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I allowed myself a few tears the other day. By "a few", I think I mean six. Six teardrops made their way from my eyes down my cheeks, where I wiped them away with my sleeve. They were accompanied by the sound you sometimes get before someone is about to cry - the "aaah aaah aaah" quiet wail that turns into loud sobbing if the crying continues. I think those few seconds are the most I've cried since being diagnosed with incurable bowel cancer back in the summer of 2023.

Since then, I've been doing as well as I can, being as positive as I can, being as optimistic as I can. But one thing I learned this week is I'm really not ready for death. Early on in my "cancer journey", I think I fooled myself into thinking I was. I said I've done 45 years on this planet and that's enough for me. I sorted out my will and visited a natural burial site. I even wrote a piece for the Daily Express about why my funeral will be called Fiskoff.

But answering the phone to a call which flashed up as being from a "private number" put paid to all my preparations.

I was waiting for scan results, which would show if my tumours had decided they were bored in my bowel and were venturing north in time for Christmas, and thought that if they were really bad, then my hospital wouldn't wait until a doctor's consultation.

I thought I would get the results when I answered the call, and the voice on the phone would tell me I needed to pack a bag and get ready for surgery, which would either be a success or could kill me.

The woman on the other end of the line didn't sound happy or optimistic, so I was prepared for the worst.

However, instead of giving me bad news, she was a receptionist from the physiotherapy department and was calling to remind me that I had an appointment at 10am the following day.

After thanking her and putting the phone down, I allowed myself a bit of time to process what might have been, and cried my six tears.

I might need to cry some more tears one day soon, as I have now had my doctor's consultation and the scan results show some of my tumours are probably growing.

The probably is because no one seems to want to say for sure as the reports from my recent MRI and CT scans suggest that a tumour has grown from 4mm to 6mm but they can't be sure. There's also uncertainty about whether it's the tumour that started this whole shebang or if it's a different one.

Because of this, I need to have a PET scan. For anyone unfamiliar with what it is, it's a scan where a radioactive substance is injected into the body and travels through the bloodstream to areas with actively growing cells, such as cancer cells.

The scanner then takes 3D images of these areas to show what's happening and whether the cancer cells are growing.

(For anyone very familiar with what it is, apologies if I got some of the explanation wrong. I'm a journalist, not a scientist, and trying to understand a lot of medicine is hard.)

By the time you read this, I will have had the scan, but the results aren't expected to be ready until December 22. And that is the best-case scenario, as I may have to wait until 2026. The waiting and the uncertainty are the worst bits, and that's why I'm leading the Daily Express's Cancer Care campaign.

It's essential that all cancer patients have mental health support both during and after treatment, so when they want to cry six tears or more, they know there is someone there for them.