Grief, bankruptcy and me
The loss of my parents and job left me spiralling. But now, there’s light at the end of the tunnel
Exclusive | 4 min read
Growing up in a small town in Lancashire, I enjoyed an idyllic childhood filled with piano lessons, days out to the seaside and lovely holidays. My parents also shared a marriage full of romance, friendship and deep love. They were inseparable.
Mum and dad on one of our family holidays. Photo: Rachel Foster
Dad always bought Mum beautiful bunches of flowers, and gave them to her with hand written notes. My parents belonged to a magical universe of love and companionship, and my childhood was truly enchanted.
Unlike a fairytale though, the happy ending didn’t follow.
In 2005, I was in London and living life to the fullest, reporting for a national newspaper and rubbing shoulders with celebrities on the daily. Then one fateful afternoon, my phone rang. It was my father breaking the news that my mother had passed away.
I learnt Mum had been taken to A&E with stomach pains, and was sitting up in bed having a cup of tea when Dad had gone to fetch her an overnight bag. When he’d returned, Mum was dead. She’d battled ovarian cancer before, and recently it had returned and spread. Still, no one had been expecting her sudden demise.
Shock
My mother’s death hit me incredibly hard and I was in shock for a very long time. Left suddenly alone, my father became unanchored too. After 37 years of blissful marriage, he’d lost the love of his life and suffered terribly.
Petrified for his well-being, I waited for something awful to happen to him, meaning I never felt the full impact of my own grief. Or maybe I didn’t let it come out. Either way, it left me feeling desperate and lonely.
The pain I was trying to cope with seeped out in an unexpected way - uncontrollable spending. With my well paid staff job as a journalist, it was easy to obtain credit. And fill it. And extend my credit limits. But I was living well beyond my means, spending a fortune on clothes and extravagant nights out.
Rachel with her parents and younger brother. Photo: Rachel Foster
Meanwhile, my father struggled on, a shell of his former self. Then, in June 2007, two years after losing Mum, Dad’s prostate cancer returned. He’d been previously diagnosed, treated and thankfully gone into remission, so for it to return now was nothing short of awful.
Unlike the first time, his prognosis wasn’t good. Aged 70, he wasn’t in the greatest health - partly because he’d felt so miserable after my mother’s death that he hadn’t been eating properly and was much weaker than the last time he’d fought it.
Though I was still working in London, I moved home to the north of England to care for Dad and made the three-hour journey to and from work by train daily.
Coping alone
It was tiring and lonely, and I felt I had no one to turn to in my hour of need, growing more isolated from my friends in London by the day. Between caring for my dad and work, the quiet moments of grief and distress were carried alone.
Rachel’s dad during his cancer battle. Photo: Rachel Foster
Meanwhile, I found colleagues’ trivial grumbles hard to deal with and snapped at them in the office. It was astonishing to me that people were moaning about stationery supplies whilst my beloved father was dying.
Next thing I knew, I no longer had a job and my father had just weeks to live. It felt as though my world was imploding.
Unthinkable pain
Whereas my mother's death had been sudden, my father’s was slow, painful and drawn out. I couldn’t figure out which was worse - both hellish in their own ways.
Dad’s condition severely deteriorated in June 2008 and he needed round the clock care, which my younger brother and I managed between us. It was all-consuming and we both struggled. We were somehow also being swallowed up by the cancer that had commandeered Dad’s body.
I’d never witnessed anyone suffer so much. Having to watch Dad die in such a cruel way was devastating. Afterwards, things became strained between me and my brother, the stress and grief finding it’s way into the cracks, creating a chasm between us.
My London friends were busy working and getting on with their lives and I found it impossible to ask for the help I needed, quickly becoming overwhelmed with grief.
The lost years
I survived on adrenaline, lurching from one crisis to another without any help for a long time. Eight months after losing my father, I descended into my own personal emotional hell. Everything I’d suppressed since losing Mum came pouring out.
Rachel, left, with her mum in happier times. Photo: Rachel Foster
I sold my parents’ house and moved to a rented flat in a new town to try and escape the memories of my idyllic childhood, which now felt unbearable in contrast to my sadness.
But finding myself more alone, without a job, nor a close family member or friend for support and guidance, only made things worse.
With the money from the sale of my parents’ house, I lived well for a few years, blowing thousands on beautiful designer clothes, perfume and holidays. But it didn’t fill the void I felt inside.
I kept trying to work, freelancing here and there, but I found it hard to sustain. I didn’t fit in anymore and felt mentally traumatised by my past.
Alcohol became a crutch and before I knew it, I was opening a bottle of wine earlier and earlier in the day, until eventually, it was on the breakfast table and continued through to bed time.
Rachel enjoying champagne on a flight. Photo: Rachel Foster
Dark nights followed and many times, I came so close to ending it all. I couldn’t find a reason to stay alive. Even romantic relationships became toxic and ended terribly.
I couldn't face the future or deal with the past. Piles of bills sat unopened, whilst bailiffs came knocking on the door. Every waking hour filled me with dread and fear. The money had run out and I turned to food banks.
It was a far cry from the glitzy high life I’d enjoyed in London, dining in expensive restaurants and hanging out in chic bars with celebrities. But there I was, in the queue for a food parcel with just 69p to my name, knowing I only had a bed sit with no carpet to return home to.
Healing
Finally, after racking up over £20,000 of debt, in July 2020, I declared myself bankrupt. It felt like a huge weight had been lifted from my shoulders. Many think of bankruptcy as an unbearable low, but for me, it marked a fresh start.
Slowly, I began to piece my life back together. I joined Alcoholics Anonymous, where I was able to gain and maintain sobriety, and finally begin to deal with the wreckage of my past.
I enrolled in an art course and learned to paint and draw. I made dresses, I knitted, I crocheted and started to write again, all of which helped heal the painful wounds I’d carried for so long.
Now, I'm studying aromatherapy and reflexology, I’m building up a freelance writing career and I’ve been training with the Citizens Advice so I can use my experiences help others. Debt free and sober, the future is looking brighter for the first time in a decade.
I’m back in contact with old friends from school and university friends, and I don’t feel that aching loneliness I did for so long.
Rachel, now, after getting her life back on track. Photo: Rachel Foster.
While it saddens me that I’ve endured so much pain and suffering, I’ve learnt a lot about myself in the process, and I am now a stronger person for it all.
As we enter a new year after what has arguably been one of the worse 12 months for many people around the world, I am determined to continue with my writing and share my story in the hope that others facing hardship and grief can see that it’s possible to not only survive adversity, but feel happy once more.
For support with alcoholism, visit Alcohol Change UK
For more information about coping with debt, visit Step Change or Citizens Advice
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