It was a hospital appointment that ended with:

“I have good news and bad news. The good news is we found something. It’s a one-in-a-million chance of finding it this early. The bad news is we found something, and it’s cancer.”

I carried on as normal. I was never one to give in. I love going to the gym and having the younger lads spot me. They look up to me.

“When I am your age, I want to be doing these kinds of heavyweights.” I turned round to him and said:

“My age, my age, how dare you! How old do you think I am?!” His eyes grew large, as he stuttered. Stepping back, he replied:

“I meant no offence. I thought you were in your fifties.” I threw my head back, as if in dismay.

“Fifties! Get it, right lad. I am in my seventies.” I laughed, as his mouth fell open.

The doctors started another wave of treatments, and I started the first round of medications. They were happy I was carrying on walking and going to the gym and said it would keep me going. After the first round was finished, I went back for more tests. The room felt like a spaceship, and every machine seemed to have its own orbit and noise. “I’m spending more time travelling to the hospital than sitting at home” I thought, as I listened to them discuss the next treatment.

“We will have to start you on oestrogen, as your bones will be affected by the treatment.”

I began to laugh. They looked surprised and hesitated, before speaking:

“Most men cry when hearing this; why, are you laughing?”

I looked at them sheepishly. Then a half smile curled into a reply.

“My eldest daughter is transitioning to male and has started taking testosterone so they can be who they are, to live. Now I need oestrogen, so I can live.”

I don’t know if that is funny or not, but I think it is.