Her fight was never abstract; it had a face, a purpose, a heartbeat. She fought for Hugo and Eloise, who were just sixteen and fourteen when they lost her—the very ages when children still need their mother most. She fought for her husband, who stood beside her through every appointment and long night. She fought for friends. She fought for strangers who reached out to her online in fear and confusion. And though she rarely acknowledged it, she also fought for herself, for the life she still loved, for the goals she still held, for the memories she was determined to create. She waged this battle even as stage 4 bowel cancer stripped away comfort, energy, and normalcy. Her humor became a weapon, her honesty a shield. She shared her experience with raw transparency, never hiding the messy or humiliating parts. In doing so, she made countless people feel less alone. She sparked conversations families had avoided. She made people book GP appointments they had been postponing. She saved lives. In transforming her private struggle into a public mission, she became a guiding light for others moving through darkness. And amid all that advocacy, she remained herself—Deborah the mother, Deborah the friend, Deborah the woman who wore bright dresses even when she could barely stand. She laughed loudly at family meals, she held her children close, she squeezed life out of days that were shrinking. But the decline came nevertheless. First slowly: a treatment that didn’t work, a tumor that didn’t shrink, a pain that returned too quickly. More appointments, more waiting rooms thick with unspoken fear. Then everything accelerated. Her strength ebbed, her body thinned, her skin grew pale. Yet the spark in her eyes, stubborn as ever, refused to disappear entirely. Continue reading…