Racing through the snow—by taxi, train, and a desperate dash—I reached the theatre just in the nick of time to catch a play centered on a brother’s mental collapse. Triumphantly arriving at the theatre bar, my friends cheered as I recounted my adventure from the gritty streets of South London to the glitzy, festive atmosphere of Soho, aglow with Christmas lights. I shared how, despite battling incurable cancer and being hindered by a severe hernia, I navigated London’s streets with the grace of a gazelle. That was the narrative I wished to share this week. That was the story I yearned to unfold.

As I plotted my journey from the cancer hospital to Soho Theatre in central London, I imagined myself akin to a contestant on the Channel 4 show Hunted. Their mission is to reach the extraction point and claim a share of £100,000 while eluding capture. Though their path involves dodging hunters, my plan aimed to avoid getting stuck behind people absorbed in their phones or those confused by the ticket barriers.

Complications arose because, while mapping out my route, I was undergoing chemotherapy. No UK hospital would permit me to leave with a cocktail of potent drugs hooked to my arm and an expensive infusion device in tow.

Consequently, to make it to the theatre by the 7 pm curtain time, I needed to be released from the hospital’s grasp by 5:20 pm.

Even with that timeline, it would be a close call, yet I clung to hope.

Hope remains my steadfast companion, as I, an incurable cancer patient, ponder how many more opportunities I’ll have to even contemplate attending the theatre.

I had hope because when hope is gone, everything is lost.

I had hope because I had really wanted to see the show ever since I saw it advertised on Facebook months ago.

But at 5.20pm, I still had two infusions to go, and so as the clock struck 5.21pm, all my hope was gone.

I should have known I had no chance of making it when I phoned my hospital’s scheduling team on Monday to ask whether I should be concerned about not having any treatment booked in for Wednesday, and was told I was on a list and that I’d know by 8pm on Tuesday. (I actually got my appointment time at approximately 4pm on Tuesday, so 23 hours before treatment.)

I should have known I had no chance of making it when I walked into the blood test room on Tuesday morning and the nurse told me how they were completely screwed the day before, as they had 350 people booked in for blood tests, with some patients waiting three-and-a-half hours.

I should have known I had no chance of making it when I walked into the waiting room before treatment on Wednesday afternoon, and a nurse came out to apologise for the delays.

And so, in the same way having incurable bowel cancer has meant I have had to revise my plans for life and death altogether, I had to adapt my expectations for the evening.

I was supposed to watch the play with a group of friends, but since they didn’t know each other very well, I sent them some pictures via WhatsApp with a brief description for them to discuss before the lights went down and the play began.

And I decided that, despite feeling nauseous from my treatment that day, I’d meet those friends at the bar after the show finished.

It wasn’t quite the night out I’d envisaged, but I had a really nice time. (And I’ve booked a ticket for the play when I don’t have chemotherapy so will get to see the production.)

I guess it goes to show that, despite cancer doing its best to smash a wrecking ball through my life, fun things can happen when there’s a bit of readjustment.

Sometimes this readjustment is easy, and sometimes it’s the hardest thing in the world. This is why I’m leading the Daily Express’s Cancer Care campaign so that all cancer patients can have access to mental health support both during and after treatment.

This support will help them readjust and come to terms with their disease so that they can live as good a life as possible for as long as possible.