'Today I'll say goodbye to my mum. My sisters - Anne, Denise, Bernie Maureen, Linda - and I will follow her coffin into a requiem mass in Blackpool and say goodbye to our mum Maureen for the last time.

Then Anne will sing Ave Maria. It was mum's favourite song, she'd sing it round the house when we were kids.

She looked like your everyday mum, but when she sang it was like an opera in the front room. I guess it was from her that we got our love of singing.

But Mum was robbed of her ability to sing - and talk, and laugh. In fact she was robbed of virtually everything by Alzheimer's, which eventually killed her on December 30. So when I got the call to say she had passed away, I felt relief - she'd suffered enough.

Of course there was a terrible sense of loss, but Mum was religious and I know she's in a place she believes in.

The last time I saw her alive was just after Christmas. She was fast asleep, tucked up in bed at her care home in Blackpool. She looked so peaceful.

I'd taken my daughter Ciara to see her. I touched her hair and kissed her goodbye, like always. Mum died in her sleep two days later - five years after falling ill with Alzheimer's. She was 81.

I'd been expecting it for so long, but when it finally came it shocked me how devastated I was. A part of me wanted it to happen, but I had still lost my mum. I felt like I was five again. I thought, "I'm an orphan at 41."

She was such a fantastic mum. She had eight kids but still worked and was always there for us. She organised our singing, made our costumes, got us ready for school. I admired everything about her.

She was a strong woman who had a great social life, loved her bingo and her singing. I always remember having that secure feeling that as long as my mum was there then everything would be all right.

It was thanks to Mum that we found fame as the Nolan Sisters. Dad wasn't sure about it, so when we got offered a record contract Mum went behind his back and signed it. She encouraged us all the way. She was always so proud.

When Dad died seven years ago it hit her hard. I think she began to deteriorate then, but it was in 2002 that we first noticed a change. At first we thought that getting older was making her a bit dippy. But gradually we realised it was more than that.

She was living alone in sheltered accommodation. I'd phone her at 4pm and she'd ask, "Why are you phoning me at this time?" It turned out she'd be in bed thinking it was 4am.

When we took her to the doctors, she'd snap: "I'm 75, I'm entitled to be a bit forgetful." She never accepted she was ill.

Mum had always been easy-going, but now she was angry all the time. We realised she wasn't coping on her own. One day my brother found her home filled with smoke - she was sitting there oblivious. It turned out she'd put the electric kettle on the hob.

After that, Anne and I shared shifts caring for her at our homes. But if I popped upstairs for a second I'd find her heading out, thinking I'd gone out.

Although she'd been at her happiest when our home was filled with noise and laughter, when my sons had friends round she got agitated. She also had tantrums. My sisters would tell her to behave, but I could never bear to shout at her. I also struggled to take her to the toilet and clean her.

At the time Ciara was only three, and as they played with toys for hours Mum would asked the same questions over and over. Sometimes I'd get so frustrated I'd go upstairs and scream into a pillow. At other times I'd look at Ciara and we'd laugh. You had to laugh or you'd go insane.

I've never known a crueller disease. Not just for the patient but for the whole family. Emotionally it has ripped us apart.

I'd taken my mum for granted, but all of a sudden she wasn't there to turn to. I'd become her parent and she'd turned into a child. It was also terrible seeing this very private woman suddenly having no inhibitions.

When we decided to put her into 24-hour care I felt so guilty, but it needed to be done - for her own safety and for my family.

A defining moment for me was when Ciara said, "Gran says I can eat these sweets" - she was holding a handful of pills which looked like Smarties.

When we took Mum round care homes she went berserk, shouting "I'm not going". But we did find one she liked.

When we visited she would either be really angry or she'd cry: "Please don't take me back, I'll be really good.

"Can I come and live with you? I'll clean the house." I'd go home and sob.

Once when we visited her room was bare. In a temper she'd trashed it, taking family photos off the wall and smashing them. She'd also knocked over the telly so they'd taken it out for her own safety.

It was so unfair that she'd got the aggressive form of Alzheimer's, rather than the happy one. She was so troubled and just wanted to lash out.

But as she deteriorated she had no strength left for tantrums and I could tell she wasn't even sure which daughter I was. Later she lost the power of speech and became bedridden.

She had to be spoon-fed and the only things she could move were her mouth and eyes.

She got terrible bed sores and had to be turned every hour, when she'd scream the place down - I couldn't bear to listen. But after a while when they were turning her she didn't scream. You could stand in front of her and there'd be no expression in her eyes. I thought, "She's gone."

She'd be like that for months and then suddenly you'd see her eyes following you around the room. I'd go away elated after that.

One of the hardest things to handle was how Alzheimer's ravaged Mum's appearance. While she was only about 5ft tall, mum was a size 20. But by the time she died she'd gone from this lovely, motherly woman who could engulf you in a cuddle to this five-stone skeleton.

She made me realise that life's too short. I really want to go for it this year, for her.

I've taken two weeks off Loose Women to grieve, but I'll be back next week. Mum loved the show so I'm going to be strong for her.

She's my inspiration. Her children were always the most important things in her life. When we were young she and Dad were really poor - she even pawned her wedding ring to buy us Christmas presents. She was selfless, the glue that held us all together.

Although I moan when I come home and there's all this chaos, noise and mess, I've realised that I love it, too.

Like my mum, I'm going to do the best for my family - it's the most important thing in the world.'

Coleen has donated her fee to The Alzheimer's Society in memory of her mum.

AS TOLD TO CHARLOTTE WARD