It is a near certainty that I will expire before my children finish primary school. In October 2012 I was diagnosed with advanced colon cancer, aged 34. Two operations and 12 cycles of chemotherapy later, I was declared cancer-free. A blissful three-month interlude of normal life concluded just before last Christmas, when I was told that the cancer was back, had spread aggressively and was now incurable. I’ll be shuffling off this mortal coil long before my allotted threescore years and 10, and probably before my twin sons hit six or seven, which I think is impossibly young and they think is impossibly old.
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