My skis touched the ground on April 21st and I had turned 47.
I wanted nothing more than to enjoy the last turns of the season, to feel that spring snow glide beneath me.
But instead, I was shadowed by a single, overwhelming thought: What if the tumour has grown?
The question sat with me on every lift ride, stalked me through every run.
It didn’t matter how blue the skies were or how stunning the views looked across Alpe d’Huez, my mind was elsewhere.
I couldn’t escape it. Every time I felt the cold bite of the wind, I also felt the quiet tension rising in my chest.
Then I got stuck.
Late afternoon, I found myself on a slope that had iced over. Not just patchy ice, but sheet ice, the kind where every edge slips and slides unpredictably.
It took me four painstaking hours to get off that mountain.
Not quite the birthday I’d envisioned. But strangely, that wasn’t the whole story.
Because before I ended up stranded, the morning skiing had been sublime.
Crisp snow, quiet runs, and for a few golden moments, I forgot everything. I was skiing, not a patient, not a question mark, just a person carving lines down a mountain.
As Alpe d’Huez closed, I wasn’t ready to hang up the skis just yet.
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I drove over to Les Deux Alpes for one final run, one last dance with the mountains.
And there, in the late afternoon light, I got what I came for. My mind emptied out. The tumour, the fear, the future, it all went quiet.
Just the hiss of skis, the rhythm of turns, and the breath of the Alps. I was completely present. A rare and beautiful gift.
From there, it was a three-hour drive to Chamonix. The skis were packed away, and the golf clubs took centre stage. But my mind was on one thing: the scan results. Due on April 25th.
I’d emailed my oncologist a few days before, asking if we could do this one by phone.
I just couldn’t face walking through those hospital doors again. Not this time. The idea of stepping into that waiting room, knowing I could walk out with good news or devastating news, and then spending the rest of the day drifting around London, alone, felt unbearable.
So I chose Chamonix instead.
If the news was good, I’d be in the mountains to celebrate.
If it was bad, at least I’d be somewhere that made breathing feel easier. That was the plan.
And so I waited.
I didn’t know what to do with myself. Sleep? Talk? Walk? I ended up watching snooker on a French TV channel, the calm tension of the game somehow matching the energy in my body. Then finally, the phone rang.
It was my oncologist. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
The truth? I had no idea. I felt numb. Not scared, not calm, just blank. Like someone had pressed pause on everything inside me.
Then came the words. “I can’t see any new growth. Everything is stable. Let’s book your next scan in three months.”
Just like that, the world shifted.
Three more months. The gift of life. The chance to keep moving, keep skiing, keep golfing, keep living.
This journey I’m on, it’s the most intense rollercoaster I’ve ever known.
The highs are euphoric. The lows are crushing. And the space between is filled with waiting, wondering, hoping, trying.
After the call, I lay on the bed for a while. Just breathing. Then I spoke to my friend Chris. We talked about our respective journeys, our scans, our fears, our wins. There’s something about sharing the ride with someone who gets it. Someone who understands that “stable” is a celebration.
Later that evening, my partner and I wandered into town. We ate ice cream under the Chamonix sky, surrounded by jagged peaks that felt ancient and grounding. Life didn’t feel quite so heavy anymore. Not in that moment.
It wasn’t the birthday I imagined, but maybe, in its own strange way, it was the one I needed.
A birthday marked not by cake or candles, but by turns on snow, quiet resilience, and the best three words I could hope for: “Everything is stable.”
