"In February 06 my husband Alan started to feel terribly tired. His doctor said ‘diabetes – lose some weight’. We were delighted; type 2 diabetes, that's easy. Then the weight fell off Alan and one morning I noticed that his skin fell in little folds, like an old man (he was 58, and a fit, outdoors worker).

Over Easter things got worse, and he could barely make it up the stairs. Finally, I talked to my own doctor, who said that it didn't sound like diabetes, and she'd take him on if he wanted to change. Within a week Alan was in hospital with anaemia and poisonous calcium levels.

Quite quickly they found the mass on his right kidney, then the tumours on his liver, and the growth along the vena cava towards his heart. At that point they gave us a 5-10% chance of survival. I'll never forget going to Southsea the next day, and walking along the front discussing his funeral, such a sad, sad day, cut off from the rest of the world, shocked and frightened. I have never looked at any of the scans, feeling that I'd have them in front of my eyes for the rest of my life. I'm not a coward, but don't think I need to torture myself unnecessarily.

For the next few weeks we worried the poor surgeon at Basingstoke hospital who clearly felt he wasn’t up to the operation. Alan was in and out of hospital, and had endless drips to flush out the calcium. We live in part of a ruined castle that is open to the public and Alan belongs to the English Civil War Society.

One weekend, the regiment came to do an event at the House, and they were so disappointed that Alan wasn’t there, that they decided to go to the hospital on Sunday morning and silently salute him from outside. It was incredibly moving, especially when Alan was allowed to go down and see them, and walked along their ranks. There really wasn't a dry eye.

After a bit, he was transferred to Frimley hospital in Surrey, which was closer to my place of work, but further from home. I work for the MoD and they were unendingly kind; never raising the least difficulty about my time away.

The operation was set for 17 July, and Alan and I said our goodbyes, and sat quietly together. The surgical team arrived and said that they weren't up to the job, and would Alan please report to King's College Hospital in the morning.

Somehow we weren't surprised, but our immediate concern was how to get there. Alan was clearly not fit to travel on the train, especially in the soaring temperatures we were suffering. But my Commander came to the rescue, sending his air-conditioned staff car, and for that he should be given his angel wings!

We went to London and Alan was admitted and the operation date set for the 20th. I found it a very salutatory experience, being an ethnic minority in that part of London, and it all felt so dreadfully alien, leaving my husband there and coming home alone.

The next day passed all too quickly, and as Alan’s theatre time was 7am, we decided I wouldn't race up to see him first thing, but would wait till after the operation. It was one of the hardest things yet, to walk away from him that night.

The next day I was back at King’s by 10.30am. My legs were leaden as I walked up the stairs to the ward, fully expecting to be told that he hadn't made it. Instead, I was taken to the waiting room (blessedly air-conditioned) of the high dependency unit. And there I waited for hours. At 4pm, I was taken to the Liver Intensive Therapy Unit (no air con!) At approaching 5pm, I caught the smallest glimpse of Alan whisked by on a trolley, and of course I burst into tears. A veteran of the Liver ITU took me under her wing, and comforted me. After a while I saw two of the five surgeons, Mr Walsh and the liver specialist. His first words were ‘it was very bloody'. Nine units, in fact.

Some time later I was able to see Alan. I perched on a stool by his side and soon he woke up and smiled. 'I don't like that pink cardigan you wear.' he said. I had to smile; a life threatening operation and that was the first thing he said! Needless to say the cardigan has gone!

My hotel was some three miles away and I took to walking the route as it was a little cooler than the bus, which must have been circling hell. Liver ITU was cool, but I wasn't allowed to spend much time in there. The very next morning, I went to Liberties, where bought some earrings and had iced coffee, and dared to feel normal again.

After two weeks, Alan was allowed home. On the drive home, he read his copy of the letter to our GP, and learned that there were tumours on his lungs as well. We were devastated all over again, and very angry.

Still, one overcomes anger, and within two weeks, we were with Professor Pandha at St Luke's Cancer Centre in Guildford, where he was prescribed Interferon three times a week. Alan also had a scan, which miraculously showed the liver to be clear of tumours. That was a wonderful day and the best news we'd had for months.

Christmas was a challenge and I defy anyone to not wonder if we’d ever have another one together. But we did have a lovely time and Alan looked better and better. The next scan was on 15 January 07, and then we had a very long wait of a week for the results. Professor Pandha said that a small increase in the tumours was ok, but if they had held steady that would be excellent news.

On 23 January 07, we were at St Luke's again, and Professor Pandha beamed at us: ‘It’s the best possible news – no trace of any cancer.’ I went a lovely shade of puce and burst into tears, and Alan looked happy and very shaky.

So now, we just live and hope and keep appointments, and eat good food and laugh. Lots and lots".