Nearly every day, I find myself recalling the man who entered a “production room” and re-emerged just 45 seconds later. This wasn’t your typical production room—certainly not one where film producers gather to discuss casting Dwayne Johnson. No, this was an NHS production room, where men are sent to, as local newspapers might euphemistically put it, perform a personal task and then leave with a sample in a clear plastic bag. While I refer to his time inside as “short,” 45 seconds is exceptionally brief.

To put it in perspective, 45 seconds is more than double the duration the So Solid Crew allocated themselves with their track “21 Seconds.” However, unlike that musical endeavor, this man was not performing in an NHS hospital setting. His 45 seconds encompassed entering the room, sanitizing surfaces, attempting to get comfortable (a challenge given the audible chatter from the waiting room’s airing of Loose Women), completing his task, and then diligently cleaning up afterward.

When it was my turn to use production room one, right after he exited, I made sure to spend considerably more than 45 seconds ensuring the room was thoroughly sanitized before I began.

That man came to mind again this week as I visited the Tate Britain art gallery. Although none of the artwork related to the NHS, I couldn’t help but think of him when I received an email about my appointment from earlier in 2023.

Even without the memory of the preceding 45-second man, the experience is something that will stay with me forever.

Prior to starting treatment for my incurable bowel cancer, I underwent the procedure because one of the less-than-pleasant side effects of chemotherapy is the potential for infertility.

The NHS paid for my samples to be stored in a big freezer for two years, and I have now been asked to attend a “fertility surveillance visit” (that’s NHS speak for a fertility test). Apparently, those happen at two, four, and five years post-freezing, and then the funding for the storage runs out, and then my samples will be thrown away.

Back in the summer of 2023, I was nervous about the future and didn’t know how long I’d live, but still held on to hope that I’d meet the love of my life while looking for reduced rolls in Co-op.

That was why I froze my sperm, just in case I was in a position to have children in the future. But now my body has been ravaged by chemotherapy, I’m wondering whether it is worth continuing to keep them in the freezer.

With a face and a body like mine, I’m not exactly a catch, so I’m now used to the fact that I’ll die alone.

So is it really worth spending the NHS money? But then what if I do meet someone while stocking up on Christmas biscuits in Co-op’s seasonal aisle? Then I might need the semen in three years’ time to make lots of little Fisks.

One thing is for certain: I’ve spent a lot of NHS money already, as I’m now on my 50th cycle of chemotherapy.

The NHS is still spending the money on me because I’m fighting as hard as I can to stay alive.

One part of the fight is the mental health battle, and that’s why I’m leading the Daily Express’s Cancer Care campaign. The Government and the NHS needs to ensure that all cancer patients have access to mental health support both during and after their treatment.