One Year Later

During my relatively short lifetime I have moved houses a grand total of 13 times, lived in four different counties and changed schools six times. As a result I have never become sentimental about a building or postcode. To this day I still can't understand why people sob when their parents finally decide to sell the house they were born in, weeping out the words, 'oh, the memories'. What they seem to forget are memories are mobile. You can move them about. That's the fabulous thing about memories you snotty idiot! I soon learnt that it's the people, not the places, that makes the memory worth remembering. So, as I sit in Costa's in Paddington train station I almost despise myself for the tears welling up in my eyes because this coffee shop is the most emotionally charged place on the planet to me.

I've only sat here twice before but this boring chained coffee outlet will be ingrained in my mind forever. The last time I sat here, fortunately, makes me chuckle as it comes the morning after my 22nd birthday party. I had had one of the best birthday's ever. It wasn't particularly exciting or spectacular but I was surrounded by friends, old and new, was drunker than a skunk dancing to the cheesiest songs Club de Fromage had on their playlist.

As 3am rolled round we all gathered outside singing, dancing and trying to flag down a cab. I looked at Emma, one of my most favourite people, and the friend on whose sofa I would be passing out on. She was not singing and dancing - which was odd, since she was normally the leader of the rowdy pack. 'I can't find my keys,' she mumbled so quietly I could barely hear her. Still inebriated to the eyeballs I laughed it off. 'Give me your keys you silly sausage,' I slurred, rummaging through her bag. No keys. Shit.

But my former flatmate Adam, and another favourite of mine, was at had to save the day. 'Let's go to the hotel round the corner and find an empty room - they're bound to leave one of the doors open!' I could see no fault to this argument. Everyone else could. 'We'll see you in the lobby.' So me and Adam strolled confidently through reception and towards the lift. We agreed to try our hardest to appear sober, which consisted of holding our breath and smiling inanely. As the lift doors shut behind us we burst into some good old fashioned belly laughter. But what now? 'We'll just push doors until we find one that's open,' he persisted. But, what if we get caught? 'Then we get arrested - at least we'd have a bed for the night!' Once more - there was no doubting this logic.

It didn't take long before we found an open door. Adam pushed it slowly. We looked at each other - bingo. A free room at the Hilton, Islington. Adam stepped inside. A large, bald-headed gentleman rubbed his eyes in disbelief at the two drunkards in front of him. The room was far from empty. 'Erm... room service!' Adam declared before we ran straight back into the lift and back to the relative safety of our friends.

Emma's flatmate Ashley (another favourite - are you sensing a theme?) wouldn't be back until the next day. My friend Nav suggested we all go back to his to sleep, but I had another idea. 'I'll just get the first train home. It's 4:30 now, the first train back to Wiltshire will probably be... what, like, 5?!' I'll just make my way to Paddington.' Happy with this answer, my friends kissed me goodbye and bundled in a cab. I headed back inside. 'Could you check my train times,' I asked the woman behind the desk. 'Train to Trowbridge - 8:45 am, Miss.' Fuck. 'Would you mind if I sit in the lobby for four hours,' I asked jokingly, not joking at all. 'Erm... ok?' So I did.

Four long, hungover sleep-deprived hours later I had been asked to leave twice, convinced security that I wasn't a wino, was mistaken for a prostitute, convinced security I wasn't a prostitute and had fallen asleep for a grand total of six minutes. At 6:30am I'd decided I'd outstayed my welcome by several hours and got a cab to Paddington. Sitting in Costa's with a double espresso doing sod-all for my hangover I laughed to myself, grateful to God or whoever/whatever is in control of my destiny that it wasn't like my first experience at this Costa.

It was Valentine's Day 2008. It was my first single Valentine's day for four years and I was quite happy to do bugger all. Because regardless of whether I was in a relationship or not that's what I usually ended up doing. I've never liked Valentine's. If you're with someone you feel this enormous pressure to out-romance your friends and be over sentimental to the person you've already said I love you to 365 days over the past year. And if you're on your own - well, you just feel shit. But in 2008 Emma and Ashley were having none of it.

'We're young, free and single and we're going out to get very drunk.' We did this nearly every other night anyway, so I couldn't see what harm one more day could do. The three of us, friends from uni, had been through the best and worst of times and decided we could just about tolerate each other to live together. So before the inevitable drinking we went to look at a flat in Canary Wharf. It was stunning and well within our price range. But there was just one problem, if you can even call her that. The woman who showed us around was, well, a hooker. We have no actual proof of this but the flat reeked of dirty shameful sex and as we left a nervous suited gentleman came to the door, his eyes bulging at the sight of four young girls standing in the doorway.

Nevertheless, we were undeterred! We loved the flat and made our way to the pub to celebrate our new smelly flat. 'Don't tell Bette about the prossie,' Ash told me. 'She won't let you live there if she knows.' She was probably right. My mum, Bette Day was one of the most liberal open-minded people you could ever wish to meet, but she probably wouldn't have been pro-prostitute house. Ash was right though, I would probably tell my mum because she is my soul mate - the person I could tell anything to. Yes, yes - this makes me sound like a massive loser but it's true. She's kind, caring, funny and unjudgemental - the best Mum in the world. I really do count myself lucky that I'm so close to my family - now, more than ever.

Anyway, back to that later.

Cut to the pub, and several bottles of wine later. We were joined by Emma's friend from work - Joey. He'd left his warm Hackney home because his flatmate was having a romantic meal with his girlfriend and was happy to be a part of our impromptu singles club. We liked Joey instantly and in him I found another soul mate - a fellow music snob. We drunkenly discussed the brilliance of Paul Weller and judged those with less worthy tastes. It was a great night - one of those evenings where time escapes you. I looked at my phone: 12:02 - I'd missed the last tube. 'Mind if I stay at yours?' I asked the girls. The usual response came: 'you're always welcome Jenni Day!'

The drinking continued. And as it did I could see in the corner of my eye lustful looks being exchanged between Joey and Emma. It didn't take long before looks became Valentine kisses. Me and Ash exchanged a glance taking a moment's silence for our fallen comrades - there were only to be two members of the singles club that night. I felt my phone buzz in my pocket - no doubt another drunken singleton calling me to share their woes of love. But it wasn't - it was my mum. 'Why's she calling me now?!' I asked no-one in particular. My heart stopped. Why was she calling me?

'Ello Mama!' I bellowed, as I elbowed my way out of the bar and onto the quiet street outside. But it wasn't my mum. 'Jen, it's Dad.' My heart beat came back, a thousand times it's usual pace. I asked a question that I already knew the answer to; 'Everything ok?' No - it wasn't. My mum had fallen down the stairs, landed on her head and was lying in intensive care in Bristol. I didn't know what to say. At least I can't remember what I said. All I remember was hanging up with the words: I'll work out how to get back. I love you Dad.' Never had I meant it more.

For a second the buzzing electricity of Leicester Square seemed silent and still. Then my brain seem to realise the seriousness of the situation. My brain knew this was the worst moment of my life - but it couldn't relay the message to my tear ducts. Instead it forced my throat to retch and heave until tears strained their way down my face. Then there was no stopping them. My legs were the only part of my body that knew what they were doing. They walked themselves back into the bar, my arms grabbed my coat and my voice mumbled; 'I'm going'. My brain had switched off - it was on automatic. Ashley followed me outside. 'What's happened?'

My arms let go of my belongings and threw themselves around my friend. I sobbed so hard my lungs ached and black mascara-filled tears fell relentlessly onto Ashley's white shirt. I told her everything. Ashley, too, went into automatic. She wiped my tears, pushed the hair from my eyes and told me what we were going to do. We were going back to her's, finding the first train to Bristol and putting me on it. She ran to grab Emma and hail a taxi. But I couldn't wait - I had to get home that second. My shaking fingers scrolled through my phone book: who has a car?

I called friends I hadn't spoken to for months, ex-boyfriends and colleagues - anyone who owned four wheels. I knew one man who would always be there for me - Nav. I dialled and re-dialled but his phone went straight to answerphone. I prayed and yelled out loud for him to wake up and turn his phone on because I knew if he could only hear my calls he'd do anything to help. Nav had always been there for me, without agenda, but tonight my fate lied in the hands of First Great Western trains. 5:30am - the first train home.

Once more - I couldn't wait. I left Ashley's and Emma's flat on the first night bus I could get on and headed to Paddington. At 3:30am I was ordering a chamomile tea from Costa coffee. Mum always gave me chamomile tea when I was upset. No matter what I did, my mind just conjured images of my mum lying in a hospital bed. I'd never seen her with anything worse than a cold before so even imagining it was impossible. But thank God for Costa's! I would have gone stir crazy with the sound of my thoughts otherwise. For two hours I tried not catch anyone's eyes - worried they thought my tears were flowing because I'd been jilted by some arsehole.

Two stops from Bristol station and I shivered with adrenaline and the lack of a coat. I felt like a twat. Sat with sparkling eyeshadow and a short black dressed because I wanted to look nice for an evening out with the girls. I was worried what Dad would say about the length of my skirt - but what the fuck was I thinking? Like he'd even notice today. Nav called me: 'Jen I'm so sorry... I switched my phone off... What can I do?' I smiled. My friends were amazing and I'd been too pre-occupied to thank them.

Dad met me outside the hospital. His face was sleep-deprived, long and drained. I buried my face into his chest, biting my bottom lip to stop me from crying again. He smelt like he'd smoked a hundred cigarettes - it wasn't far from the truth. 'Do you want to see Mum?'

Nervously I pushed back two heavy white swing doors which led into an empty ward. Empty that was, except for one bed. A motherly nurse held my hand and softly talked me through the wires, the drips, the woman lying in the bed curled up into a ball. Mum looked like she was asleep - but not at peace. Full of angst and dreaming about something terrible. 'You can talk to her, she can hear you.'

'Hi mum,' my voice broke and tears burnt my swollen eyes. I couldn't think of anything else to say. I felt stupid and embarrassed - I couldn't talk to a body. I wanted to talk to my Mum. She was hiding inside the broken and bruised figure I was staring at, but she definitely wasn't ready to hear me.

From then on in there was no noise - only pictures. The doctor shining a light in her eyes. No response. The nurse stroking her head. Nothing. Dad squeezing her hand. No squeeze back. Then all of a sudden - sound. A disgusting unearthly groan like Lurch from the Aadams family. It was mum. The swelling in her head affected everything - her speech, her mobility, her memory. The sound still rings in my head today. It wasn't human. It was just pain in it's loudest form. It made me feel sick and sorry for myself.

I joined my sister Katie in the family room. We stared at each other, our faces mirror images of each other - red, wet and exhausted. We hugged, but it did little to comfort either one of us. It just made everything seem much more real.

The days that followed were awful and beautiful at the same time. As mum, slowly and surely got better - every small step felt like a victory. Mum saying her first words. (I want a cup of tea.) Mum saying all four of the Beatles' names. Mum saying our names. Mum sitting up.... eating a meal... walking... coming home.

Me, Dad and Katie became Team Day - a stupid name we gave ourselves to make the situation seem cartoonish and distant. If one of us caved in to the awfulness, the other two would repeat Team Day until we eventually cracked a half-arsed smile. We cooked meals than went uneaten and did more pointless cleaning that we'd ever done before. We talked about the future and made promises that we'd all help out mum more, make her the most important thing in our lives. We said empty phrases like 'bad things happen to good people', 'at least we've got each other' and most poignantly 'we might look back and laugh at this in a year'.

Well one year to the day later and I can't laugh about it but I certainly can think about it without bile rising up in my throat (an improvement, no?) Life changed for me last Valentine's day. I quit my job, moved back home and left my friends. I became aware of how fragile life was and worried about everything and everyone. I prayed every night for two months as a thank you to God (even though I'm still not entirely sure He exists - I'll be really annoyed if I found out he doesn't). I hugged my mum tighter and longer than I'd ever done before.

Now, I'm not normally quite so heart-spilly and I do apologise whole heartily about this entry but I want to let these demons go. Not one day has gone by since when I haven't thought about it and I think enough's enough. I am the luckiest person I know to have come close to losing one of the most important people in their lives and actually got them back, not even slightly worse for wear. So many people go through worse than me, so I'm basically telling myself to let. it. go.

But before I do - here's to my wonderful friends. Especially Emma and Ashley who got me through the worst night of my life. This is a dedication, I guess, to Mum, my family and my friends - and how much I love you.

That's what Valentine's day means to me.