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After stepping onto the scales for the first time since leaving the hospital, I was thrilled to find that I had lost two stone. This was back in May 2023, following a 12-day hospital stay due to meningitis. The persistent diarrhoea and vomiting were far from pleasant, but the weight loss seemed like a silver lining. That is, until I brought up the significant weight reduction to my GP during a visit for what was believed to be a urinary tract infection.

She reacted to my weight loss with far less enthusiasm, suspecting it might be a symptom of something more severe than simply “vomiting from both ends” (a phrase my old maths teacher fondly used). As it turns out, she was correct. The weight loss was indeed a result of cancer – a cancer that began in my bowel and subsequently spread to my liver, bladder, and the edge of my stomach.

For the past two years, I’ve been relentlessly battling these tumours, all the while pondering whether I’ll ever feel attractive enough for the Tinder crowd.

Before my cancer diagnosis, I had a goal to shed two stone to become slender enough to find a girlfriend. Now, I contemplate if I’ll only shed this weight upon death, as my body decays in the ground.

And now, thanks to eating all the pies and the steroids I’ve been given as part of my cancer treatment, I have far more than just two stone to lose.

My aim is to lose as much weight as I can by next March, so I don’t consistently feel the weight of judgment at my cancer hospital appointments for tipping the scales at a size reminiscent of a small hippo.

To clarify, the judgment I’m referring to isn’t from the nursing staff. They are pleased with the steadiness of my weight over the past two years. The judgment stems from myself, as I draft birthday wish lists requesting XL clothing, in contrast to the M size I once wore. I berate myself while reminiscing about the days of Britpop when the Teletubbies graced our TV screens, and I sported plenty of skinny-fit t-shirts instead of resembling one of them.

I wonder if I need a Fat Fighters-style boot camp, especially after seeing the recent pictures of me taken by a Daily Express photographer. As you’ll see, from the image accompanying this piece, I look like a sausage bursting out of its skin, and not in a succulent, full English breakfast good way.

Not to turn this into too much of a Bridget Jones-style piece, especially as I’ve never met Colin Firth, but I might touch on my efforts to ditch my moobs occasionally as the months go on and I wonder whether an extra mince pie is worth it.

He’s not Colin Firth, but my efforts so far have involved a physiotherapist giving me lots of exercises, including pulling resistance bands while they are connected to the tops of doors.

It’s too early to say whether it will make me sexy enough for Tinder ladies, but it has made me feel slightly better in myself. The physio sees me as a person rather than a list of blood test results.

I’d like to see this from all medical staff working in cancer hospitals across the country. Blood tests are obviously necessary when fighting cancer, but just focusing on them neglects the fact that everyone diagnosed with the disease is a person, with hopes and dreams for their future.

Mental health issues are the most significant side effects that they’ll face while battling cancer. They must get mental health support both during and after treatment, and I won’t stop fighting until this is standard across the country.