With Heavy Hearts, We Announce the Passing of a Legend
The moment my daughter died, I was holding her hand.
I felt her slip away. I felt something in me shatter.
For five and a half years I watched bowel cancer steal pieces of her life, her body, her future.
She was only 40. Her children were only teenagers.
I remember the weight of Deborah’s hand in mine, growing lighter as her breathing slowed, each exhale a goodbye to the life she had fought so fiercely to keep.
In that small, quiet room, the machines hummed, but her battle was finally over.
I whispered that it was all right to let go, even though every part of me wanted to scream for her to stay.
Now, I watch Hugo and Eloise navigate a world that no longer has their mother in it, and I see Deborah in every brave smile they force, every tear they try to hide.
I tell them their mum did not lose; she endured. She turned pain into purpose, fear into fierce love.
I brought her into this world and held her as she left it, and in that circle of life and loss, I found a different kind of strength: to keep her story alive.
