I rolled back the images. Looked again. There it was. A new tumor, large, filling my right middle lobe. It looked, oddly, like a full moon having almost cleared the horizon. Going back to the old images, I could make out the faintest trace of it, a ghostly harbinger now brought fully into the world. I was neither angry nor scared. It simply was. It was a fact about the world, like the distance from the sun to the Earth.

I was nearly hit by an enormous gold-fibreglass cherub in a shopping centre. It fell five storeys and smashed into a thousand pieces about 4ft away from me.

I fell asleep in a room that had an oil heater and it filled with carbon monoxide and, if it hadn’t been for my husband, Terry, I would have died.

In a helicopter crash in Wyoming in 2005. My cameraman broke his back and both legs; the pilot broke his back. The helicopter didn’t catch fire, so I’m still here today.

That to-do list I am supposed to get through but can’t summon the energy for in these weird, distracted times.

Chekhov said, any idiot can weather a crisis, it’s the day-to-day living that wears you out. I think the same is true for great achievements. It’s not a big thing, but one ought to feel proud about the small moments in which you might have helped, cared for, or done something good for others.

Today, waking up in the dark hours of the morning with a litter of puppies snoozing on my bed.

We don’t play songs at funerals where I’m from, but if they had to – Michael Jackson’s Billie Jean.