She was going through hell, but through her own pain, my mother gave others hope. By Sacha Mooney, 29
Dear Mum,
I was sitting on the sofa when suddenly you waltzed into the room and did a twirl.
‘Well, what do you think?’ you said, pointing to your hot pink head of hair.
‘Oh my God, I love it!’ I replied.
As a hairdresser, you were forever dying your hair. Blue, green, purple — there wasn’t a shade you hadn’t tried. But your favourite colour pink was what everyone knew you for.
Growing up, I always admired your confidence. You’d wear anything sparkly and wouldn’t care less what people thought.
You were a cool mum and I wasn’t the only person who thought that.
‘Wow, is that your mum?’ my friends would ask when you picked me up at the school gates.
‘Yeah,’ I’d reply proudly.
I wanted to be just like you.
But you didn’t even need the hair dye to light up a room. You were a beacon of positivity, and there was nothing you wouldn’t do for others.
When I was 12, we were walking out of the supermarket armed with our lunch when you spotted a homeless man selling The Big Issue.
Without thinking twice, you went and handed him everything we’d just bought.
‘Why did you do that?’ I asked afterwards.
‘Because he doesn’t have anything,’ you replied.
From a young age, you instilled such a deep sense of selflessness in me.
But when I was 15, our world started to crumble. You started getting tired all the time and felt so sick, you lost your appetite.
Doctors said you were jaundiced. But they couldn’t figure out why.
Then five weeks later, I was in bed when suddenly I heard Dad shout up to me, my sister, Misha, 19, and brother, Ross, 12.
'Wow, is that your mum?'
When we got downstairs, we saw you’d collapsed on the floor.
‘She’s going to be OK,’ Dad tried to reassure us.
But you were blue-lighted to hospital where you had all kinds of tests.
Finally, Dad sat us down and said: ‘Mum is in the last stages of acute liver disease.’
I broke down in tears. You’d never drunk and led such a healthy life. It just didn’t make sense.
Even the doctors couldn’t understand it and simply put it down to unexplained liver failure.
Your only hope was a liver transplant, and you were added to the waiting list.
In the meantime, you were allowed home. You were bedridden and every few weeks you’d be admitted again with extreme nausea and fatigue. But all you cared about was how we were coping.
‘I’m sorry I’m putting you through all this,’ you’d constantly tell us.
Always thinking of us first.
In time, things got so bad, doctors at Addenbrooke’s Hospital decided to place you in an induced coma, so your body could rest.
But you were such a fighter that to the doctor’s disbelief, you somehow managed to wake yourself up.
However, you were barely conscious and too weak to talk.
On my 17th birthday, I was sitting on your bed reading you all my cards when the doctor pulled me and Dad aside with devastating news.
‘She’s got 24 hours until she’s inoperable,’ he said. ‘If we don’t get a liver before then, there’s nothing more we can do.’
My world felt like it was collapsing around me. I couldn’t imagine a life without you, and the following 24 hours were hell as we prayed for a miracle.
But it wasn’t your day to go, Mum.
Next day, Dad called me and said: ‘It’s happening — a viable liver has become available.’
You were taken straight to surgery to have your life-changing transplant.
Before you were even discharged from hospital, you already had big plans.
‘I want to raise money and give back to the people who saved my life,’ you said.
‘That’s incredible, Mum,’ I replied, completely in awe.
'It will happen, don't worry'
Two months after the transplant, you came home to Peterborough, Cambridgeshire.
As you’d been bed-bound so long, you had to learn to walk again.
You should’ve been resting, but you and your best friend, Sheridan, were already putting plans in place to fundraise for Addenbrooke's Charitable Trust, or ACT.
‘I want to make sure other people with the same condition receive the care I did,’ you insisted.
You always loved a party, so just six months after your transplant, you held your very first fundraising ball.
Over 200 people attended, wearing tuxes and ballgowns at the local football club. In total, you raised over £11,000.
It was such a success, you held an annual ball for the next nine years.
You were taking 25 tablets a day and every few weeks you’d be back in hospital. But still, you focused on helping others.
Then, 10 years after the transplant, a biopsy revealed your liver was failing. It meant you’d need another transplant.
But while we were overwhelmed by the uncertainty, just months later, you were nominated for a Pride of Britain award in the ‘Regional Fundraiser’ category.
‘Why me?’ you kept saying in disbelief.
I don’t think you ever realised just how amazing you were.
Through your fundraising work, you’d managed to raise £90,000 for ACT, funding the purchase of liver perfusion machines that helped 80 people undergo lifesaving transplants.
That’s 80 lives that you helped save and I couldn’t have been prouder of you.
But over the next two years, your health declined.
You put up a fight, but eventually your stomach got so swollen, you were admitted to hospital.
There, you caught a chest infection which developed into pneumonia and sepsis, and were put on a ventilator. Eventually, your kidneys stopped working too.
By now, getting an immediate liver transplant was your only hope.
‘I think it’s best people start saying their goodbyes,’ the doctor told us.
I was devastated.
Yet the very next day, you were like a different person, alert and chatting away like your normal self.
‘I’ve never known a patient to fight as hard as your mum,’ said the doctor.
But you still desperately needed that liver in time.
‘It will happen, don’t worry,’ you said, comforting me as I cried.
However, weeks passed, and you still weren’t getting any better.
Then one day, doctors pulled me, Misha, Ross and Dad aside and said: ‘There’s nothing more we can do for her.’
I broke down in hysterical tears.
Afterwards, you were placed in palliative care.
Misha and I never left your side for a second, sleeping on the bed next to you.
By now, you could barely say more than a few words.
But you turned to me at one point and said: ‘I’ll remember you always.’
It was the last thing you ever said to me.
Four days later, we were all with you, as you slipped away. You were just 58.
In the days that followed, I felt broken by grief.
Three weeks later, more than 200 people attended your funeral.
We all wore your favourite colour pink to celebrate your incredible life.
Nine months have now passed since we lost you, and not a day goes by when I don’t miss you.
I’m continuing your inspirational legacy by fundraising for ACT. So far I’ve raised nearly £8000.
We’re planning the 10th charity ball this year in your honour.
You taught us the true meaning of strength and resilience, Mum. And if I become half the woman you were, I’d be so proud.
You’ll always be my hero.
Love,
Sacha x