It might be my last Christmas but I have so much to be thankful for – treasure your loved ones, it’s all that matters
It's hard to balance the expectation versus the reality of Christmas when you have stage 4 cancer - but focus on all the things you've got to be grateful for
I PUT a lot of pressure on myself to make it a good Christmas... that voice in my head reminding me it could be my last.
But then, I've had two other "last Christmases" and I'm still here, defying my cancer.
The pressure is natural when you don't know how long you might have to live.
I love everything about the lead up to Christmas. The lights, advent calendars, personal traditions, buying presents and all the food and drink.
But, the reality of Christmas Day leaves me cold. I turn into a right Scrooge.
It's got nothing to do with hating Christmas, and everything to do with fear.
Fear that it might be the last one, fear that I might not see my kids open their stockings ever again, fear that that Christmas lunch might be my last.
My mind ends up consumed with these terrifying thoughts.
Then I berate myself for being so grumpy when it could be my last.
Why do I have to feel crap on treatment at Christmas??
This year, I am having to deal with a whole new round of treatment, which really isn't helping.
Let's put it this way, Santa had better deliver me the present of all presents after the week I've had.
I started a new regime of three targeted drugs, and boy are they tough.
They lulled me into a false sense of security, an hour after sitting in the treatment chair of doom I was done.
But, I was only one drug down at that point.
Instead of my normal vomiting that hits after chemo, I seemed to escape any reaction and went off with my bag of pills - the other two drugs.
A day or so later and I still felt OK, I thought I had totally nailed it.
Yes, I was tired but I allowed myself to slow down a bit and thought I would be fine.
Please, please Santa let it be a good sign...
But then, out of nowhere... WHAM. It was like hitting a brick wall, that jumped out in front of me with no warning whatsoever.
My skin exploded, and by exploded I mean I was covered - my chest, back and face - with raw pimples, that are so sore.
Then came the shivers and the chills, the soaring temperature and feeling exhausted.
A night in hospital, a whole round of tests and a barrage of Dettol-style drugs and I was sent home feeling like I'd done ten rounds in the boxing ring.
Only time will tell if it's a reaction to the drugs, or a bout of flu.
My skin, on the other hand, is absolutely a side effect of the medication.
All I can hope is it's a sign that the drugs are working. Please, please Santa let it be a good sign.
In the two years since being diagnosed with stage 4 bowel cancer, I have been so lucky - I have never really looked ill.
This rash is the first time I have really wanted to run and hide myself away, not even my make up will cover it up!
Time to stop dwelling and be grateful
But, as miserable as I feel, I will pull myself together and I will stop dwelling on how bad I feel.
Christmas is a time to give thanks, for family, friends, the people who try to make everything OK. Even when it's not OK.
It's time to be thankful that I am not in hospital on Christmas Day, while so many others are.
It's a time to be thankful for all the selfless doctors, nurses, support staff and other NHS workers who work 365 days a year to try and keep us safe.
Those in the military thousands of miles from home.
All the the carers out there - the husbands and wives who are just holding it together for the sake of the kids, so Christmas can still happen in spite of horrible illnesses.
The parents desperately sitting by their child's bedside hoping for a miracle.
The ones who put on a brave face and run up and down the stairs countless times to make sure their loved one is OK.
The ones who drop everything at a moment's notice to wipe away their loved one's tears.
The ones who cook a turkey knowing no one really wants it anyway.
And the ones who try to be happy, when really all they feel is an immense sadness at missing their loved one.
Hold your family and friends close this Christmas - it's all that matters
It's at times like this people like Steve and Freddie Bland are right at the forefront of my thoughts.
It's their first Christmas without Rach, and I know how much they miss her. We all do.
So as I, like so many cancer patients try to navigate Christmas - the expectation versus the reality - what I will do is hope.
Hope and pray that my tumours shrink.
THINGS CANCER MADE ME SAY
And I'll raise a glass or two, to Rach and all those other loved ones no longer with us.
And I'll be thinking of all those people, like me, desperately trying to hold it all together when everything around them is breaking.
The ones faking that smile for the sake of others, knowing the only gift their loved ones need is the one thing they can't give them.
Hold your loved ones close this Christmas, and be thankful. It really is all that matters.
My new book F*** You Cancer is available to buy now - and gives a brutally honest view of what cancer is really like -
