23.03.2026

As Sir Chris Hoy comments, everyone wants to talk to you about cancer. They want to know the details, but are often too polite to ask. I am comfortable talking about my disease and the roller coaster journey I have been on for the last 18 months. So, for those who want to know about the grisly details, this is for you.

“Can Dr Chapman call you? It’s nothing bad, but she would like to talk about treatment on Monday.”

It had been 2 weeks since my big scan and I was still waiting to meet with the oncologist to understand the results. As they had not contacted me asking for an urgent appointment, I was not expecting the results to be horrific. But nothing prepared me for the conversation.

With my daughter and her boyfriend, we had just returned to the car after having a delicious lunch at a small local café. The phone rang, and I answered, placing it on speakerphone so everyone could hear. The oncologist began. “Well,” she said, “You have had the best possible response to the treatment. I am looking at the report now. There is reduced activity in all areas of tumour, and in some cases, no activity at all. In fact, there is a healing response. No new lesions anywhere.”

A stunned silence filled the car. No one could quite believe what she was saying. In the 18 months of my cancer, I had never received good news like this and I just was not prepared for it. “Oh,” I replied, “Gosh. I’m so sorry, we are all a bit surprised! But wow, that is good news. I guess this means we carry on with the chemo then?”

“Yes, I think that would be a good idea,” replied Hannah, “As long as you are OK with it.” Hannah was fully aware of my reluctance to have any chemo that was not necessary – the side effects and the reduction of my quality of life made it hard to accept at times. But pragmatically, now, it was not a choice. How could I stop a treatment that was working so well? “OK, I’ll be on the ward on Monday. Day 1 here we come.”

After the phone call we did the only thing that seemed sensible. We went to the nearest pub and had a glass of fizz. A celebration of the results of the scan and of life itself. At moments like this, nothing else will do. Even though, I had 3 sips and quietly passed the glass to my daughter. Champagne does not taste right anymore, but life can be good anyway.

So, I have a chance to live. The gloom of my 18month cancer death sentence has been lifted and some hope peaks in. I could continue to have this targeted chemotherapy until it stopped working or my body could no longer tolerate it. Either could happen at some point and it is quite possible this will happen very soon. But until, living well becomes the most important thing to do and I am with choices that I had not thought about deeply before – what does it mean for me to live well?

For my family, this news has brought a relief and a lightness that is hard to describe. My husband feels able to leave me on my own for short periods of time and to be able to go away. My daughters take it in turns to offer me what they called “butlering services”. If their Dad is going away, they come and stay, have a weekend at home, enjoying the benefits of a well stocked fridge and a comfortable bed. They are there to keep an eye on me and be there if anything happens. I am grateful for this care and delighted that I am also able to do things. I have joined a local health club and have started swimming regularly. I am able to go into the town centre and wander slowly around the charity shops looking for bargains. But I feel that I need to think hard about what living well means, rather than just passing the time. I may have six or even twelve months more to live than was previously anticipated. It seems a shame to waste them.

Some of the choices we might make at this time have been made for me. I no longer work having taken retirement on ill-health grounds. The stiffness of my leg and fragility of my bones mean that walking, hiking, running are difficult- old hobbies are no longer available to me. My disease brings limitations. The cancer lives in my bones reducing their ability to make new blood cells. The fatigue this brings results in slow days where nothing much is possible. Although I could travel, it seems like a huge step I am not ready for. Having treatment means going to the hospital regularly and the side-effects of chemotherapy are real and brutal. I have no hair, no eyebrows, no eye lashes. I suffer from stomach issues and chemo-brain is a very real thing! I no longer have a car, instead relying on taxis and family to ferry me around. Anyone who knew me in my BC era (before cancer) will know how much my life has been turned upside down. BC I would not think it unreasonable to be in London on Monday, training in a school in the NEast on Tuesday before returning to Cheshire at the end of the week, ready to fly out to Hong Kong the following week. BC, life was hectic and exciting. Now, PC (post cancer), life has become slow, gentle and limited.

But, I am able to begin to start thinking about what it means to have joy in your life. I have begun to realise that it is the accumulation of small acts and habits that bring me joy. Grand gestures and events are exciting, but they bring expectation and demands with them. Instead, for me, joy comes in the expensive, delicious artisan butter I spread on the soft bouncy bread I made from flour, water, yeast and salt. Quiet moments with my cat bring me complete peace. And clothes. I love the colours, fabrics and textures of clothes. For me, there is intense joy in deciding what to wear each day.

So, I have begun to live day by day, in the present. Because, there is not really a future for me and today is where we are.