Picking up the phone, I heard a young woman crying and struggling to get her words out in Farsi and English. My half-Iranian girlfriend quickly took over the call and listened to what her cousin had to say. She was in Tehran and wanted to leave her home, but could only do so if accompanied by a male family member. She hated her husband and wanted to divorce him, but couldn’t do so without the permission of his family.

When I answered the phone, a young woman’s voice came through, choked with tears, as she switched between Farsi and English. My girlfriend, who is half-Iranian, took the phone from me to better understand her cousin’s distress. Calling from Tehran, her cousin was desperate to leave her home but was constrained by rules requiring a male family member to accompany her. Trapped in an unhappy marriage, she longed for a divorce but faced obstacles as she needed her husband’s family’s approval.

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Although my relationship with my half-Iranian, half-American girlfriend ended years ago, the ongoing turmoil in the Middle East has brought her cousin back to my thoughts. Her cousin had once dreamed of reaching the United States, and I can’t help but wonder if she achieved that dream. Did she manage to escape her marriage, or has she endured two decades of unhappiness?

And what does she think of the USA and Israel bombing her homeland? Does she think it will lead to regime change or just a destroyed nation?

And does she wonder why, if Donald Trump is so keen to overthrow the Iranian regime, why didn’t he do it in the same way that President Obama took out Osama bin Laden – with US Navy Seals on the ground instead of missiles raining down from the air?

Is she now on the streets of her capital, celebrating what must soon be the end of a brutal regime, or is she questioning the motives of Donald Trump and Benjamin Netanyahu?

All these unanswered questions make me feel guilty that while people in the Middle East sit in fear waiting for the sound of an air raid siren, I’m just waiting for a message from my cancer hospital about my appointment times for next week.

While I hope I won’t have to get up too early for blood tests on Tuesday, they are hoping their nearest hospital won’t be bombed on Monday night, so they can still get treated on Tuesday.

And while I sit and struggle to get comfy while having chemotherapy, I read stories about Brits crammed into basements and bomb shelters in Dubai trying to survive.

It does put everything into perspective. While I know my incurable bowel cancer will eventually kill me, it will come at a slow pace, with scans and tests showing when my demise will be. I’ll get a chance to plan my funeral and will be able to say goodbye to loved ones.

It won’t be snuffed out like a candle’s flame, with no warning and no chance to say my farewells. And, with everything going on, is it still okay to be nervous about the scans that I’ve got coming up in the middle of this month?

They will show whether the tumour that was growing a little bit three months ago has grown a bit more. And if that’s the case, then they may reveal whether I’ll die this year rather than next.

Obviously, I don’t expect my medical team to have any solutions to the war in the Middle East. But it would be nice if everyone treating cancer patients acknowledged that scan time is the most nerve-wracking part of battling the disease.

They can help patients feel better by asking how they are feeling and referring them to support services if needed.

And they should start doing this today, instead of waiting until the Government’s pledge for a Personal Cancer Plan for all cancer patients, including mental health support, becomes a thing in the not-too-distant future.