I have to ask the question: ‘How long?’ but it’s not really as simple as that.

Although it’s incurable and I will be living with cancer for the rest of my life (however long that may be), they believe it is treatable and because at the moment it seems relatively contained, we can get moving and blast it with radiotherapy and nasty chemotherapy.

As my consultant says, ‘the trouble is, you know how awful these treatments are’, and he’s right as, the first time round, ignorance was bliss (to an extent), but now I know the horrors that await, physically and mentally.

My consultant asks if we want to go to the ‘room’ – I know which one.

I helped develop the idea during a focus group for the new unit years ago. We’d said that one of the worst things about being diagnosed with cancer in the main hospital was that you then had to walk back through a very crowded waiting room etc, crying your eyes out.

The reflection room at the new unit is lovely and has a separate exit so you can return to the car park without having to see anyone. However, I didn’t want to go in there as it would make it too real, so we went back out via reception.

But now, how are mum and dad going to deal with this bombshell? We drive to my parents to deliver the ‘incurable news’. They are stunned. They are devastated.

Tim has a bit more colour in his cheeks, we both seem to be holding it together. I’m not ‘being brave’, I’ve been dealt this hand and I’ve got to get on with it. I call Susie and fill her in. She is crying again. I call my little brother and tell him too. It’s horrible.

Until next week readers,

Kate, xx