Five years ago, my world was reshaped forever, and though time moves on, the ache of missing my beautiful mum never truly fades. I created this print, “Chrysalis,” in her honour as a visual piece of my heart — capturing her fierce battle, the pain we endured, the strength she showed, and the ultimate transformation of a soul breaking free from suffering.
My mum had always been my rock, my greatest supporter, and my safe place, but when illness struck, our roles swapped and it was my turn to be her strength, to hold her hand, and to stand by her side through every terrifying moment. Her nightmare began with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, stage 4, and what continues to anger me to this day is that it should never have progressed that far, as doctors missed several crucial warning signs along the way. For over six grueling months, I stayed right beside her through chemotherapy, and through it all, she proved she was the strongest person I have ever known.
Against all odds, my mum went into remission and proudly rang that bell — a moment of unmatched joy where her health slowly returned, she gained weight, and her hair grew back into a beautiful, soft, curly grey that she fully embraced and loved. She had a vibrant new lease on life, looking forward to watching her grandchildren grow, celebrating my dad’s upcoming retirement, and taking more sun-filled trips to Alicante.
In the artwork, “Chrysalis” captures that fragile space between vulnerability and endurance — the IV stand and hospital gown represent the heavy weight of medical battle, while the butterflies rising around her symbolise that delicate, beautiful hope for flight after the storm.
Tragically, just a year later — despite being on careful three-month monitoring appointments — she fell ill again with a secondary, far more aggressive cancer called cholangiocarcinoma. She was admitted to another hospital for stents, ending up in the ICU, but even then her fighting spirit shone through as she beat that crisis and began chemo once again. Soon after, her body began rejecting the stents and she was readmitted for another procedure scheduled for a Monday.
On Saturday evening, I visited her for what would be the last time, massaging her feet like she always loved me doing, while she was filled with gentle warmth, telling us repeatedly how much she loved us. She then mentioned something strange: that her father, my grandad, kept coming into the room to visit her. At the time, I thought it was just the heavy pain relief talking, and when it was time to leave, I couldn’t bear to just walk away, so I went outside, tapped on the window of her hospital room, and blew her a kiss, which she saw and blew right back to me.
The next morning, Sunday, my dad called to say we needed to hurry to the hospital because Mum was fading fast, and as we drove in desperate haste, my dad’s phone rang again and I knew immediately from his screaming that she was gone. The thought of her being alone in those final minutes breaks my heart, but the one belief I hold tight to — the only thing that gets me through — is what she told me that Saturday, truly believing my grandad came into that room, took her hand, and brought her to heaven so she would never be alone.
Life is impossibly hard without my best friend, and it fills me with deep anger that her second chance at life was stolen from her, leaving my dad to navigate his hard-earned retirement alone when you spend a lifetime searching for a soul mate and mine was my mum. My heart will always carry a broken piece, but every day, I take a step forward and fulfil the one final promise she ever asked of me: to look after my dad for her.
Rest in peace, Mum. You will always be my strength.
