My death is never far away - there's only one wish on my bucket list

Will I ever get used to strangers touching my nipples? It's a question I ask myself increasingly frequently these days. Sometimes they pull my T-shirt down to touch them, sometimes they ask me to roll up my top for better access to my chest. After knowing these people for two years, I suppose I should call them associates, rather than strangers. I wouldn't call them friends, but I'd stop to say hello if I saw them in the street. I know which one likes tuna mayonnaise on her jacket potato; which one says their partner is like a Tyrannosaurus Rex because, apparently, she has deep pockets and short arms; which treats herself to an M&S ready meal on a Friday after a busy shift at work and which one's son loves to play Roblox.

They are the NHS nurses who have been looking after me since I was diagnosed with incurable bowel cancer. And they touch my chest because I've recently been fitted with a port-a-cath which, as far as I understand it, is a device used to drip chemotherapy into a vein close to my heart. They do it out of necessity as they need to fit tubing and remove dressings, but it still feels a bit odd.

Here at the Daily Express we are running a Cancer Care campaign to ensure that all cancer patients get access to mental health support both during and after their treatment.

We need your help to get the message through to the Government and the NHS about how vital this is.

Lend your voice to the campaign by signing our petition: https://petition.parliament.uk/petitions/713180

Now looking ahead to my third year of fighting the disease, I know the last stranger to touch my nipples will be the undertaker who puts me in a lovely cornflower blue shirt I've chosen to be buried in, so I'll at least look a bit presentable before I'm lifted into my coffin.

But I won't know what they like to have on a jacket potato, and I assume everyone who organises my funeral will be too upset to ask. This isn't something I'd ever thought about before being diagnosed with stage four cancer back in the summer of 2023.

Before then, I was a journalist trying my best to highlight issues within the mental health system. Before then, I didn't know that stage four cancer is the worst one to have. Before then, I thought my death would either be due to heart issues or getting stabbed on the tram on the way home.

But since then, I've had to get used to the idea of being defined by my vulnerabilities - of being classed as a cancer patient whose illness or wellness is judged by blood tests, X-rays and scan results, rather than being seen as a person with hopes and dreams for a future.

Everything changed for me in June 2023, and I've had to get used to a very medical world where death never seems that far away.

The first time I met my main consultant she introduced herself and then put her finger in my anus, before using a camera to check for tumours. Nurses have told me to urinate in cardboard bottles so they can weigh them.

They've asked me questions about episodes of diarrhoea in an interview style that Jeremy Paxman would be proud of. Every new pain I have keeps me up at night as I worry that it could be the cancer spreading to a different part of my body.

I've been swabbed in places I didn't know swabs could go, and been checked for pressure sores while standing with my boxer shorts halfway down my groin, in my living room. This has been tough to accept as part of my life now.

As someone who doesn't have much body confidence and who buys shorts but doesn't wear them because he doesn't like people seeing his knees, having to expose parts of my body that usually remain hidden has been a lot to come to terms with.

And feeling vulnerable about how I'm seen on the outside when I have to expose parts of myself is only half of it. The scanning machines I lie in, so my medical team can check if my tumours are under control, ensure my insides are open to scrutiny too.

Last year, they showed that the chemotherapy regimen I'm on has caused osteoporosis in my spine and, the year before that, they revealed the treatment was causing my liver to be close to giving up. And last week, they revealed that a bit of my left lung has died, and there's a blood flow issue in part of my right kidney.

Apparently, both of these recent issues aren't anything to worry about, and they aren't related to cancer. There might be more answers about what has caused them when I next have a scan, but that won't be until October at the earliest.

It's a long, anxiety-inducing time to wait when no one knows exactly what has caused the problems. But thankfully, the scans and tests have revealed that, aside from the long-term side effects, the treatment is doing the job it is supposed to.

My main tumour started at about 56mm when I was diagnosed, and now it's down to 5mm, and most of the tumours that had made themselves comfortable in my liver have been destroyed.

But I'm a realist who knows that at some point my body won't be able to cope with the chemotherapy regime. It will either stop working and lead to the cancer spreading all over my body, or the side effects will become unbearable, so I'll beg for the treatment to be stopped.

Until then, I will try to be as optimistic as possible and make plans for the future. The stats show that only 11% of people with my type of bowel cancer live longer than five years, so don't be surprised that I'm always thinking about ways to make my funeral the best one ever.

I've looked into costs for hiring an ice cream van for mourners and recently learned that I could book a quizmaster, so there could be a pub quiz-style event at the wake.

I'm also determined to have as much fun as I can while I'm alive. Within the next three years, I'd like to go on a holiday for longer than my recent 72-hour stay at my cancer hospital lasted and be a contestant on Bargain Hunt.

I'd also like to see if I can squeeze in a trip to see Puffins in the wild and maybe even go lobster fishing somewhere. And I'd also like to be well enough to be able to do some shifts at work. But I would never say this was any kind of bucket list.

The only thing on my bucket list, which I'd also call my must-do list, is to improve mental health support for cancer patients. Battling the disease and fighting thoughts that they might die long before they thought their time was going to be up is the hardest thing most cancer patients will ever face.

And at the moment, the support they need isn't there.

This is why I'm leading the Daily Express's Cancer Care campaign to ensure that all cancer patients have mental health support both during and after their treatment. And we need your support to make this a reality.