All I can do is love them fiercely and remain the steady, enduring presence their mother entrusted me to be.
Deborah fought Stage 4 bowel cancer for five and a half years before passing at forty. It is still difficult to comprehend that someone so colossal in energy, so full of life, could simply cease to exist. From childhood, she was a hurricane of curiosity, ambition, and determination, a girl who lived with an intensity that left no moment untouched.
The diagnosis came in December 2016. At thirty-five, Deborah was a vibrant, active young mother of two, living a health-conscious life—meat-free, avoiding smoking, and full of energy. Yet, she had been losing weight, enduring bloody stools, and battling bone-deep fatigue. Initially dismissed as stress or IBS, the eventual confirmation of bowel cancer was devastating. At first, I clung to the hope that surgery and chemotherapy would fix her, that she would be fine soon. That hope was shattered weeks later, when tests revealed the cancer was already Stage 4 and had spread, a truth that stole my breath and forced me to confront my deepest fears.
But Deborah did not crumble. Her innate bravery and fierce determination—qualities I knew well—propelled her forward. She refused to succumb to despair and instead turned her focus outward. She wanted to fight not only for herself but for others, raising awareness about the insidious nature of cancer, its subtle symptoms, and the crucial importance of paying attention to one’s body. Her voice became a lifeline for thousands.
She launched her candid Sun column, created the now-famous Bowelbabe blog, and co-hosted the wildly popular podcast You, Me, and the Big C. She tirelessly collaborated with the NHS to lower the screening age for bowel cancer, discussing her illness openly and humorously, making a topic often shrouded in shame something people could confront with courage and honesty.
Her driving force, however, was always her children. She envisioned a world where Hugo and Eloise would be spared the same genetic or environmental fears she had faced. That vision became the cornerstone of her final, most ambitious project: the Bowelbabe Fund. In the weeks before her death, knowing her time was short, she poured every ounce of remaining energy into establishing it. The fund raised millions for cancer research, a testament to her extraordinary will and vision.
Yet Deborah’s greatest legacy is not just her work, the millions raised, or the lives saved. It is her philosophy of living fully, vividly, and courageously. She seized every day with joy and found wonder in the smallest moments. Just before she passed, she gave her children one last piece of advice: “You never know when life will end, so enjoy every moment.” I strive daily to remember this mantra, embracing the spontaneity she so loved—wearing sparkly dresses and earrings for no reason, savoring life’s ordinary and extraordinary moments alike. Through this, I feel her spirit close, guiding me, comforting me, and urging me to live fully in her memory.
When she was first diagnosed, doctors had predicted she would not live another year. Yet, she defied every expectation. Over the course of her treatment, she endured the removal of her bowel, countless rounds of chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and experimental drugs. She faced every obstacle with ferocity and an unyielding refusal to surrender.
Our last Mother’s Day together in March 2022 is etched in my heart. Despite her illness, she insisted on coming for lunch, determined to celebrate with me. I never imagined it would be our final one. By May, after doctors told her there was nothing more they could do, Deborah left The Royal Marsden Hospital, and I faced my greatest fear: losing my child. She moved in with us, and we were blessed with seven weeks together—a period of love, laughter, and bittersweet memories. She hosted movie nights, threw an impromptu engagement party for her brother, and even welcomed Prince William for tea after her Damehood announcement. Those days were surreal, heart-wrenching, and yet profoundly beautiful.
In those final weeks, we found comfort in the darkness. Deborah and I battled insomnia together, talking through fears that she might not wake up. I held her hand as she passed, and amid the sorrow, there was relief: her suffering was over, and her last moments were peaceful.
The first year after her death, I survived on adrenaline, caring for her husband Seb and the children, keeping busy to avoid confronting the magnitude of our loss. Eventually, grief caught up with me, manifesting in panic attacks and exhaustion. With time, therapy, and antidepressants, I began to heal, slowly, deliberately, honoring Deborah’s life by remembering her and cherishing her memory.
This year, as we celebrate family milestones—my daughter Sarah’s fortieth birthday, my son Ben’s wedding—we feel her absence acutely. But we also feel her presence: Deborah’s brave, sparkly spirit continues to shine through her children, her family, and the enduring work she dedicated her life to. Her legacy lives on, a constant reminder to seize every day, love fiercely, and face life with courage, humor, and heart.
