Tracy’s daughter Katy had a headache in school. Then Tracy received the call no mum ever expects...
As I laid my gorgeous daughter Katy into her cot, her little hand grasped my finger.
‘Time for bed,’ I cooed to her as her big brown eyes closed.
Katy was a calm and happy baby — she had a beautiful giggle and was always smiling.
Then at six months, I noticed that sometimes when Katy let
out a laugh, she’d lose her breath. And soon after, she developed a cough.
‘It’s asthma,’ said our GP.
With a family history of asthma, I wasn’t surprised.
‘We’ll get her an inhaler and she should be fine,’ the doctor reassured me.
Over the next few years, Katy became a sister to five younger siblings.
She was a great help, running about in the garden with them and helping me pack the little ones off to bed each night.
But when she was in primary school, she started having asthma attacks where she’d end up in hospital.
The attacks became so regular that the nurses knew her by name and we were given open access to the children’s ward, allowing us to skip past A&E.
‘Hi, Katy, don’t worry, we’ll get you sorted,’ they’d say as she was wheeled through from ambulances.
Over time, Katy’s asthma meant she had to give up the things she loved.
At her gymnastics club, she’d sprint and jump.
But as the other girls got ready to go again, Katy plodded over, her hand on her chest.
'Can I have my inhaler, please, Mum?’ she asked sounding breathless.
It was heartbreaking, and when it kept happening, she decided to give up gymnastics.
A few months later, another favourite hobby — horse riding — was also given up as the horses began to trigger Katy’s asthma too.
Despite doing everything we could to prevent them, Katy’s asthma attacks only seemed to get worse.
We had to go to hospital more and more.
‘Are you OK, sweetie?’ I asked Katy after we’d returned home after a particularly bad episode.
We’d been in hospital for three nights and she was sitting under a blanket on the sofa.
'Can I have my inhaler please, Mum?'
‘I’m good, just a bit tired,’ she said, smiling up at me.
She was so resilient. She never let her asthma get her down, even though it had taken so much away from her.
Katy would happily tell her friends all about her condition — the medication and inhalers she used. She just accepted that being asthmatic was part of her.
Being open about her asthma also made both me and her feel safer, knowing that the people around her would know what to do if an attack came on.
When she started secondary school, we ensured the staff knew what they were doing when it came to Katy’s asthma.
Then one morning, Katy rang me from school.
‘I’ve got a headache, Mum, can I go home?’ she asked.
‘Of course, make sure you drink some water,’ I told her.
Having just hit puberty, headaches were common, so I had no reason to worry about Katy looking after herself at home.
‘I’ll be home later, love you,’ I said before I hung up.
After finishing at the clothes shop I worked in,
I was about to set off on the school run, when my mobile rang.
It was my neighbour.
‘Tracy, I think you better come home. There’s an ambulance here for Katy. She’s having an asthma attack,’ she said.
I raced home and turning into our road, I saw a sea of ambulances. Two were right outside the house, one over the road and another a few houses down. Plus, a rapid response paramedic car.
And as we got closer, I could see paramedics spilling out of my front door.
‘Oh my God, Katy!’ I said as I rushed towards her.
There she was, on the doorstep — her eyes closed, her hair fanned out around her. They’d pulled her top down to get to her chest.
Katy had called a neighbour when she sensed an asthma attack was coming, but had been struggling too much to get to the front door to let them in.
Another neighbour had used their spare key and found Katy in the hall, collapsed.
I watched as gloved hands pushed on my little girl’s unmoving chest, attempting CPR.
‘She’s not breathing and we don’t have a pulse, we need to get to the hospital,’ one of the paramedics told me.
With so many paramedics, I was forced to travel in a separate ambulance to Katy on the way to the hospital.
When we arrived at the hospital, they had managed to restart Katy’s heart. But only a few minutes later, it had stopped again.
I watched in horror as a flurry of doctors and nurses surrounded my little girl.
Please help her, I thought.
But two hours after the initial attack, the doctor decided it was time to stop.
‘I’m so sorry, Tracy, there’s nothing else we can do,’ they said.
I fell to my knees sobbing — my little girl, the one who made me a mummy.
She was just 12.
The next few days passed in a blur. My house was overtaken by police because Katy’s death had been so sudden.
We stayed with a neighbour, but I was allowed in to grab a spare change of clothes for the kids.
As I walked through the front door, I stopped at the spot Katy had collapsed and tried not to break down.
I had to be strong for my kids but I just couldn’t comprehend that she’d never be with us again.
A few months later, after the funeral where we wore pink in Katy’s memory, her primary school got in touch. They wanted to do some fundraising and help raise awareness of asthma.
We created posters and provided training for local schools on how to spot and prevent an asthma attack.
I was touched
by how kind everyone was to me and my family.
But we struggled — waiting lists for counselling were
long and the grief was overwhelming. Each day, I’d drop the kids at school and struggle to return to the house where Katy had died.
At a community grief group — Handmade with Love & Making Memories — I confided in others who had lost loved ones.
‘I just keep being offered medication by the GP,’ I told them.
I found I wasn’t the only one — there just wasn’t enough support.
On 28 February, what would have been Katy’s 14th birthday,
I held a fundraising event at our local pub for Asthma + Lung UK.
Then months later, I did the
Kilt Walk. It felt good to do something productive, and I hoped the funds raised would help others.
Losing Katy is the hardest thing that’s ever happened to our family and I hate to think of anyone else going through the same thing.
That’s why I’ve started my own grief group — Gone But Not Forgotten — to help people access help.
Grief is something no one should go through alone, and I know Katy would be proud of me helping others. She was always so kind.
Tracy Bulpitt, 42, Cumbernauld, Glasgow
● For more information on
Gone But Not Forgotten, email support@handmadewithlove.net
● Tracy is donating her fee for this feature to Gone But Not Forgotten.