Before I Say Goodbye by Ruth Picardie

Introduction

'Still, it ain't over till the fat lady's thin. Or until her liver packs in. Or something. Watch this wig.'

'What hurts most is losing the future. I won't be there to clap when my beloved babies learn to write their names…or kiss their innocent knees when they fall off their bikes.'

Happily married with one-year-old twins, Ruth Picardie was only thirty-two when she was diagnosed as having breast cancer. With almost unbearable intensity, she described the progress of her illness in a series of articles in the Observer. When Ruth died in September 1997, she was mourned by thousands who had never even met her. Before I Say Goodbye brings together these articles, e-mail correspondence with friends, selected letters from readers and accounts of her last days by Ruth's sister, Justine, and her husband Matt.

Extract

'Since I was diagnosed with cancer last October, I have never a) slept so badly b) spent so much time at the hairdresser, and c) been so popular. I mean, my address book was fairly full before, but over the past nine months I have been keeping several local florists in business. People I haven't seen for years want to take me out for lunch. The phone never stops ringing.

Obviously, this is very flattering, though Matt complained in November that the kitchen table was looking too funereal. I reckon this is an irrational boy thing, since my friends are too tasteful for carnations. Lunch is my favourite meal of the day (apart from breakfast and tea) so that's been great, if fattening. And it's always good to talk.

But it wasn't always this way. Only last year, a close friend failed to turn up for my birthday dinner. (I got into a mild strop until my dish of ice-cream arrived). There were also suspicious no-shows for the children's first birthday party; I vowed never to speak to the missing guests again. Dinner invitations were rare, but there were FRIENDS and ER and lots of, er, quality time at home with Matt in between.

Then, in October, I got sick. And in between all the mammograms, bone scans, blood tests and chest X-rays, there was a sudden rush of invitations to book launches, weekends away, plays. My new popularity wasn't just a one-month wonder. Only last week I had two lunches (one fashionable), tea (cancelled) one semi-fashionable dinner, and dinner at home in Elephant and Castle (unfashionable) cooked by a friend.

Even total strangers are being amazingly chummy. On a recent cab ride into the West End (how else does a terminally ill girl arrive for lunch?), the driver started oozing - well, I would say flirting if a slug knew how to flirt - as soon as I sat down. Lived on my own, did I? Lady of leisure, was I? When I eventually went for the subtle approach and said, actually, I was married with two kids, had terminal cancer and, by the way, the hormones and steroids weren't great for the libido (just kidding) my chauffeur got even more excited and started panting 'Cor! I'd go mad if I were you. No need to worry about Aids or condoms any more!'

Why all this interest in sick people? My experience is wanting to stay as far away from them as possible. For my first dose of chemotherapy, I was put on the medical ward next to an exhausted, elderly lady attached to a tank of oxygen, whose NHS turban kept slipping off her shameful, shiny head. When I was having radiotherapy (every day for six weeks), I kept having appointments at the same time as another elderly lady whose only means of communication appeared to be a very wet cough, facilitated through a tube in her throat. On really bad days, a listless young man would also be in the basement waiting area, wheeled to and from the ward by orderlies wearing rubber aprons and gloves, which I interpreted as cancer plus some God-awful infectious disease. Unfortunately, all this suffering didn't make me feel better about my state of health, or fill me with sympathy for others, but made me feel sick, unheroic and afraid. Mummy, please take it away. (I expect my children will say the same thing, when I am wheezing away in the hospice.)

I can't believe my popularity is simply due to the fact that I'm not yet looking as scary as my fellow patients (though you should see me without pubic hair). Nor can it be my former niceness, which never used to cut it when turning up for birthday dinners. And it certainly isn't the company I presently offer, since terminal illness is like PMT to the power of 10.

A few people, I think, reckon that cripples can help them get to heaven, including my born-again former school teacher who this week sent me a book of 'true life stories of Christians who have all experienced tragedy of one sort or another…all of them have found hope in their suffering through knowing the God who suffered first'. In an accompanying letter, she urged me to allow the peace of God into my heart at this difficult time. To her, I say, sorry, Miss, but I was the one who carved '666' on the desks, I'm still half-Jewish (sadly, the wrong half) and no death-bed conversion looms, despite the scary Virgin grim reaper ad.

Worse than the God botherers, though, are the road accident rubber-neckers, who seem to find terminal illness exciting, the secular Samaritans looking for glory. Hey, I met you once three years ago but can we do lunch so I can feel really good about myself when I read your obituary? Yeah, I know we lost touch four years ago, but can I be your best friend again so everyone will feel sorry for me at the funeral?

Enough, already. (Remember what I said about PMT to the power of 10.) I guess most of my friends simply feel desperately sorry for Matt, me and the children and want to help in some small way. And for that I'll always be grateful. Your flowers, letters and cards have made me cry. And the chocolates have sustained me more than I can say.

Readers comments

Everyone should read this book. Achingly funny, poignant and utterly heartbreaking. Ruth's story should be read by everybody who thinks their lives are stale. Do not read in public - even the most hardened cynic can not help but be moved beyond words particularly as Ruth describes the mundane aspects of dealing with a death sentence when you have a husband, friends, a career, two young children and the hoovering to do. This is not an in depth analysis, and not a sentimental journey, despite the mawkish title. It will stay with you forever - I wept like never before. Read it.

Reader from Norfolk, England, October 2000

A book that was hard to read, but I'm glad I did.

Ruth had a wonderful way of expressing her feelings with humour and warmth. I managed not to cry until I read her letters to her children. Being a mother myself, I understood exactly what she was trying to say to them and it made me realise how lucky I am to be able to see my son growing up…

A reader from Buckinghamshire, August 2000

For anyone who has ever felt hurt or loss of any kind. It doesn't matter how or where in your life you were touched by hurt/loss/grief this book is a must. With great difficulty, I read the first part of the book biting my lip to stop the tears, and then got to one sentence and away I went. Ruth's courage and bravery was astounding and this book will never rail to touch anyone with the sense to read it.

A reader from Edinburgh, Scotland, January 2000