“December, which brought us such loss, has become a bittersweet season, full of memories of him. His warmth, his laugh, and the way he made Christmas feel magical are missed now more than ever.”

Mike Corden's story told by his widow, Jane.

In March of 2010, Mike was 49 when he began to feel unwell, although at the time, it was hard to imagine how dramatically our lives were about to change. By Easter, which fell at the end of March that year, he was lying on the sofa, complaining of an unbearable itching all over his body. I noticed, with a growing sense of alarm, that his eyes had started to turn yellow. We went straight to the GP, who recommended a scan, and by some fortunate twist, we got an appointment that very day at Louth Hospital. During the ultrasound, the technician quickly found the issue, a blocked bile duct.

We returned to our doctor with the news, only to be told that we should let “nature take its course.” Something about that felt so wrong. Thankfully, our son Tom was staying with a friend whose father was a GP, and he confirmed my instincts; this wasn’t something we could just leave alone. So, we took matters into our own hands, and by the next morning, Mike was admitted to Grimsby Hospital.

Over the next month, Mike endured endless rounds of tests, scans, and waiting. By mid-May 2010, we finally received the news: a mass had been detected, and it was pancreatic cancer. It felt surreal, like something that happened to other people, not to our “normal” family. I was devastated, but Mike was remarkably calm. He didn’t dwell on the fear or the unfairness of it. Instead, he focused on what he had to do.

The doctors planned to remove the tumour with the Whipple’s procedure. No part of me considered that the operation wouldn’t work. I knew it was risky; they warned us that complications could occur, and that Mike’s life was in jeopardy. But still, I had faith. He was my Mike, and he was going to survive. The surgery took eight hours. When I received a call from the hospital saying he’d been moved back to the ward instead of the ICU, I knew what it meant: they hadn’t been able to remove it all. My world crumbled around me. How could something like this happen to people like us?

Yet, even through those dark days, Mike remained incredibly positive. I vividly remember visiting him after surgery, tears in my eyes, telling him how I always thought we’d grow old together. Despite the anaesthetic and the pain, he looked at me with a gentle smile and said, “Well, you’re grey, and I’m old, so we’ve done that haven’t we?” That was Mike finding humour and light, even when everything seemed bleak.

Over the next two and a half years, Mike underwent chemotherapy, radiotherapy, and trial treatments. He seemed almost invincible; his doctors were astonished that he wasn’t experiencing the usual side effects of chemotherapy. In that first year, you would never have guessed he was ill at all. Every visit to the hospital, every new treatment, Mike faced it with an unshakeable resolve. He had a goal, our son Tom’s 18th birthday, and he was determined to see it.

As the months passed, his resolve seemed to grow stronger. I remember one January, Tom asked me, “Will Dad be here for my 18th?” It was a heartbreaking question to answer because I didn’t know. But I told Tom the truth: “Your dad is fighting for it, love. He’s fighting with everything he has.” And Mike held on, making it to 29th September 2012, Tom’s birthday. We went out for lunch to celebrate, though by then, Mike was struggling to eat. But he was determined to buy Tom his first legal pint, a symbolic moment that Mike had been clinging to. Watching him that day, so proud, I was in awe of his strength and love.

After that, it was as if he’d fulfilled his final mission. His health declined rapidly. In early December, he was no longer able to keep up the fight. On 8th December 2012, he passed away, leaving behind an enduring legacy of strength, laughter, and resilience.

Even during his final years, Mike stayed as active as he could. We made the most of every day. He played golf at St Andrews with my dad, we celebrated his 50th birthday with a big party, travelled to New York, and even managed a few trips to Tenerife. He got to see cricket and golf matches, and together, we took the cruise we’d always promised ourselves for our 25th wedding anniversary, even though it was a few years early. The only trip he couldn’t cross off his list was Canada. But he didn’t dwell on what he couldn’t do; instead, he focused on the memories he could still make.

Faith was a quiet but unyielding part of who Mike was. One night, shortly after his Whipple’s procedure, he braced himself for what he thought would be an excruciating night without the hospital’s strong pain relief. But as he lay there, feeling isolated and afraid, he found peace in a hymn that suddenly filled his mind: “Be still for the presence of the Lord.” From that moment on, he never felt alone. His faith carried him through the darkest moments, giving him a sense of peace even as his body weakened.

Mike’s positivity helped us all cope. He’d once said, “You have a choice: you can sit around feeling sorry for yourself, or you can make the most of the time you have.” That philosophy became our family’s mantra. Since his passing, we’ve honoured his memory by fundraising for pancreatic cancer awareness, hosting charity balls, and even watching friends jump out of planes for sponsorship. We’ve also held an annual cricket match between Louth and Market Rasen, where Mike had spent many years playing. The Market Rasen Cricket Club even dedicated their scoreboard to him, naming it the Michael Corden Score Box.

A few years later, after my mother passed, I began making memory bears from her clothes for my sister, niece, and myself. It was something I never expected to do, but I found a sense of purpose and comfort in creating these keepsakes. Gradually, word spread, and I began making bears for other families who’d lost loved ones. Each bear is a memory, stitched together with care, helping people feel close to those they’ve lost. Every time I hand one over, I feel I’ve helped someone honour their grief and hold on to something precious.

As the Christmas season comes round, the ache of Mike’s absence always deepens. December, which brought us such loss, has become a bittersweet season, full of memories of him. His warmth, his laugh, and the way he made Christmas feel magical are missed now more than ever.

Christmas was a time he loved, and though he’s no longer here to share it with us, his spirit lingers in our traditions and the memories he left behind. We remember him in the little things, the decorations he helped put up, the family gatherings he filled with joy, and the Christmas morning smiles he gave us all. Though Christmas is harder without him, we carry his love with us, holding him close in our hearts as we celebrate in his honour.

Mike’s legacy is one of love, kindness, and courage. He faced the worst with grace and showed us all how to find light, even in the darkest times. His strength, his humour, and his heart live on, not just in our memories, but in every act of kindness he inspired. Through the people he touched and the memories we’ve created in his name, his spirit remains an unbreakable part of us all.