Pam Cavaliere liked to look her best. She loved the good things in life, cashmere sweaters, designer jeans and chunky jewellery. Her blonde highlights and nails were always perfect, and her favourite scent, spritzed liberally, was Issey Miyake. So when she found out, aged 41, that she had terminal cancer, she determined to enjoy every minute of what time she had. It was as if living well were the best revenge.

In the months before her death, she threw all her energy into organising a charity ball for 600 people. It would raise money to fight the cancer that would claim her life just five months later. On the night of the party, looking fabulous in a pink ballgown, she made a farewell speech to her friends and family. She also, over the final weeks, said her goodbyes to her two children, Felix, 15, and Lydia, 12.

When she realised she was dying, she turned to the charity Winston’s Wish to help her children cope with the most challenging conversation they will ever have with their parent: saying a last goodbye.

Julie Stokes, a clinical psychologist specialising in childhood bereavement, who set up Winston’s Wish 15 years ago, describes our society as one where young people know all about sex and drugs, but little about death. “They know what condoms are for, what cocaine is, but they know nothing about funerals,” she says. “And we know that every 30 minutes in this country a child loses a parent.”

As a nation, we are very reluctant to talk about death. For Stokes, who has been working with five mothers suffering from terminal cancer, it is a mission to tackle this taboo head on.

“We try to protect children, but that is often because we are too nervous to tell them things. I think we underestimate what they can understand and accept,” she says. “There are many myths about death. One of them is a feeling that if you talk about it, then it will happen. But silence is a conspiracy and there is nothing worse than whispering behind closed doors. Children need to be involved and then they can choose to think about what’s happening or not.”

The stories of the five mothers who came to Winston’s Wishes are told in a new television series about childhood bereavement starting this week. By the end, two of them have died; the rest are battling on, trying to lead as normal lives as possible while going in and out of hospital for treatment. Not surprisingly, there are a lot of tears from the parents, the children and from Stokes herself. “I think there’s another myth about tears,” she says. “But they are as much about healing as they are about hurting.”

We see Wendy, who has recently been diagnosed with an aggressive tumour on her arm, breaking down when she contemplates leaving her two daughters, aged seven and five. “I want them to know the only reason I would ever leave them is because of this,” she says motioning to her weakened side. “I didn’t have a choice.”

Wendy writes farewell letters to her daughters. As part of the process of saying goodbye, Stokes encourages parents to create personal archives, what she calls “memory boxes” or “Mummy diaries”, which can act as a personal history, a permanent link between mother and child. “Children take on their sense of identity from their parents,” she says. “So they don’t want to forget, contrary to popular belief. They want to remember, because that is a way of continuing the relationship.” The archive acts like a bumper baby book, containing photos, letters, diaries, favourite CDs, recipes and wise words to remember their mothers by, a Mummy manual.

The act of creating such a toolkit of memory together encourages children, particularly younger ones, to voice their fears. Who will look after me after you die? Will I have to change school? “It’s important that the child doesn’t feel abandoned,” adds Stokes. “He or she needs to know that they are loved unconditionally and that the parent didn’t have a choice about leaving them.”

Another of the mothers is 43-year-old Dawn Hughes, who has developed secondary tumours after being diagnosed with breast cancer seven years ago. She uses the archive as an oblique way of talking about serious issues: “I see it as an unspoken sharing. And it’s about embracing the inevitable.” The future is uncertain for her and the memory box is a work in progress. “I don’t want to tell my husband how to bring up our children,” she says. “But at the same time I want to give them a sense of my personality. It’s an opportunity to leave my mark.” Her archive contains her wedding ring, which no longer fits, and her favourite Jo Malone perfume sprayed on a scarf to remind them of her. Then there are photos of the family holiday they enjoyed in the Canaries.

For Dawn, who has three children, aged from eight to 15, creating the archive is also a welcome diversion from her other pursuit: raising money through her website for her drug regime. She needs Avastin, which her local health authority in Berkshire will not provide. “I don’t lie to my children by telling them I’m not going to die,” she says. “I tell them I’m having treatment to live longer.”

Completing the memory box was a race against time for Pam, who died last February, aged 43. She penned practical advice for when the children were older. She suggested who should go with her daughter when she needs her first bra fitted. She also wrote: “Lydia: When you are in a club or disco make sure you never leave your drink unattended,” for fear of anyone spiking it. To Felix she said: “Please don’t always call your dad a plonker.”

Such a treasure-trove is invaluable for Pam’s husband Vince, whose grief is still very raw. The advice about bras and discos reminds him how much she struggled to be a normal mother in the face of an illness, cancer of the oesophagus, that killed her within three years. “You want so much to be an ordinary family,” he says of his wife’s battle. “You value each day, but you don’t just want to live for the day – you want to leave things behind that are tidy.” Hence the affirmations that Stokes encourages parents to write. “I love you because you waited for me when I fell off my mountain bike in the Peak District,” says one. “I am sorry for the times we argued,” runs another, “but I never stopped loving you.” Since his wife’s death, Vince, who works as a GP in Bradford, says he is far more sensitive to patients’ needs. He believes that Stokes’s philosophy of frankness, coupled with the practical advice of building archives, are applicable to everyone, not just families where there is serious illness. As Stokes sums up: “We need to remember that life is a terminal illness for everyone.”

For some, however, that end comes sooner rather than later. How important, then, that we tell our loved ones how much they mean to us – and how we never wanted to leave them behind. As one mother, writing a letter to her daughter to be opened after her death, says: “I am so sorry that I couldn’t stay.”

- The Mummy Diaries begins on Channel 4 on Thursday

The old way was so much worse

I can still remember the heavy silence that fell in the car when I asked the question: “How’s Mummy?”

I was nine years old when family friends collected my father from yet another visit to see my mother in hospital. I wasn’t quite sure what was wrong back then, but she had been away for a very long time.

And that day I was keen to see her soon. She had asked me to keep up with the plot of Crossroads, and I had much to report. So as soon as seemed polite I piped up from the back of the car. And then that heavy silence. My mother’s death from cancer was not unexpected. She’d been in and out of hospital – mostly in – for about two years, and I’d thought a lot about what might happen. I just didn’t expect it quite then.

“Sometimes when people are ill they don’t get better,” said my father, breaking the news. It was all he needed to say.

I wasn’t upset at first. That came later. The overwhelming emotion as we all sat together in that car was one of adult embarrassment and unease.

What I learnt then – and in the subsequent days – was that shielding children from death has little to do with protecting the children and everything to do with protecting adults.

I quickly learnt to hide my feelings because they seemed so upsetting to the adults around me. People became uneasy in my presence. They didn’t know what to say. On the day of the funeral – which I did not attend – I was showered with gifts. I could see these were kindly meant, but was I really supposed to feel better about the death of my mother now that I had a Spirograph?

Judging from my experience – and the benefit of 40 years’ hindsight – children are perfectly capable of coping with death and its consequences. It is the instinct – perfectly natural – of adults to protect children from those consequences that is so confusing.

Roland White

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