Jill Cumming, a devoted wife, proud mother, and much-loved grandmother, returned from a memorable cruise with her husband, John, in March 2025 feeling well and in good spirits. Just weeks later, she began experiencing unusual neurological symptoms. Within two months, she was diagnosed with glioblastoma, an aggressive and incurable brain tumour, and died on 6th June 2025 at the age of 72. Her family honours her memory by supporting Brain Tumour Research with fundraising events like completing the Dundee Kiltwalk on 17th August 2025, just one day before what would have been Jill’s 73rd birthday.
Here is Jill’s story, as told by her daughter, Lisa...
Mum was the heart of every gathering. She was an outgoing party animal who would talk to anyone and touched so many hearts on her journey through life. A wonderful hostess and a natural organiser, she loved nothing more than bringing people together with food, laughter, and generosity. Whether planning holidays, hosting dinner parties, or baking for her grandchildren, she poured her energy into making others feel welcome and cared for.
Mum had been a home economics teacher, a role that reflected her creativity and her love of sharing with others. Even in retirement, she stayed active, playing cards with friends, volunteering at golf tournaments including The Open, and planning family get-togethers. In March 2025, she and Dad went on a long-awaited cruise to the Amazon following a difficult year.
In 2023, Dad had been diagnosed with stage 3 lung cancer. After many months of treatment, he was recovering well. During the cruise, Mum and Dad quietly renewed their wedding vows in a small ceremony with the ship’s captain and some American friends they’d met onboard. They kept it a surprise until they returned – a private celebration ahead of what would have been 46 years of marriage that July.
Within weeks of Mum and Dad returning from their cruise, things started to change.
We met them for lunch at Pizza Express in St Andrews soon after. It was the end of March, and Mum seemed completely fine. But just a week later, she FaceTimed me in distress. She’d gone out in the car and suddenly couldn’t remember where she was going. That same day, she stood in the kitchen searching for her scissors – something she used every day – but couldn’t think where they were. “I know they’re in the drawer where I always keep them,” she said, “but I just couldn’t think.” She was clearly frightened.
In early April, other symptoms appeared. She felt cold constantly, especially in her hands and feet, even when wrapped in an electric blanket. She became dizzy, unusually tired, and began sleeping almost all the time. We worried it might be an infection or anaemia, especially after a recent hospital stay for a burst ulcer, but this felt different.
Delays over the Easter bank holiday meant Mum didn’t speak to a doctor until Tuesday 8th April. The consultation was over the phone, which felt inadequate. She wasn’t seen in person until the next day, when bloods were taken. We were told to wait until Friday for the results. By then, she had deteriorated rapidly. Dad called me early on 11th April, unable to get Mum to move. She was so drowsy she couldn’t follow simple instructions. We had to borrow a wheelchair at the GP surgery just to get her inside.
Her blood tests showed only a slightly raised white cell count, but it was clear something was very wrong. We had already packed a hospital bag, prepared to insist she be admitted. She was taken to Ninewells Hospital in Dundee for a CT scan. While she waited, I returned to Fife to collect my children from school.
Early on Saturday morning, 12 April, we were told the scan had revealed a large tumour on her brain.
Mum was kept in over the weekend, and further tests including an MRI scan followed on Monday, 14th April. The neurologist suspected glioblastoma, an aggressive and incurable brain tumour. Unfortunately, the consultation was handled insensitively, made harder by language barriers, and both Mum and I were left confused and upset. A charge nurse eventually came in to explain things more clearly and offer some reassurance.
We were told that a biopsy would be needed to explore treatment options. Mum agreed, though we all knew by this point how serious things were. She was discharged home with steroids, which initially seemed to help reduce the swelling in her brain. But the dosage was designed to taper every three days, and as it decreased, her symptoms returned – confusion, drowsiness, and difficulty speaking or focusing.
In late April, Mum's condition declined again. She began to forget familiar places, couldn’t find her room or understand what the car in front of her was. She was waking up in the night in a panic and calling Dad. One morning, she fell, and Dad, unable to lift her, called for an ambulance. She was readmitted to Ninewells, where a new scan showed the tumour had grown further.
This time, a kind and empathetic doctor took Dad and me into a side room to deliver the news we had feared. Mum had only weeks to live.
It was a devastating blow. From a woman who had just months earlier been hosting dinner parties, playing rummy with Dad each evening, and organising holidays, to someone who now needed help with dressing and basic movement, the transformation had been fast and deeply painful.
We made sure she was never alone. My brother, Ross, Dad, Mum’s best friend Sheena, and I visited every day. Friends from across the country came, including one of her childhood neighbours who travelled from Canada. We kept a diary of visitors so we could read the names back to her and remind her who had come. While she often struggled with the present, she could talk vividly about her past, and that gave us all some comfort.
The nurses were exceptional, especially one named Laura, whose compassion made a lasting difference.
Even in such difficult circumstances, those moments of care and gentleness stayed with us.
In the early hours of 6th June 2025, Mum died peacefully in her sleep.
Since then, we’ve been doing our best to carry on. Dad has been keeping active, spending time in his garden and walking his labradors with neighbours and friends. Ross and I have our work and our families, which helps provide some rhythm to the days, but when we stop, the absence hits hard. I’ve been supporting Dad by cooking meals and helping sort through Mum’s belongings. We’re also planning to take him away on holiday in October, which I hope will offer a change of pace and some healing time.
Mum was born in Dundee and was incredibly proud of her roots. A couple of years ago, she took me and my boys to the RRS Discovery, sharing stories and pointing out her favourite places. While she was in hospital, I told her I was going to do the Dundee Kiltwalk in her honour. She gave me a smile – I think she thought I was a bit mad – but I could see it meant something to her.
We completed the Dundee Kiltwalk on 17th August 2025, the day before what would have been her 73rd birthday. Although Ross was unable to take part due to a back injury, his son Alfie stepped in and did brilliantly. Dad completed the walk too, keeping a strong pace and even overtaking me at times. One of the most emotional moments came as we crossed the Tay Bridge, with Dundee in view, thinking of Mum and how proud she would have been.
Glioblastoma is a fast-moving and brutal disease. Watching someone you love change so rapidly is something no family should have to experience.
What made it even harder was the lack of early support. We were told that until a confirmed cancer diagnosis was made via biopsy, cancer support services couldn’t step in. That left Dad, who was still recovering from his own cancer treatment and had never been a cook or carer, trying to look after Mum on his own. I live over an hour away with young children, and the early weeks at home were incredibly tough and upsetting for all of us.
That experience is why I’m raising money for Brain Tumour Research. Brain tumours receive just one percent of the national spend on cancer research, despite being the biggest cancer killer of children and adults under 40. Since Mum’s diagnosis, I’ve been contacted by so many people who have lost loved ones to glioblastoma. It’s heartbreaking how common these stories are.
Thanks to the incredible generosity of friends, family, and the wider community, we have raised £6,953.78, which is enough to fund more than two days of research at one of the charity’s Centres of Excellence.
It’s a token of our ongoing commitment to this important mission: finding a cure for all brain tumours.
Lisa Rooney
December 2025
One in three people in the UK knows someone affected by a brain tumour. This disease is indiscriminate; it can affect anyone at any age. What’s more, brain tumours continue to kill more children and adults under the age of 40 than any other cancer yet, to date, just 1% of the national spend on cancer research has been allocated to this devastating disease since records began in 2002.
Brain Tumour Research is determined to change this.
If you have been touched by Jill’s story, you may like to make a donation via www.braintumourresearch.org/donate or leave a gift in your will via www.braintumourresearch.org/legacy
Together we will find a cure.
