I was told it was my last Christmas

For Sharon-Ann Phillips, 57, the festive time will always hold bittersweet memories

- ANNA MATHESON

Perched on the edge of the hospital bed, I studied the consultant’s eyes, trying to predict what she was poised to tell me. ‘I’m so sorry, Sharon, but I’d estimate about six months,’ she said.

I felt my body deflate as I crumpled to the floor. A nurse wrapped me in her arms and helped me back onto the bed, trying to find the right words to reassure me. But how could I be reassured at this point?

It was December 2015, and the doctors had just told me there was nothing more they could do. The chemotherapy that was treating multiple myeloma, a type of blood cancer, was making me so weak, and my heart was too damaged to have more treatment. I was dying.

Later, a doctor broke the news to my husband Danny, then 54, so I didn’t have to endure the agony of seeing his face. As always, just as strong as he’d been over the two months since my diagnosis, he’dheld it together.

He let me cry into his arms as we decided not to tell our kids. We wanted one last, happy Christmas, without any sorrow.

Between us, Danny and I had six kids. There were my sons Joshua, then 24, and Zachary, 18, and my daughter Jess, 17, from a previous relationship. Then there were Danny’s three – Christian, then 16, Tianna, 12, and Marcus, 11.

We’d been together since 2009 and had married in July 2014. Back then, we thought we had a long future ahead of us. I worked in accounts alongside helping Danny run businesses, including a bakery and restaurant. In our spare time, we enjoyed long walks and bike rides.

But, after our wedding, I became increasingly exhausted. As the months went by, I began to get breathless when I walked up the stairs, and suffered with random heart palpitations.

‘I do spin classes every week,’ I told the doctor. ‘This isn’t right.’ But my symptoms were initially dismissed as stress and anxiety.