of something that had no way out. 

And then I remember my brother saying something to me that really changed my perspective.

He said:

"Abbie, when death comes, you cannot escape it. Death is coming for Mum, and there's nothing she can do. Death will come for all of us. Some people have long lives and others don't, but you cannot fight death."

Those words really stayed with me.

I think, in that moment, something shifted inside me. I realised that I could spend every waking hour questioning why, searching for another answer or desperately trying to find a way to change what was happening, but none of it was going to change the reality we were facing. So i chose, relunctantly acceptance instead. 

I had reached a point where I felt the only way I could turn was to God.

So I made a decision. I decided to surrender everything to Him.

His will be done.

My mum's life was in His hands.

Everything had been stripped away from us. All the hope we had been holding onto seemed to have disappeared, and the reality of losing my mum was finally sinking in.

I decided I had to accept what was happening and trust God blindly with whatever was about to come.

After all, my mum, the very person at the centre of all this, was trusting God. Her faith had carried her throughout her life. Her hope had always been in Him, and she had never stopped trusting Him.

Watching her faith, even in the face of something so devastating, inspired me.

It was time I put my own faith into practice.

I didn't know what was coming. I didn't know how much time we had left with Mum, and I certainly didn't know how I was going to cope with what lay ahead.

But I knew I couldn't control what was happening.

All I could do was put my faith in God, hold onto my mum as tightly as I could and take each day as it came.