Recently, I found myself shedding a few tears—six, to be precise. They trickled down my cheeks, and I brushed them away with my sleeve. My quiet sobs were accompanied by the familiar sound that often precedes a full-on cry—a soft “aaah aaah aaah” that can quickly escalate into louder sobbing if not curtailed. These fleeting moments marked the most emotional release I’ve had since my diagnosis of incurable bowel cancer in the summer of 2023.

Since that diagnosis, I’ve maintained a positive and optimistic outlook as best as I can. However, this week brought a stark realization: I’m not quite ready to face the end. Early in my “cancer journey,” I convinced myself otherwise. I rationalized that 45 years on this earth were sufficient for me. I took steps to prepare, including organizing my will and visiting a natural burial site. I even penned an article for the Daily Express about my uniquely named funeral, “Fiskoff.”

However, a phone call from a “private number” disrupted all my careful preparations.

I was anxiously awaiting scan results, which would reveal whether my tumors were content in their current location or had decided to migrate northward, just in time for the holiday season. I speculated that if the results were dire, the hospital wouldn’t delay until a doctor’s appointment to communicate the news.

When I answered the call, I anticipated hearing that I needed to prepare for immediate surgery—a procedure that could either save my life or end it.

The woman’s voice on the other end didn’t exude happiness or optimism, bracing me for the worst possible news.

However, instead of giving me bad news, she was a receptionist from the physiotherapy department and was calling to remind me that I had an appointment at 10am the following day.

After thanking her and putting the phone down, I allowed myself a bit of time to process what might have been, and cried my six tears.

I might need to cry some more tears one day soon, as I have now had my doctor’s consultation and the scan results show some of my tumours are probably growing.

The probably is because no one seems to want to say for sure as the reports from my recent MRI and CT scans suggest that a tumour has grown from 4mm to 6mm but they can’t be sure. There’s also uncertainty about whether it’s the tumour that started this whole shebang or if it’s a different one.

Because of this, I need to have a PET scan. For anyone unfamiliar with what it is, it’s a scan where a radioactive substance is injected into the body and travels through the bloodstream to areas with actively growing cells, such as cancer cells.

The scanner then takes 3D images of these areas to show what’s happening and whether the cancer cells are growing.

(For anyone very familiar with what it is, apologies if I got some of the explanation wrong. I’m a journalist, not a scientist, and trying to understand a lot of medicine is hard.)

By the time you read this, I will have had the scan, but the results aren’t expected to be ready until December 22. And that is the best-case scenario, as I may have to wait until 2026. The waiting and the uncertainty are the worst bits, and that’s why I’m leading the Daily Express’s Cancer Care campaign.

It’s essential that all cancer patients have mental health support both during and after treatment, so when they want to cry six tears or more, they know there is someone there for them.