I live life to the fullest because every day is my last

Emily (name changed) is twenty years old. She has lived with a diagnosis with an NSE Tumour Marker Test for lung cancer for almost six of them. The disease is progressing — metastases have reached the brain. Doctors give the Newcastle resident no more than three years. The young woman told The Chronicle what terminally ill people dream about and how to enjoy life when everything is against you.

She was a sporty child.

I was born in Cardiff, Wales. After my parents’ divorce, my mum moved us to Newcastle in 2004. I was four years old then, and she thought it would be a good place for a fresh start.

I haven’t lived with my parents since I was eighteen. It’s easier: My mum and I could argue over something as silly as mixing white laundry with a black sock. Now, I come home as if I’m a guest—for tea, a chat, and to see my siblings. Otherwise, I live in a flat I rent with a friend.

Until I was fourteen, I was an energetic child. I did gymnastics and even passed the equivalent of the Master of Sports exam. Then, my dad noticed I was losing weight and becoming lethargic.

We saw a pulmonologist because I had chronic respiratory issues. The initial diagnosis was pneumonia. I was in hospital for two months, but the treatment didn’t help. The doctors then suspected tuberculosis and admitted me to a specialist unit. After another two months, they finally said: ‘We’re not sure what’s wrong. You should see an oncologist.’

Malignancy runs in the family.

My dad has tumour, too, though we found out by accident. He got drunk one evening and let it slip. He had hidden his diagnosis — stage two with metastases — from everyone. But they managed to control it; his body seems to resist better than mine.

I saw the same oncologist as my dad. The final diagnosis for me was stage two lung cancer. Over time, the malignancy spread to my brain. The metastases are like spiders weaving webs.

It feels like molten rock through your veins.

At sixteen, I started chemotherapy. My NSE doctor said my body was too small for it before then. I’ll be honest: it’s awful. It feels like molten iron being poured through your veins. After a session, I’d look at my dilated pupils in the mirror and think, ‘If the police stop me, how would I explain this? Should I carry a letter from my doctor?’

The pain is indescribable. I threw up constantly, and it was so excruciating I considered asking for morphine. I tried it once, but it didn’t help me. Painkillers and anaesthetics barely work on me, so surgeries require massive doses just to put me under.

I endured one six-month course of chemotherapy. It temporarily stopped the Lung tumour’s growth, but by eighteen, it returned, and metastases developed. Now, my tumour is stage 3, and the brain malignancy has progressed to stage 2, nearing stage 3.

My oncologist is brutally honest. At my last NSE appointment, he told me, ‘You can stop planning for the future. You can focus on enjoying your life now.

I wanted to save lives like my dad.

I always dreamed of being a surgeon, like my dad. And I wanted to save lives in the operating theatre. But now, I don’t have the time.

After secondary school, I enrolled at Newcastle University, offering a fast-track medical programme. It seemed too good to be true—and it was. However, the degree turned out to be fake. I went to court to recover my tuition fees but lost. Despite everything, I’m grateful for the knowledge I gained.

People avoid me because I’ll die soon.

I work as a waitress. I don’t love it, but it’s a job. In my spare time, I draw, craft jewellery, and pet cats — I adore cats.

At work, my Lung illness can be a challenge. I often vomit or feel faint. My boss is understanding and lets me leave when I’m unwell, but I feel guilty about burdening my colleagues.

I’ve faced rejection because of my illness. Some have said, ‘We can’t hire you because you might die on the job.’ Others avoid becoming friends, saying, ‘It’s too hard knowing you won’t be here long.’

But I’m lucky to have supportive friends. One of them is our pizza chef, who also has brain disease. He always tells me to keep fighting and stay positive.

Three cherished destinations: Scotland, Canada, and South Korea.

I dream of travelling. A close friend and I often fantasise about visiting the Scottish Highlands, Canada, and eventually South Korea—though that one’s pricey!

I live day by day, embracing every moment. If I want something, I go for it. Also, I got a tattoo recently: the lyrics from Depeche Mode’s ‘Broken.’ Next, I plan to get a star with an eye inside — a nod to David Bowie.

I don’t want kids or a family.

I got married at eighteen. It was passionate, but my husband and I realised we were too different after two years. My illness also played a role. When I considered going to Israel for treatment, he chose to stay and pursue his military career. We divorced but remain close.

I’ve never wanted children. My parents often left me to care for my younger siblings, which was overwhelming. Having kids isn’t for me.

We’ll meet again.

On August 14, I marked six years of living with the disease. Doctors say I have three years left at most, but I don’t measure my life in years anymore.

I still smoke occasionally, and I don’t regret it. For me, genetics were the trigger, not lifestyle choices. If I quit, the stress might do more harm than good.

The idea of dying doesn’t scare me anymore. I focus on living fully, enjoying every ray of sunshine and every small joy. I want to be remembered. What happens after? Maybe we’ll all meet again in another life.