Some of these symptoms I described to a wonderful South African doctor at North Staffordshire Hospital, Mr Prinsloo, together with a catalogue of other totally unrelated symptoms. I went in to see him some months previously complaining of earache, which I thought was a symptom of a brain tumour. He quickly disabused me of that idea. ‘Earache is not a symptom of brain tumour,’ he told me. ‘I’ve no intention of telling you what is because you’ll start to develop those symptoms.’
There was also the time when I rang the cancer clinic at the Royal Marsden complaining of blood in my stools. It turned out to be an excess of beetroot juice, which I had been drinking as part of my healthy high-vegetable diet.
On another occasion Mr Prinsloo told me that he thought the melanoma on my knee was cancerous and he had decided to send a sample to the laboratory for testing. I told him I knew it was cancerous because I could feel the cancer coursing through my veins. ‘What you’re feeling coursing through your veins is adrenalin,’ he assured me. ‘You don’t feel cancer coursing through your veins.’
It’s very difficult to talk about symptoms at this stage because every ache and pain felt like cancer to me. It would not be an exaggeration to say that the past year had been like a waking nightmare.
Night-time was worst. I lay awake in a cold sweat clinging to Peter. The fear of dying made me feel desperate and almost demented. The way I have survived this phase is chiefly with the help of antidepressants.
But you can’t go on like that for ever and with the passage of time I needed to refocus. This was possible largely through the advice and help of Mr Prinsloo. He put it on the line: ‘None of us know when we are going to die. Think about what you are going to do with your living. You could walk out of this hospital today and be run over by a bus. Try not to let the fear of death overcome what it is you want to do with the rest of your life.’
Oscar Jameson knows what he misses most about his mummy. ‘I miss making her laugh,’ he says poignantly. ‘I always tried my jokes out on her and she always laughed.’
Even though he is only ten, Oscar knows what he wants to do when he grows up. ‘A stand-up comedian,’ he says without hesitation. This may come a surprise to people who know Oscar as he seems a shy young boy. ‘Around grown-ups I often don’t know what to say,’ he admits, ‘but with my friends I’m always talking and joking. It’s my favourite thing, making people laugh. Even some of the teachers have seen my stand-up comedy routine and they think it’s very funny.’
Oscar is happily settled in an excellent school in Belfast, to where the family moved three years before Siobhán’s illness returned. He is an able and well-liked pupil.
Warming to the theme of his future career, Oscar springs another surprise. ‘I model myself on Billy Connolly,’ he says. ‘I watch his videos and even steal some of his jokes, though I really prefer writing my own material.’
Oscar is proud that many people say he is like his mother. ‘We share lots of attitudes,’ he says, ‘especially about people. We never like anyone who thinks they are better than others – especially if it’s because they just have more money.’
In a memorial book at Siobhán’s funeral, Oscar wrote this tribute to his mother: ‘Mummy was nice because she always let everyone’s opion [sic] count. Oscar.’
‘There was one special way we were like each other,’ he says thoughtfully. A pause. ‘It’s an S word – its not “sympathetic” – it’s more like we understand people. Oh, I know, the word is “sensitive”. Mummy and I are sensitive.’
Apart from enjoying making her laugh, Oscar shared another great passion with his mother: football. The whole family would gather around the television to cheer their favourite teams, Manchester United – and Ireland.
‘We liked to watch and work out what the players were going to do,’ explains Oscar. ‘I think it’s an A word – something like “analyse”.’
Oscar is an enthusiastic player himself and the word is that he is very good. Asked if he would like to be a professional footballer, he answers with surprising maturity. ‘Sure, but so would most of the other boys – and some of the girls. You’ve got to be really, really good to be a professional. You need years of training and hard work – but that’s not to say I won’t try my best.’
People tend to fall in love with this tall, handsome, fair-haired boy – just like they did with his mother – but, like her, he is discriminating in his tastes. ‘Just because someone likes me doesn’t mean I like them,’ he says matter-of-factly. ‘I like to watch how people behave and then decide if I want them to be my friend… My mum was the same. We would never be friends with someone who was unkind to other people.’
A member of the school council, Oscar is passionately against bullying. ‘We did have a boy in my school who was bullying some of the younger kids,’ he says. ‘He was the same age as me, but I’m a lot taller than him. One day in the playground I went up and told him that what he was doing was wrong. He said he would stop. I hope he does because we have to protect the younger ones. My mum taught me that.’
Oscar is certainly his mother’s son. Any parent would be proud to have him as a son. ‘I can still hear her voice in my head,’ he says, ‘and I talk to her – I think she’s gone to heaven.’
Constance Gilfedder, to whom Siobhán restored the Irish form of her own surname, would like her mum remembered by the kind of story she used to tell ‘when I was little’. Like the story of mischievous Suki:
‘Suki is a spider with six legs who lives in our back yard. He is married to a thrush called Amarylla. They have eight children: four thrush-sized spiders and four spider-sized thrushes. Suki likes going to different places by hiding on the roof of the car. He went to the beach, to the park, to school and lots of other places. Once, he went to the zoo and accidentally got lost. He ended up in a lion’s cage, where the lion tried to eat him. But before he could, it got a thorn stuck in its paw, so Suki pulled it out and in return the lion didn’t eat him. Then a little girl accidentally dropped an ice cream on him and he froze solid. Eventually a stray dog found him and licked him until he thawed out enough to move. Then the dog said its name was Jack, and Suki climbed on his back. Jack took Suki back to the car park, where he climbed on the roof of the car just in time and went home.’
SIOBHÁN’S STORY: ME AND MY CHILDREN
Mostly these days I like to write for my children. Constance won’t forget even if the stories I’ve made up for them over the years are never published. The characters we have made up will continue to influence their lives.
We have these two characters, Rosamond Almond and Suki Spider, who are part of our family mythology and I’m sure Peter and Constance will keep them alive for Oscar. Every family has these stories and just because they are not published does not diminish their importance – a story is important even if it is only one person who hears it.
Constance and I have learned a lot about each other through sharing our imagination and making things up together and mythologising our lives. We make up stories about the dogs, the house, the garden, family holidays, all the ordinary everyday things of our lives together.
We’ve also talked about my illness and the possibility