The future was looking frightening, but I picked myself up and started making memories. Tracy Dunbar, 61
Sitting at the dinner table, I coughed, patting my chest hard.
‘Are you all right, love?’ my husband Michael asked.
‘I feel like there’s something stuck,’ I said, bashing my chest again.
For the past few weeks, I’d been struggling to swallow my food, and now I was even struggling to get water down.
Worried, I booked an appointment with my GP who sent me for an endoscopy.
Afterwards, Michael came in with me to see the doctor, who said, ‘We found something.’
He explained they’d taken
a biopsy of a growth they’d found in my oesophagus.
‘We’ll be testing for cancer,’ he continued.
Although he told me not to worry, it was hard not to as we left the hospital and waited for news.
When it came, it was what I’d been dreading.
Tears fell as the same doctor confirmed it was cancer.
The plan was to remove the lump, but further scans revealed it had already spread to my liver.
‘I’m afraid we’d now class your cancer as terminal,’ the surgeon said.
It felt like the room shook as I tried to take it in.
‘Without treatment, we’d give you…’ the surgeon began.
‘Stop!’ I shouted, before he could finish his sentence.
As he and Michael stared at me in shock, I composed myself.
‘I’m terminal, I understand that,’
I said, calmly but firmly.
‘But I don’t want to know
my prognosis.’
I didn’t want a ticking clock over my head.
That weekend, after telling my kids and close family, I grabbed my phone, opened Facebook, and wrote a post saying, Hi everyone, I have been diagnosed with
terminal cancer.
I’d decided I had two options – give up on life
and wait to die, or live for
as long as I could.
And I wanted to live.
The response to my post from friends and family was overwhelming and it felt good to share what I was going through with them.
When I met friends for lunch soon after, one said, ‘Have you thought about making a bucket list?’
‘That’s a great idea,’ I replied.
We started brain storming ideas – trips to Benidorm
and posh hotels I’d always wanted to visit.
Back home in Allington, Kent, I told Michael about my list and he said, ‘What about going to a recording studio?’
‘That’s a great idea!’ I said, excitedly.
I loved singing and was always first to the mic whenever our local pub held a karaoke night.
Michael booked me into
a professional recording studio and, two weeks later,
I found myself pulling on headphones and standing in front of a mic ready to sing.
‘Can we try What a Wonderful World?’ I asked.
Nat King Cole’s version
was one of my favourites, but that wasn’t the only reason I wanted to sing it.
I wanted my cover of the song to be played at my funeral.
‘I think that’s a beautiful idea,’ Michael said as I explained my plan.
‘Good, because you’ll be the one listening to it!’ I joked.
Although he laughed too, the thought of that moment also brought tears, and we hugged each other tightly.
After ticking off the first thing on my bucket list,
more experiences followed – some I wouldn’t even have thought of doing.
‘A zip wire!’ I cried when my friends presented me
with a gift voucher a few weeks later.
I hated heights, but after my diagnosis I’d been trying to combat my fears and suddenly this seemed like
the perfect way to do it.
What am I really scared of? I thought.
I was already facing the worst thing imaginable.
'What am I scared of?'
Days later, I held my breath as I was strapped into the 720m zip line. As I pushed my feet off the edge, I threw my arms out to the side.
‘Here I go!’ I called as the world flashed past me below.
But then, as my tiny 5ft frame reached the middle
of the wire, I started to
slow down.
Oh no, I thought.
And minutes later, I was stuck halfway across, suspended in the sky.
I should’ve been terrified, but all I could do was laugh.
‘Help me!’ I yelled in between giggles.
It was just the kind of fun I needed.
Weeks later, I was told I’d be starting chemotherapy to try to prolong my life.
As I sifted through some leaflets from Macmillan Cancer Support in preparation, I came across one about their Brave the Shave fundraiser.
‘I think I might shave my head,’ I told Michael.
So, just before I started chemo, I invited all my friends and family to my flat and they took it turns to shave off
a strip of my hair – for a donation,
of course!
With their help,
I raised £2800 for Macmillan.
Afterwards, as I stood in front of the mirror and ran my hands across my smooth head, my friends said, ‘You look great!’
I let a smile escape my lips, and felt ready to face whatever came next.
My first few sessions of chemo were extremely tough, I felt exhausted and spent a lot of the time sleeping.
After my fourth session,
I became so ill that I
was admitted to hospital.
‘You don’t
have to have
the treatment,’ nurses said.
‘I want to,’ I insisted. ‘I want more time.’
Although the treatment
was hard, it gave me hope.
I decided I’d accept anything I was offered, if
it meant I could tick
off more of my bucket list.
As my first lot of chemo came to an end, my friends kick-started the next challenge.
‘We’ve got you a present,’ they said, presenting me with another voucher.
‘A pig walk!’ I said, laughing.
I didn’t even particularly like pigs. But weeks later, I stood in an apple orchard, surrounded by them.
They were all wearing harnesses,
so I picked out the
one I wanted and spent the next hour walking him round, listening to him grunt as we shuffled along.
‘Are you having fun Lord Truffles?’ I asked, and got snort in response.
And the gifts from my friends kept on coming.
They paid for fancy hotel stays and even a weekend in London, where we went on the London Eye, to the top
of the Shard and on a boat
on the Thames.
Of course, some days were harder than others.
For a few of our trips, I started the day with chemo tablets which could make
me feel nauseous, but I just kept going.
We enjoyed a boating holiday on the Norfolk Broads, and my friends and
I have made clay casts of
our hands together.
'I don't plan on slowing down'
Now, I’m waiting for more treatment, as my last round
of chemo didn’t work and
my cancer has spread.
But I don’t plan on slowing down any time soon.
There are still things on my bucket list to do, including a helicopter ride, walking across the
O2 and a trip to Scotland.
For me, every day is a bucket-list day.
I don’t have money to leave, but sharing all these experiences with family and friends means I’m leaving them a whole load of wonderful memories.
I don’t feel like I’m dying. I’m living – and I’m grateful for whatever life I have left.