Rows of chairs, eyes glued forward, hushed whispers, and periodic speech from the front. If not for the “controlled area X-ray” signs or the milky after-taste from my morning’s Allopurinol this could be a lecture room on any ordinary day.

My lecture room for the day, however, is not in the Seeley. It is in the X-ray department. The subject is my health, and I do not need to take notes.

This is not the first time I have been in this room, and the ease with which I have adapted to (or accepted) my new situation gives me a warm feeling inside. A few weeks ago I was in this very room, awaiting an X-ray which I thought at the time would dispel the marginal possibility of cancer and prove I had a lingering viral infection. Weeks have past, chemotherapy has started and my life has changed - it was not a virus.

“Hodgkin Lymphoma, Stage 2”.

I am not, by nature, a calm person. Three years into my degree, supervisions continue to turn my stomach. Throughout my life I have been dogged by two words: “What if?”

What if I forget my textbook?

What if I fail my exam?

What if I disappoint them?

“The constant fear of what could be is meaningless in the face of health uncertainties”

These insidious questions, and countless more like them, pushed me through school to Cambridge.

Now, with everything thrown into chaos, I feel more content with myself than I ever have before. This change of circumstances has demonstrated to me that the constant fear of what could be is meaningless in the face of health uncertainties. I can relax and be pushed along by the tide of medication, cycles of chemotherapy, and new medical jargon.

Our lives are structured by milestones. So far, for most of us here, they have been exams: SATs, GCSEs, A-Levels, Prelims, and Finals. These milestones hang like millstones, and continue as we chase the job, the house, the perfect family. Once my cancer is beaten it is natural that I will continue to worry about these issues but it has shown me the value of thinking about the day. Incessant deadlines had rendered this unit of time largely meaningless to me. Every strange Cambridge week would be spent looking to the next week, the term ticking over in chunks of reading and writing, until the bliss of holiday.

Every day counts. It should not be seen only as a step toward tomorrow, a day should be seen as valuable in itself. Don’t put off that thing you have been scared to do. The balance between health and illness is fragile. It is a bank account where overdraft could be a day away.

“Your health balance does not go away, so take a walk, meet friends, go out and live. Put yourself first”

The process of cancer treatment itself involves risks (cheerfully the consultant told me I have less than a 1% chance of death from the chemotherapy!). Chemo renders the body extremely vulnerable to infection, and the injections I take to raise my white blood cell count could cause excruciating bone pain. One evening I could feel fine and the next I could be taken to hospital at risk of neutropenic sepsis. Everyone has a health balance —thankfully most are less precarious than mine.

The three nights on the C9 cancer ward at Addenbrookes made me feel restless. My room’s window onto the beauty of the Gog Magog hills seemed to taunt me. I would spend hours standing at the window staring out at people going about their business. Nine floors up I might as well have been in a plane. When I was given the option to walk to my biopsy instead of a wheelchair I jumped at the chance, and when I was finally discharged I had a new appreciation for the cold English weather as I stood thoroughly under-dressed outside the hospital.

Every day deserves your attention. The looming shadow of exams is returning again and libraries will be full to capacity. Your health balance does not go away, so take a walk, meet friends, go out and live. Put yourself first.

I sit in the X-ray waiting room at peace. My hands do not shake.

The author has been documenting his treatment on Instagram @the_companion_planters