When the doctor said, ‘It’s gone to your bones, I can’t cure it,’ everything changed. I’d walked into that room thinking I was about to be told when my chemotherapy would start. I’d mentally prepared myself for wigs, anti-sickness meds, rallying the troops and instead I was handed a life-limiting diagnosis.
My younger daughter, Elfie, was with me. She was 20 at the time, holding my hand, and as soon as the words left his mouth, I looked at her and said, ‘It’s all right, we’ll deal with this.’ What else could I say? I didn’t cry straight away. Instead, I felt like the sound had drained out of the room, a sort of cinematic rush in my ears, like a wave had crashed into me and left everything in…
