I read this in the Mail on Sunday's YOU magazine today, and wanted to share it.  It's not very often that something hits me right in the stomach, but I was taken by the dignity, the humour and acceptance of this article.

Should it transpire that this shouldn't have been copied here (and I'm sure it shouldn't) then please accept my apologies and acknowledge that it was posted because of the sheer honesty and dignity portrayed.

"In March I found out that I had six months to live.  Even though I have been battling leukaemia since December 2004 - when I was 32 - nothing prepared me for the words as they came out of the consultant's mouth.

It was a Friday and I was due to go to Italy the next day.  I was having a biopsy before I went, but didn't anticipate getting the results that day.  My cases were in the car and was going to pop in, have the biopsy, then catch an early morning flight on the Saturday.  I had been expecting to have a bone-marrow transplant, but the counsulatnat explained that the leukaemia had relapsed, making it incurable.

A few hours later, I was rding down the motorway, knowing that this probably going to be my last holiday abroad.

Sitting in the car with me was my partner of 19 years, Matthew.  I say partner, but we are getting married (why didn't we do it earlier?).  He shoulted 'No, no, no.' when he wound out, while I sate there like a stuffed hamster.

We both cried in the car, but when I got to my family's house, I was bored with it.  Three hous thinking about anything on the motorway is long enough.  I wanted to chat about normal stuff and knock back some wine.  In Italy it hit me every morning when I woke up, and I usually cried, but then I just got on with the day.

It's not all doom and gloom - we still laught a lot.  We even laugh about the illness.  Things have become more special.  Sitting on an empty, white beach can be euphoric.  I have had more intensely happy moments in the past two years of illness than I have ever had in the rest of my life.

Still, it's a strange situation to be in.  Suddenly I can't talk about what sandals I will wear in the summer.  I can't talk about how much my house will be worth in five years' time.  I can't even plan new carpets, curtains and lampshades.

It's worse than it was two months ago.  Two months ago I had the hope that I might survive.  I could plan what job I was going to get when I was better, I could imagine the country without Tony Blair.

It doesn't feel as I thought it would.  I suppose I thought I would suddenly understand what is truly important in life, gain profound insights.  But I still find myself getting irritated when the plumber is ten minutes late of the house is a mess.  And I still worray about mundane things such as whether the library books are overdue or if I will offend someone if I don't go round for dinner.  Friends say 'You should blow loads of money on a holiday or luxury food,' but I don't seem to be able to do it.

I am no different from how I was before.  I enjoy messing around, I like chatting about Big Brother just as I always did.  But now people find it hard to talk to me.  When I was off work with the flu or tonsillitis, mates would ring up, talk about my symptoms, ask if I was watching Fern and Phil, giggle about people from work.  Now, if they do ring, they whisper, 'How are you feeling in yourself?'  One has lost contact after 24 years of friendship.

Being given 'six months to live' is a cliche, of course.  When I walked away from the consultant's office, I knew it would be less than that.  Now it seems like it could be weeks.

I am still trying to plan for things - just different things.  I am planning to close my building society accounts and take some clothes to charity shops to make everything easier for Matthew.  I am planning to put a few photographs around the house, so he won't forget me.  I am planning to tell him where the towels and bed linen are kept.

I have even found myself thinking who his new girlfriend could be, and almost want to fix him up with someone else.  I love Matthew very dearly and don't want to leave him, but I must make sure he knows how to turn on the dishwasher before I go.

It's weird what I have found myself thinking.  I was planning my funeral in my head and imagining people arriving at my house.  I was sitting in a chair, welcoming them, wishing some of them weren't there and wondering how everyone would get on.  And then I realised I won't be there.

I find myself thinking, 'Oh, I must watch that film before I go,' as if I am going away for six months and then I will be back."

Sarah Hitchin

Sarah and Matthew got married on 14 April.  Sarah died on 11 May.

Thank you to all those who allowed this to be published.