It was the fall that surprised me most. I struggled through winter, reeling at the news that I was going to die. That I wasn’t going to see another Christmas after this one, that I had less than a year – maybe six months, although they couldn’t be sure.

And I tried my best, but that last Christmas was a dismal affair. I wanted it to be perfect, and in wanting that I asked for too much. No other Christmas had been perfect – but they had been wonderful. And I went and ruined my last one by organising, instructing, ordering people to do this and that. I regretted it once it was over. Before it was over, to be honest. Because I wouldn’t have the chance to do that again, and Christmas isn’t about perfection anyway.

Spring came and I tried to enjoy the budding flowers, the trees coming back to life. But Christmas still played on my mind. And in the summer, when it was hot and I was feeling as though I was truly going this time, I wished and I prayed for another Christmas. A chance to make it right.

And I clung on. Autumn came and I defied the doctors. I watched the leaves fall, the days become shorter, the air become crisper, realising that once more Christmas was within my reach. It surprised me, as I have said, because it wasn’t supposed to happen. But then again, why not? Why not have one more Christmas?

Christmas came. It wasn’t flawless. It was perfect. It was my last.