As I write this, on 22nd January 2026, I am thinking of this day a year ago. It’s been a year, 365 days, since I was diagnosed with Stage IV cancer. A date forever etched in my memory.
It’s been a strange week leading up to this date. It’s bothered me more than I thought it might and caused me to reflect a fair bit. Mostly, I’ve thought about what I’ve learned over this period. Have I changed? What has the experience taught me? Do I recognise the person I am now or the person I was back then?
And actually, I’m not sure I’ve learned a lot. Or anything new, anyway. Instead, a reinforcement of those ideas we already know. Those we repeat often but rarely stop to truly think about or practice when daily life consumes us. And they’re so simple – time is precious, health is wealth and people are everything.
It sounds corny, predictable, trite even. But this year has shown me, in abundance, that these are the things that matter. And that when it comes down to it, little else truly does.
This time last year, I was oblivious as to what was to come, although looking back the signs were there. Did I choose to ignore them, or was I so naïve to them? Maybe a mixture of both. It was the day after I’d had an MRI scan, having reported some back pain. After a very long day of tests which, again, should have given the game away, two Doctors and a clinical nurse specialist came in to the room. That was the moment. I knew then. They don’t send that many people in for a pulled muscle.
The Doctor – whose name I don’t recall and who I took an instant dislike to – told me they had found a tumour on my spine which they were assuming, at that point, to be a spread of my original breast cancer. We spent a lot of time talking about it only being one tumour and that being a good thing. The nurse sat on the bed, held my hand, and reassured me it was only one. I do look back now and wonder how so many other tumours were missed. Was it just a cursory glance at the scan? Had there not been enough time to review the images properly? Had they been missed? Or did they know and were they just breaking it to me gently? They seemed so sure there was only one. Two days later, it became clear there were many, many more tumours – on my spine, in my lungs and a fairly gargantuan one, plus others, in my liver!
The day itself is etched very clearly on my memory. I can remember so many details of the day. Even the minutiae. The room in the Urgent Care Suite, checking emails, letting work know that things were taking longer than expected but I’d be back online properly the following day, Mum dropping soup down her jumper – because life insists on adding to the mix even on the worst days, David having to drive back from Wales as he’d been away for work, making arrangements for Charlotte to be collected from nursery. The logistics of life continuing whilst it also hangs precariously in the balance.
What I didn’t know on that day, was that the month that would follow would be even more hellish. That is was going to get worse. That January 22nd wasn’t going to be the lowest point.
Urgent scans followed in the next couple of days and radiotherapy started pretty much immediately. Huge concern over my spinal cord and the pressure from one of the tumours meant we had to act quickly. A biopsy was taken but it would take several weeks to find out this wasn’t breast cancer but cholangiocarcinoma. The wait, the impassiveness of not doing anything, the fear, the realisation, the uncertainty, the powerlessness. I don’t think I’ll ever have the ability to be able to articulate those weeks.
And so, one year on, it’s a very strange feeling. Is it a date to celebrate? I’ve made it to twelve months, a time that many with cholangiocarcinoma don’t get to see. But there’s also the feeling that it’s a huge chunk of time out of the original prognosis I was given.
Something we’re not shared widely is that we were told the average life expectancy for someone with cholangiocarcinoma is 14 months. So when you’re 12 months in to that timeline, it doesn’t really feel like celebration territory. Had you asked me in October, I would have told you I didn’t think I’d see the 14 months. Things had taken a significant downturn. I felt awful. But as we sit here now, I feel I will. And I’m making plans beyond that time.
We know the cancer has spread significantly, my body not responding to the immunotherapy alone with my cancer cells having a wild multiplication party. But, thankfully, my scan before Christmas showed that the chemotherapy treatment I am back having is keeping it at bay and I’m having a positive response. My next scans are pending and we hope it’s the same. Stability, possibly some reduction, the aim for now.
In myself, I feel so much better than I did. The new pain medication has made a huge difference. It’s a patch I wear on my arm, like a plaster. A little slice of magic giving constant relief. But it’s more than just the pain management. I am able to function in a way that I wasn’t before. I have to manage my fatigue but it’s not the knock out, can’t move out of bed fatigue that I had in October (or not every day anyway). People tell me I look well, others say I’m a different colour to that which I was in October. And pleasingly, the medical team aren’t talking to me about end-of-life plans yet, plus we still have treatment options up our sleeve, so I hope that I’m on course to go further than those 14 months!
Nonetheless, it’s a guessing game. One scan to the next. I’m aware now how quickly things can change. In September, I felt amazing. I joined the gym for f**ks sake! Madness to think that now. By October, I genuinely didn’t think I’d see Christmas. So things can, and do, change quickly. And there’s always that worry.
But looking back over the year, there are definitely things to take from it. Am I a different person to the one I was 12 months ago? I don’t think so, but maybe I’m not the best person to ask. I do think it’s made me more focussed in what I want. But alongside that, it’s also made me less tolerant of what I don’t, which I’m not sure is such a good thing. It’s shown me a resilience I think I knew I had in there, but hadn’t been tested like this before. And it’s highlighted, in the brightest of spotlights, the things that matter to me and those that don’t. A promotion, money, material things. Don’t get me wrong, they can be great. But do they really matter? To me, absolutely not. Am I going to look back on my life and wish I’d worked harder, earned more, had a bigger house? I can say with certainty, unequivocally, no. Ultimately, it’s all about the people. My inner circle is tight. It’s small. It’s actually reduced. And it’s these people I want to spend as much time as possible with.
There’s a big saying in the cancer community: go grab life. The sentiment, brilliant. Go make the most of opportunities, live, enjoy, have fun. But for me, this also creates a pressure that I can struggle with. What if I’m not making the most of the time I have left? Could I do more? Should I do more? Am I too miserable? Should I be more grateful? There’s a constant battle between these two sides for me. Mainly because on some days I just don’t feel like it and reading my book, or watching trash on Netflix, is about as much as I can manage. Not exactly the ‘grabbing life’ narrative I’m meant to be living up to. Then the other side crops up and I can be found booking flights for a couple of days away or packing our weekends full of social plans!
I have always worked better with a deadline. And there’s nothing more pressing than an actual deadline. I know there are things I won’t get to do now. Ultimately that’s seeing Charlotte grow up, become the incredible girl and woman I know she’s going to be. I won’t grow old with David. So many things too big to even contemplate. Then there’s the smaller things that I dreamt of – a safari with Charlotte, driving across Canada in a camper-van, getting to the Rio carnival. These aren’t things I can plan in to my time now – they’re not sensible, doable, or insurable! But there are things I can do, and I now focus on spending time with those that really count. And that is in a much simpler way. The hours Mum and I spend chatting at chemo, the walk to school talking to Charlotte about her friends, the cuddles in bed where we chat about the best and worst bits of our days, watching a box set with David, a lunch date with Luke, a cousin play date, brunch with friends.
So life has actually got simpler in a lot of ways, whilst becoming infinitely more complicated in so many others. I might still hanker after those big trips and want to see the world, but that was always to do those trips with the people I love. So the trips might go away, but spending time with the people I love doesn’t.
And so one of the questions I’ve found myself asking is whether one of our biggest mistakes is assuming we have time? Time to do all these things. Time to tell people the things we want to tell them. Time to think about our health. Should I have done more?
If the last year has reinforced or taught me anything, it’s that we don’t have time – or not in the way we imagine. Time isn’t guaranteed. It’s not something we’re promised. I was already acutely aware of this, Dad having died at a similar age to that which I am now. But I don’t think we actually think it’s going to happen to us. To be honest, I’m not sure I gave it much thought at all. You just assume you’ll get to do all the things you think of and want to do. That you’ll grow old. Aging is, however, a privilege.
When there’s going to be fewer tomorrows than you assumed, the noise falls away. What remains are the people you love and the moments you share with them – the conversations, the laughter, being together. So what have I learned? That I am incredibly lucky (albeit it in an unlucky situation). I am surrounded by love. And, ultimately, love is all you need.
And if I’ve not managed to tell and show my people that I adore them, that will be my laser focus from here on in.
