I always start the day with a black coffee. I don't actually like it, but everyone drinks black coffee right? It's a thing now.
I got this special cinnamon sugar stuff at Christmas in a Starbucks set so I always throw some of that in and it doesn't taste so bad. I'm making some at the breakfast bar when Mum walks in.
She looks worse than yesterday, and I didn't think that was possible. Her dressing gown is wrapped tightly round her, the cuffs stained with smudged mascara. Her skin is pale and sallow, apart from the grey circles around her eyes.
She's getting worse.
"Coffee, Mum?" I ask her. She nods and I start fiddling around with the kettle, just so I don't have to look at her, at what she's become.
My mum has lung cancer. She's never been a smoker, but my grandad was. Life's a bitch, isn't it?
I pour the water, stir in the coffee granules, slop in some milk and dollop two teaspoons of sugar in. Handing her the steaming mug, I say "I need to go Mum, if I get another late mark I'm gonna get a half hour after school detention."
"You don't want that, Pops."
Mum coughs between words, and I hate it. I know she can't help it, but it just reminds me how ill she is. I must have winced visibly, because she gives me an odd look.
"You ok?" she asks, sipping her coffee.
I nod quickly, pick up my school bag (it's this gorgeous red leather backpack from Zara and I wanted it for ages and when Dad came back from his business trip to Atlanta he took me to buy it because he felt bad for being away for so long and now it's my favourite thing ever), and grab my phone from the worktop. I lean over and give Mum the obligatory goodbye kiss on the cheek, grab my keys and head out the door as soon as I can.
The thing is, and I hate myself for it because I don't know how long she has left, but I can't bring myself to spend time with her. It's not a normal mother daughter relationship, we don't go shopping together or to the cinema. We don't do any baking together, we don't go to the gym together, and we can't even watch TV properly without Mum having to have a lie down. My friends don't get it either. They have perfectly healthy mothers, who happily do mumsy stuff with them.
Speaking of friends, Izzy is waiting for me at the end of the road, school skirt hitched up in that way that makes it wonky.
"Iz, your skirt is wonky as hell mate" I reach over and give her a hug. Izzy's my best friend.
"Shut up it's meant to be like this," she laughs it off, but rearranges herself when she thinks I'm not looking.
"Did you do the biology practice paper?" she asks me, as we trudge up the hill towards school. "Bare effort, I swear to God we didn't learn any of the content either."
I laugh and agree with her, but the truth is I didn't do it. I didn't have time, I had to get Mum across town for her chemo session yesterday afternoon. I never have time for school work. But Izzy is from the sort of family that would frown upon skipped homework so she always does everything. She's super clever as well, although she always pretends to be dumb. I don't get that – if I was as smart as Iz, I'd be the most unbearable nerd ever just for the fun of it.
It turns out that I was supposed to do the biology test, and I have a 10 minute after school detention for not doing it. Year 10 is so intense, I swear. It's not even GCSE year and they're already proper piling on the pressure.
So I'm making my way home alone because all my friends left earlier than me, and I start to get this feeling that something isn't right. You know when you have this feeling in your stomach? You just feel so uncomfortable. That's how I feel.
And as I walk up to the front door and turn the key, it gets worse.
I walk into the kitchen, and there's Mum, still in her dressing gown, lying on the sofa by the window.
Not moving.
"MUM!" I shout, in case she's asleep "I'm home!"
She doesn't even twitch, let alone wake up and respond. Now I'm freaked out. I walk over and touch her neck to feel her pulse.
There is none.
The panic rises in my chest and I want to scream. What the actual fuck? She can't be dead, she can't be dead, no, that's not happening, not now, not today! I'm not ready.
I pick up my phone and call 999 for an ambulance. The operator tries to be all calming and nice but I shout her down, spouting medical vocab down the phone until she gives up trying to subdue me. It's just minutes before the ambulance pulls up.
The paramedics lift Mum onto a stretcher and wheel her out of the house. Her dressing gown has come untied, the edge is trailing. I want more than anything to tuck her up again, but they won't me near her. I slam the front door and run into the back of the ambulance.
"Is she going to be ok?" I ask the paramedic.
She smiles at me kindly, while placing an oxygen mask over Mum's face. They found a pulse, but it's weak. Very weak.
"It's not far to Holby General from here, we'll do the best we can."
The ambulance ride takes 10 minutes, max, but feels like a lifetime. It's a tin box on wheels, and it's full of all this terrifying medical equipment, and in front of your very eyes, the person you love the most in the world is unconscious on a stretcher, wobbling slightly with every corner. I hate it.
When we reach the hospital, there are doctors waiting for us. It's not the hospital we normally go to for her treatment; there's a specialist cancer centre on the other side of town. This is a proper hospital with an A&E and so many buildings I could never imagine knowing my way around. The paramedics don't even bother dropping us at A&E, they take us straight to a proper department and the doctors waiting are specialist lung doctors.
I'm doing my best to hold onto Mum's hand so I don't lose her, when a doctor with long ginger hair pushes me out of the way, and starts running with the stretcher into the building.
"Move!" she shouts "Ok, BP is far too low, breathing shallow, I want an X-ray, ECG, Pulmonary Lung Function, bloods, everything!"
I reach out to grab Mum's hand again, because everything the pushy woman just said was terrifying. Icy hand round my heart terrifying. But she shoves me against another doctor.
"Zosia, take care of that would you?"
Without warning, my eyes fill with tears and I can't help myself. I'm sobbing. She's dying and I can't even be there. The doctor doesn't get it, no one gets it.
The hot tears running down my face start to become angry tears, and I'm psyching myself up to run after them when two cool hands appear on my arms. I spin around and come face to face with another doctor, with dark hair and a calm expression.
"I need to get in there!" I shout "I need to be with my mum!"
"I'm Doctor March," she says back "and I'm going to need you to come with me instead."
I'm so confused now that all I can do is stare as the stupid, stupid tears keep running down my cheeks. Doctor March puts her arm round my shoulder and steers me into the building, through the reception and into a lift.
"What's your name?" she asks, as the doors to the lift shut.
"Poppy Jax." I reply, rubbing the tears off my cheeks. I feel inside my blazer pockets and note with relief that my phone is there. I need to call dad, I need to tell him what's happening, he needs to be here. They might be divorced but that doesn't mean he doesn't care.
The doctor has been talking to me the whole time we've been in the lift, but I haven't heard any of it. The doors open onto a busy ward and she walks me into a room decorated with pictures of flowers.
"Do you want a drink?" she asks. A drink? Now? Is she mad?
I think my expression must have given my thoughts away because she nods, and says "I'm going to check up on your mum, and I'll come back and talk to you in a few minutes, ok?"
I nod and she closes the door. I sink down onto the surprisingly uncomfortable sofa and feel the tears spring back into my eyes. Get a grip Poppy.
I ring dad 7 times but have no luck, and so I leave several messages explaining the situation. He has a PA but I don't have her number and anyway he's probably still in Delhi. That's where he was last time I checked.
Doctor March doesn't come back. About 20 minutes in to the wait, the ginger woman who pushed me earlier comes in and shuts the door. She's carrying a bottle of water.
"I'm Miss Naylor, I'm a Cardiothoracic Consultant" she says "This is for you. Crying is thirsty work."
"How's my mum? What's happened?" I say. I'm so worried that I don't even bother with the water. Nice of her though, I guess.
She sits down next to me, looking serious. "I'm so sorry, Poppy. Her blood pressure dropped and we were unable to get it back up again."
"What does that mean?" my voice is trembling and my vision's gone all blurry. It can't be what I think she's saying. It can't.
She puts a hand on my shoulder. "We lost her on the operating table. I'm so sorry."
She's gone.
I can't stay here, in this stupid flower room with this frowny ginger woman. I can't stay here. My mum is dead.
I run.
I make it as far as the benches outside the hospital before I have to stop. There's something stopping me from seeing, and I can feel it running down my cheeks. My lungs are burning, my chest is tight, and my throat is raw. I hear someone screaming and realise it's me. I feel my legs tremble and give way, and I crash down to the floor.
My mum, my one and only mummy, the only person in this world who is always there for me, has gone. Forever. She's gone, she left me here alone.
As I'm on the floor I feel someone scoop me into their arms. I smell an unfamiliar perfume, and my chin rests on an unfamiliar shoulder as my tears stain their clothes. I cling on for dear life.
After a while, my body wrenching sobs subside and the someone lifts me with them, and sits me on the bench. I open my eyes and see Miss Naylor, the scary shouty pushy skinny ginger one from earlier. The last person I want to see. The person that told me my mother was dead, and the person who pushed me away from her so I never got to say goodbye.
"Get away from me!" I shout, pushing away, jumping from the bench, trying to run. "You didn't let me say goodbye! You pushed me away and she needed me, I hate you!"
She grabs onto my arm and I start screaming, kicking out. She still won't let go. What is this woman's problem? Leave me alone!
She grabs hold of both my shoulders and stares me square in the face.
"You couldn't have done anything, Poppy. I needed to get there to try and help her. Missing out on holding her hand before she died doesn't change the time you did spend together. She would never have known if you were there or not."
"Of course she'd have known, I'm her daughter, her only child, the only one who looks after her!" I hate her. How dare she tell me what my own mum would feel? How would she know?
"No, Poppy!" she shouts back, startling me "It wouldn't have made a difference. I'm telling you the truth."
I wriggle free of her grasp and sink back onto the bench.
Miss Naylor sits down next to me.
"I've looked after her for 2 years. Since she got diagnosed. 2 whole years. I was 12 when she was diagnosed and all I did since then is cook and clean and pay the bills and take her to chemo on the bus. I quit gymnastics. I quit piano. I quit drama club. She was my whole life."
I look over at Miss Naylor, properly. Her hair is a striking shade of deep ginger, and her cheekbones are insane. She doesn't even need to contour, and if anyone actually contoured like that, it would look ridiculously fake. That's how sharp they are. She's wearing glasses and navy blue scrubs and she's got quite cool Air Max 1's in the limited edition burnt metal colour. She looks back at me and I'm suddenly conscious of my makeup streaked face, scruffy school uniform, broken black Vans. I look like a mess.
I am a mess.
"What am I going to do?" I whisper.
Miss Naylor puts an arm round my shoulder. She doesn't look like the hugging type, actually. She looks pretty fierce. But still, I lean onto her, because who else do I have to lean on?
She speaks over the top of my head "I'm going to need you to come back up to the ward with me and wait in the relatives' room while we sort out some things. Then we'll see about finding you a place to stay. Is your dad about by any chance?"
I pull away from her sharply "I'm not going back into that room, I can't stand it."
"OK, that's fine. You'll have to wait in my office. Your dad?"
"My parents are – were – divorced, he's in Delhi on business and I can't get hold of him. Never see him anyway. He's always away."
"OK." She says, and stands up. "Ready?"
I stand to follow her, and look back at the bench. There's a red stain where I've been sitting, and no doubt a matching one on the back of my skirt. Miss Naylor clocks it too, and I'm mortified. For fucks sake, what kind of timing is that?
I slip off my blazer and tie it round my waist, before following her inside. When we're safely in the lift, I look at my feet so I don't have to look at her, and say "I don't have anything with me."
"It's ok." She says. "I do."
We move through the ward towards her office, and Doctor March from earlier comes up, puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder.
"Jack, we need a contact." She says to Miss Naylor. Jack is definitely a boy's name.
"Get hold of social for me please, Zosia." She says over my head.
I spin around in fury "Not social services! I am not going to some shitty little children's home, I'm fine by myself!"
I mean every word. I'm not going into care and that's final.
Jack or Miss Naylor or whoever the hell she is puts two hands on my shoulders and steers me into her office. There's a black woman sitting at one desk, who looks up and smiles at me. I smile back, in spite of myself.
Miss Naylor fumbles around her handbag for her keys, and then takes me to a locker room. She hands me a little washbag, a pair of pants, and some leggings.
"I know its gross wearing other people's underwear." She apologises "but I've only worn those once before so it's probably fine."
I've never worn someone else's underwear before. Didn't want to start now.
I pull a tampon out of the washbag and hand it back to her. "Isn't Jack a guy's name?"
She scowls at me, waves the washbag at me and retorts "Do I look like a guy to you?" with the kind of attitude that gets me grounded.
Would have gotten me grounded.
She shows me to the toilets and waits while I change. It's so weird wearing other people's clothes, but the leggings are really soft and really nice actually, like fancy leggings instead of just Topshop ones.
My old underwear and tights are totally ruined so I bin them in the toilets. I contemplate binning the skirt too, but Mum will kill me.
Would have killed me.
Oh god, I'm crying again.
She's leaning against the sinks as I come out of the cubical, skirt bunched in my fist. I wash my hands and splash water onto my face. As I'm drying my face on a paper towel, she says "It's spelt J-A-C."