Pierce Cook-Anderson (for Fidelma Cook)

I WASN’T quite sure what to expect as I waited patiently in the queue for the Eurotunnel to France last Monday morning. The car windows were up, I’d switched the air conditioning off, and 10 new surgical masks were within easy reach along with a small bottle of hand sanitiser.

I’d made the snap decision to go the night before as my mother’s communication became erratic and it was clear that we didn’t know what was going on. As a young family we’d written off the idea of going abroad this year when the true impact of the coronavirus pandemic began to be felt.

It seemed like madness to us to take such risks with young children and responsibilities just for a holiday, however well needed. Nevertheless, after my mother’s recent diagnosis with advanced lung cancer and pneumonia, I wasn’t going to wait around, but I had to be careful and make sure I took precautions in order to protect her when I got there.

Mum was due to start her chemotherapy the same day and ten hours later my plan was to arrive at her hospital room and by sheer force of will and love, I would cure her.

It’s funny how the mind can play games with you when faced with an overwhelming and indomitable truth. Both of us, however, have always been ardent believers in the concept of hope even when it appears that all is lost.

There are too many stories, too much collective human experience of overcoming forces that are deemed uncontrollable or inevitably calamitous, just to simply accept that there isn’t a chance.

When I did finally arrive in Montauban 10 hours later and marched into her hospital room, after they kindly extended visiting hours for me, I did so with the confidence and optimism that, ‘It ain’t over till the fat lady sings.’

Actually, after 10 hours of flicking through the abysmal French radio stations, I was quite sure that I hadn’t heard anyone signing anything about anything at all.

You’ll know already, of course, but my mother has a vivid imagination as well as a deep reserve to process multiple pieces of information simultaneously. She sieves through the material and discards the irrelevant, flags the untrustworthy, makes sure to understand the motives and context of the original sources. Combine this with her wit, vast experience and personal opinion and when my mother has her full capacity and is not struggling with COPD, cancer or pneumonia, she is a phenomenally exciting person to spend time with – a firecracker.

‘Hi Mum, it’s me, I’m here – how are you feeling?’

What a stupid question.

She was lying in bed wearing a hospital gown with a large bunch of pillows propping her up. An oxygen mask was covering her nose and mouth and various translucent pipes, some with colourful liquids running through them, hung down from stands and connected to her arm and chest.

A wobbly floor stand fan was positioned at the end of her bed, clearly broken as it was facing the ground the way sunflowers end up at the end of the day. There was a large bruise and bandage on her right arm where a tourniquet had been used to try and take blood, but they’d struggled and instead cut into her soft, weak skin.

Mum turned her head very slowly and looked me up and down. I waited. God, she looked thin and pale, the usual sun-kissed blonde hair having long been overrun by her darker roots after over three months in hospital. Was it my face mask? Was she so sick that she did not recognise me? I clearly couldn’t take it off due to the risk of covid contamination.

It felt like minutes had passed before she mumbled weakly through her mask, ‘You could have at least worn a shirt and maybe some white shorts. It’s such a waste to see you dress badly like the French.’

At first, I was offended – I mean I’d driven over 11 hours in total from London, barely stopping for longer than to refill the fuel tank, go to the loo and buy a sandwich. I’d worried myself sick imagining and then refining every possible scenario that you can conceive sitting in a car by yourself for that long uninterrupted. I even felt mildly offended for the French. Some of them actually do dress quite well, Mum.

I looked down and realised I was wearing a perfectly acceptable pair of smart jeans, a Ralph Lauren t-shirt and some trainers. In that moment, I realised that my mother had done precisely what I was unable to do for myself – she made normal a perfectly abnormal situation. She’d also made me laugh.

I sat down beside her and we started to talk as we’ve always done. Like I said, we’re optimists in my family. You can expect mum to resume her usual column soon.