I’ve left Scotland now to return to London for my next round of MRI scans and to plan my next steps on this journey of life as an athlete and tumour patient.

But I have struggled.

I keep referring to my “why”’ to keep me going and to not just give up all hope. However, as I sit staring at my computer screen with multiple tabs open showing hundreds of oncologists, I feel suffocated under the pressure of staying alive.

It’s not as if I can open my door and feel the calming effect of the Cairngorms and breathe the fresh air all day.

London simply doesn’t give me that respite from the stress of hospital.

I know radiotherapy is a definite, but there are options on the machine that could hopefully deliver a therapeutic dose without damaging my spinal cord.

Going through research paper after paper of this is not what I want to be doing.

It can feel exhausting, so I am trying to plan another adventure to the mountains between decisions.

Before any trip away, something much more important was on my radar this week: the launch of a new protocol for radiotherapy in the UK at the Houses of Parliament.

Led by Professor Pat Price from Radiotheraphy UK, it was an opportunity for experts in the industry to meet with MPs and those who had experienced radiotherapy first hand.

The personal stories are always the most powerful and I was humbled to share a stage with others who had gone through a similar journey. There is an instant bond on a deep empathetic level. No words needed, just a smile or a look.

I left Westminster with a level of hope and optimism that the UK is working to catch up with the backlog of cancer diagnosis.

After all, one in two people will be diagnosed with cancer and radiotherapy is a key treatment in saving these people’s lives.

It wasn’t long before everything we had spoken about in Westminster was playing out for real as I found myself sat in the waiting room at Queen Square for my MRI.

As always, it’s a reality check for me and a place that grounds me with gratitude for the most simplest things in life. I spent over an hour lying completely still as the scanner did its job – my mind was going into overtime with unhelpful thoughts.

It was, however, a lovely feeling to know on this occasion I was leaving and going home. I know there is a high chance I may return to surgery here at some point, but not now.

I have often spoken about my time on the neuro ward looking out at the people walking past.

Maybe they are enjoying a drink and are possibly unaware of us looking out at them, but tonight I wasn’t looking out the window: I was stadning on the opposite side of the garden square looking up at the ward.

I could see the blue shower-like curtains and thought of who might be in the bed I was in a few months ago. But at least I got to stand on the other side of Queen Square listening to the sound of people laughing and talking instead of the sound of hospital machines.

I got to breathe the air and, more importantly, I got to go home.

As I looked around I wondered if others also pause to look up, and to appreciate their gift of life.

As I stood looking up into the ward, I had one more overwhelming thought come over me. “Wwill this be the place I eventually die?”

But as my Uber left Queen Square I also left that thought there.

I can’t stop thoughts like this but through my work with Professor Steve Peters I have learned how to manage them.

I woke the next day and could take solace in the fact that there are so many incredible people like Professor Price working on not just radiotherapy but multiple ways to treat and manage cancer.