My mum, Margaret, died three weeks ago today.
Seven years ago she was diagnosed with a chronic form of leukaemia which was managed for six years with intermittent chemotherapy.
Last October, the disease turned acute and we were given a very poor diagnosis: six to 12 months to live.
I was with my mum and dad when the verdict was delivered. We looked at each other in disbelief. Here was a woman so full of life, so totally in control of her destiny, how could anything change?
There were golf and bridge games to be played, Probus club meetings to attend, lunch and coffee gatherings to be enjoyed, precious family to embrace.
But it did change and very rapidly.
A harsh regime of chemotherapy reduced her ability to fight infections and she was soon in hospital with high temperatures which sapped her energy.
With incredible determination, she battled on to beat the odds.
And we - her family and loyal friends - cheered her on every step of the way.
My now husband and I were so alarmed by her deterioration late last year that we accelerated our wedding plans, determined that she would be a witness to a union she long desired.
Unseen, one day I observed her bowed over her dressing table, muttering the words: "I must keep going, I must keep going."
It was then I began to appreciate the amazing strength and determination that defined my mother. I was to see many examples in the subsequent months.
She did rally and resumed some of her normal activities, refusing to give in to the tiredness and discomfort.
Her family remained the centre of her universe - urging us on, dispensing advice, passing judgment. Her love for us was as fierce and unconditional as ever.
I thought she could go on like this forever. But she couldn't.
Two weeks before she died, the doctors told her the leukaemia was out of control and there was little they could do for her.
My dad, my sisters and I drew even closer to her.
We tended to her every need as she fought to retain her dignity.
Despite her debilitated state she declared her friends would now have to come to visit her to play bridge.
Finally, on July 6, she succumbed to the disease.
We then had to turn our minds to organising a suitable memorial, but the only instructions she had left us was that she was to be cremated and she wanted Vera Lynn's Wish Me Luck As You Wave Me Goodbye played at the funeral. We had to make up the rest.
I then realised my mum was not the slightest bit interested in death; she was only interested in living.
She had rarely spoken of the impending calamity except to comment: "Neither the Archbishop of Canterbury nor the Pope know what lies ahead of me. Perhaps it will be a great adventure."
She knew the inevitable outcome of this insidious disease but refused to speculate about her fate.
She was stoic and brave, her mind sharp and alert, her love of family overwhelming.
My mum wouldn't want me to be sentimental about her death.
She would say: move on, live, love and laugh. Enjoy life while you can.
This is the message I take from her - a woman of strength and courage with an undying love of family and a passion for life.
She will always be my inspiration.
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