Harry Becher: My mother, the hero

We always spoke at least twice a day, but three years ago, one Friday evening as I was getting ready to go out, she called and, as gently as she could, said she had found a lump and had it checked out and it was cancer. For my mother, it was very simple: take it on and deal with the situation. She wasn't crying but I was flooded with pain, instantly. Total shock and pain from the realisation that someone so close to me was going to suffer.

A few weeks after diagnosis, she was out on her daily ride when Sandro got spooked and bucked. My mother fell, hurt her back and needed a scan. That's when the doctors realised the cancer had spread to her spine. Typically, she took comfort where she could: 'At least I won't have to have the operation to remove my lymph glands.' There followed 18 months of scans, chemo, more scans, more chemo. She lost her hair; she didn't like wigs so she opted for Indian silk headscarves. She was so beautiful, I think hair loss, a loss of femininity, was her greatest fear. I know she hated it.

As her son, I found the rollercoaster of emotions incredibly hard. Waiting at the end of a phone to hear good news or bad for almost two years took its toll. I am involved with a number of different businesses including Platinum Rye Entertainment, a company that brokers celebrity talent for ad campaigns and media appearances. I was taken up with work, but my mother's illness, and the thought of losing her, kept me awake, and tiredness and emotion, work and worry led to waves of panic attacks which made my heart and mind race. I felt I couldn't breathe. Anthony, who is in the property business, and I decided that exercise would ease the pain; the London Marathon was the answer. Running roads, lanes and the dreaded treadmill put me in a different mental state. It was a release, a focus and made my mother incredibly proud.

The training was tough but not as tough as Mum's next fight. The cancer was spreading. I found bottles of painkillers in her bedroom but she never, ever complained. Life continued with trips to our new home in the mountains of Andalucia, to the office, to riding and yoga. We all took strength from her strength.

The cancer spread to her liver. She spent more time in the Cromwell Hospital than she did on our farm in Hampshire. She couldn't eat and lost what little weight she had. Dad needed support as well: they'd been married since 1975 and had spent few nights apart.

It was November 2008 when I got the call from Dad. He was crying. 'Mum has two weeks to live.' I felt numb, lost and terrified. My hero, my rock and my business advisor was going to leave us forever. No more hugs, no more delicious roast chicken, no more worldly advice, no more Mum. My father, brother and I drank lots of red Burgundy, and we cried and we cried. The next day we went to the Cromwell. As we entered her room, I saw that she had been beaten by cancer and chemo. She saw my brother weep and, for the first time, started to cry herself. It was the saddest day of my life.

A private ambulance took her home to the things she truly loved – her animals, her family and the English countryside. We sat with her, read to her and I carried her downstairs to watch The X Factor. She wrote emails to everyone who had sent her flowers and letters, determined to the end. Although not religious, she asked for a blessing. A vicar arrived and we knelt and prayed and held her hand. She was in and out of consciousness, and found it hard to talk but she whispered 'thank you' to the vicar. My brother and I headed off to do some shopping; before we left we gave Mum a kiss. It was to be our last.

She lay in bed, tucked up in a lovely cashmere blanket with her favourite cosy hat on. Her sister Grania and my father were with her. On 28 November 2008, she died, aged 58, in the room she loved so much for its views across the fields where she could see her horse and the donkeys.

Her suffering had ended and, through grief, it was now time to plan for a celebration of her amazing life: 400 people crammed into the church in the village, with 'Hey Jude' sung by my friend Jackson Scott, lead singer of the band Mano de Dios, and her favourite song, 'Maggie May', performed by another old family friend, the singer Ben Montague.