A year ago this week charity fundraiser Jane Tomlinson died after a seven-year battle with cancer. Her feats of endurance and the Leeds 10k Run for All – which took place for the second time this summer – have so far raised £1.75m for cancer research and other charities, and the work of Jane's Appeal continues in memory of the 43-year-old, who left behind her husband Mike, three children, Suzanne, Rebecca and Steven, and grandchild Emily.

Jane and Mike Tomlinson wrote two best-selling books about Jane's fund-raising marathons, cycling and triathlon triumphs, all accomplished against the odds, with Jane often in a desperate physical condition but always doggedly determined to reach her goal.

In the summer of 2006, the Tomlinsons travelled to America, where Jane cycled 4,000 miles from San Francisco to New York in nine weeks, accompanied by fellow cyclists Ryan Bowd and freelance cameraman Martyn Hollingsworth. Mike Tomlinson drove their back-up vehicle, joined by young Steven.

In their latest book How Good is That? Jane and Mike's diaries describe the epic coast-to-coast journey – the joy, desperation, physical and mental torture of the task Jane set herself, and the strains the enterprise put on their relationship at times.

Completing the ride despite a fast-encroaching liver tumour and agonising pains in her bones, Jane returned to Leeds to hear the worst possible news. In his epilogue to the book, below, Mike poignantly describes the last Tomlinson family gathering before Jane's death.


EPILOGUE
by Mike Tomlinson

Although the sun wasn't shining it was warm, especially in the south-facing living room. The patio doors were slightly ajar, not enough to let the cats in, but sufficiently to admit some air. Steven ran into the room.

"Is it okay if I go on the computer, Dad?"

"Don't you want to come and help in the kitchen?" He put on a forced sad face.

"Let him," said Jane. She rose slowly to her feet, leaving the crutches redundant at her side. "Do you want a drink, Mike?"

I jumped up. "I'll do it." I moved quickly past her and entered the kitchen, moving the dining chair out of the way so she could manoeuvre unencumbered.

"I'm not a child, Mike, I can manage."

She moved slowly into the kitchen. Her liver had swollen considerably, making her look several months pregnant, a trap which a young shop assistant at Marks & Spencer had fallen into a few days before. Apart from that and a slight loss of colour in her face, Jane looked well and you wouldn't have guessed that she'd arrived home on a weekend visit from the hospice a few hours earlier.

"Save your energy for when everyone comes," I said. "Is it strange to be home?"

"A little. You need to keep on top of the watering, it'll be better when Luke puts in the irrigation system to the pots at the front. I think he's going to do it this afternoon." She moved to the back door. "I'm just popping out for a minute."

She stumbled over the lip of the back door but soon steadied herself. It had been a whirlwind two weeks; we'd arrived home from a holiday from hell in Ireland with Jane in desperate pain. For once, we didn't need the scans to tell us the prognosis. Since her first diagnosis, Jane had always pondered whether to continue treatment. It was never an easy decision to make, knowing as we did that treatment might extend the quantity – but not the quality – of her life.

The choice 10 days ago, however, was as stark as it was clear – the treatment had as much chance of killing Jane as the disease. For the first time in six years, we'd left the consulting room with no treatment options available. We simply had to await a call from a hospice in the hope that a bed could be found.

I watched Jane as she carefully picked a path to the bottom of the garden and to her favourite bench under an arbour, upon which a clematis and hop were battling for space. She sat leaning forward as she had done almost daily for the last seven years but she couldn't keep still for long. She was soon up and dead-heading a rose.

The front door opened. Suzanne walked into the kitchen. Behind her, Tom was holding Emily in his arms.

"Hi, Dad." She walked over and gave me a hug. "The joint smells nice. I've brought the veg."

"Good, because your mum's beginning to wear me out. She won't keep still. Hi, Tom."

"All right, Mike," said Tom.

Suzanne walked out of the back door and I watched as she went over to Jane and gave her a long hug. Despite being similar heights, Suzanne seemed to tower over her mum.

Jane had entered the hospice 10 days earlier to control the acute pain and nausea. The experts' view was that once they were under control, Jane would be able to return home for a couple of months before end care was required.

But while her symptoms were eased, the disease had taken control more rapidly. I'm not sure why this had surprised me as for years I'd lived with the knowledge that Jane was much more poorly than she'd ever alluded to.

Within half an hour, Jane's brother Luke and his family arrived. Despite everyone's protestations, Jane wouldn't release control over the cooking, but still took time out to watch over Luke as he tended to the irrigation system.

"Becca, will you set out the plates?" Suzanne asked. There were shouts from Steven and his two cousins Pete and Tom from the computer. Prudence the cat lazily walked across the kitchen and jumped on a chair. "Becca! Get Prudence away from the table," said Suzanne. Becca scrunched up her face. I went outside where Karen, Luke's wife, was sitting at the table reading the newspaper.

"Where's Jane?" I asked.

"I'm here." Jane walked around from the side of the house, holding some secateurs in one hand while leaning on her crutch with the other. "Stop fussing, Mike."

Carefully, she moved forward on to the garden, which was a raised brick bed, tricky at times for even the nimble-footed. Within a second, in slow motion, she was going down, the crutch dropping as she clumsily hit the ground.

"See, you could tell that was going to happen," I said, moving closer to help her up.

Jane looked up and gave the same face that Becca had chucked at Suzanne moments earlier.

"Is the syringe driver okay?" she asked. The syringe driver was a device that ensured that the supply of Jane's drugs was evenly spread over time, so avoiding the peaks and troughs she got with tablets. It was held in a little cotton bag hanging by Jane's side but was hooked over her shoulder.

"Mike, you're not helping," Jane said. "I'm fine, I'm not a child, and don't look like that." She rose slowly, checked the driver, gave me a quizzical look and smiled and sat down next to me.

Luke came over.

"It's working, Jane," he said, referring to the newly-installed irrigation system. "Do you want to have a look?"

The two of them disappeared around the path to the front garden while I went back inside to check on tea. Jane was soon back, mixing the Yorkshires. After tea, we all decamped to the garden where, unusually for an August bank holiday, the late afternoon was warm and pleasant. Jane had lit the stove she'd bought for my birthday.

"All right, love?" Terry from next door arrived clutching some cans of bitter, followed by his wife Cynthia, wine glass in hand. "You've got the garden looking right."

"Thanks for keeping on top of the watering." Jane stood up. "I think the baskets are about finished."

Cynthia came forward. Her emotions taking over, she started to sniffle. "Have you seen the pears?" Jane said, diverting the attention. It had been seven years to the weekend since Jane had been told her cancer was incurable, just before the Sydney Olympics, which she'd watched throughout the night as she'd come to terms with her illness. Back then, who would have thought she would have been
an ambassador for the London 2012 bid?

Over the last few years, Jane's life had taken her in a direction that the greatest of fantasists couldn't have imagined. As for those of us close to her, we couldn't have begun to dream.

Jane, though, hadn't been affected one bit by the time. She remained essentially the same person, her sense of joy in life and family untainted.

We sat enjoying a beer and chat as the night drew in. "Jane's been a while," Karen said. "Is she all right?" Jane had gone inside 20 minutes earlier, heading off to see Steven and put some hand cream on.

"I'll go and check," I said. I got up and a blast of warm air felt good on my skin as I walked past the stove. I bent down to pull a little piece of camomile from Jane's herb garden and smelt the fragrance. The opening bars of Hotel California came wafting over from a neighbour's garden.

My mind switched back to last summer to California, Missouri, and a warm feeling of nostalgia made me smile as I remembered the ride. It's funny how, with the passage of time, the whole journey is one long vivid and beautiful memory.

I'd spoken to Martyn only a couple of times since we returned, but Ryan had been a more constant fixture in our lives. He'd helped us put on the first Leeds 10k run in June. Striding out immediately prior to the race, he'd started from the VIP area, leading out the celebrity runners. I remember him looking up to the starter's podium where Jane was standing and he waved. To see 8,000 runners lined down the Headrow took my breath away, a sea of humanity.

"We did it, sir." Ryan came up to me after the race and shook my hand. He walked up to Jane and gave her a huge hug. "This has been the most incredibly awesome run."

Jane, despite being desperately ill, had stood and watched everyone return, her mum, sisters, brothers, friends and colleagues all crying, cheering and clapping. The American ride had raised only £150,000 but it had provided the launch pad to set up the run, which had raised £500,000 in year one. Jane looked at Ryan, tears streaming down her face.

"I told you finishing would make all the difference," she said. "Never give up in life. You give up one day, you give up forever."

I opened the kitchen door and Jane was sitting at the table, the newspaper open in front of her, the coffee espresso machine on it and a spanner in her right hand. She'd half disassembled the machine: screws, pieces of metal and assorted bits were laid out in neat rows.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I fancied a coffee, and the machine hadn't been cleaned for a while, the gunge has made the nozzle stiff." She looked up at me. "You'll need to get Becca to do this."

"It doesn't matter, love, I don't use it."

"You don't, but you might have visitors who'd like a coffee."

"Whatever."

"Oh, you know how much I hate that word. Listen, I've written out instructions for the washing machine, they are on the top of it."

"Thanks, love," I said. "Why don't you come out and say goodbye to people, they'll be leaving soon."

"Mike," Jane said and I turned. "I love you."

"I love you, too."

Jane had one more night at home and died in St Gemma's Hospice, Leeds, eight days later.

Copyright © 2008 by Laneheath Limited


Extracted from How Good Is That? by Jane & Mike Tomlinson, published by Simon & Schuster, at £17.99. To order a copy from the Yorkshire Post Bookshop call 0800 0153232 or visit yorkshirepost bookshop.co.uk. Postage and Packing cost £2.75.

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