Last year when I had a pulmonary embolism – it was a very scary time.

None of this was supposed to happen. At 38, I wasn’t supposed to lie on my back in the E.R. on a late December morning and be told by a teary radiation oncology resident that the pain I’d been having for two months — that I’d been assured was from having a weak core after months of chemo — was actually from a tumor that had devoured my L2 vertebra. John wasn’t supposed to have to hold me up on the toilet. Put my pants on for me. Do Christmas Eve for the children without me. I’m not supposed to be thinking about where he will sit and hold my hand as I take my last breath.

I had a cardiac arrest in 2010. I also had a close call in the early days in Cardiff when I was in a band called the Denims. We were in a van driving along a narrow mountain road. Somebody wanted to go to the toilet, so we stopped, and afterwards the driver took a wrong turn and we went careering down the mountain. Everyone was screaming, it was like a nightmare. At the bottom was the railway line, but the van stopped just in time. We were very lucky.

I had a car crash not long after passing my test, driving mates to a club on a Saturday night. Thankfully, everyone was OK – as was my dad about his car, which was a write-off.

For a while I wanted to be a policewoman, but I didn’t have five O-levels.

A 12-hour nightshift at a toy factory in Southend.

I’d have made more of my education.

When I heard John Noakes had died.

I am my biggest disappointment.

A television. I don’t care for things. When I moved, I downsized and threw away most of my possessions.