My name is William and in 2023 at the age of 43 I was diagnosed with advanced stage 4 colorectal cancer that had spread to my lymph nodes and lungs. I had endured six months of changed bowel habits, bleeding, tiredness, and weight loss before I saw a GP who advised they'd scan me, but it would be a while as I was "too young" to have bowel cancer. Having received a lump sum of back pay at work I spent it all on a private scan as I knew in my heart something was very wrong.

A month later, sitting on a blue plastic chair opposite the doctor who had operated the camera, I was told there was a tumour about 9cm easily visible in the bowel. That I had to contact my GP immediately for an urgent referral for a PET-CT scan. That scan in turn led to the day that changed my life forever. Being told the results of the scan that confirmed the cancer, and its spread within my body. That it was completely inoperable. That I wasn't expected to live for more than 12 months without treatment. To be told they'd start me on chemotherapy to try and give me more time. There followed a series of conversations with friends and family that were the hardest I've ever had. There was so much crying, so much pain. Anger, depression, sadness at the loss of a future I'd now never know.

I was started on oxaliplatin and capecitabine, and later moved on panitumumab. I suffered all the side effects in the book, neuropathy, cold sensitivity, skin splitting, pustules, nausea, diarrhoea and constipation, depending on which drug I'd taken the day before. For six months I could do nothing but be ill. There were regular MRI and CT scans, camera inspections and clinic appointments at the Christie in Manchester. Bowel Cancer UK and the local Maggie's centre were both sources of information and support.

But I was lucky, the cancer had no mutations that would speed it up, and it was being held back by the drugs from spreading. The tumour in my bowel shrank. I passed the anniversary of my diagnosis and fell into a pattern of seven days feels awful on the chemo, and then seven days feeling sort-of okay before the next dose. I was able to get out a bit more, walk a bit longer, think clearly a bit more.

The cards I received from my friends and family, at the time of my diagnosis and during my treatment meant so much to me. And still do. They soon filled the lounge and a string we'd hung on the bannisters. From friends all across the country that I'd only remained friends on Facebook with and not spoken to for years. From unexpected people I'd known in my childhood that my parents were still friends with but who I hadn't thought of in 20 years. People letting me know they were thinking of me, and that even though they were too elderly, busy or far away to do anything that I was in their thoughts and prayers.

Then in 2025 the most amazing news. There was no evidence of disease on my scans; I was officially NED. I would carry on with the chemo to keep beating down any cancer cells still hiding in my system, but it was an outcome no one expected. Six months later the side effects of the chemo became too much to bear and it was decided to risk ending it and just to continue with scans every three months to watch for the cancer returning.

I should have been ecstatically happy, and I sort of was. But I was also scared. Scared about how long the reprieve might last, some people had recurrences after only a few months, others went years. Scared about the future, working, holidays, benefits stopping. I didn't know how to feel. Could I make plans for the future again? Should I just plan in three-month chunks? What did this mean for me?

As I started reading other cancer sufferers' stories and talking with my counsellor at my local hospice I started to realise that there is still so much people not on active treatment have to deal with. And when I say cancer changes everything in your life, I mean it. There isn't a single part that is untouched. And I came across a lot of messages that really resonated with me from survivors and long-term sufferers.

And I had an idea. An idea that became this website. To put those messages and my experiences onto cards that might help people trying to express their feelings. And even if people didn’t like the designs of the cards, they could use the words as inspiration for their own messages to their loved ones.

So armed with a copy of Microsoft Paint, a 15 year-old version of Photoshop, free programs like Inkscape and Graphics IMP I started putting designs together. And when I thought that it might actually work I signed up with a trial of Shopify and a printing company to see if anyone else out there might support this project of mine.

And that is how you have come to be reading this. And it’s a lot longer than I thought it would be. But in a world where it seems nothing can be trusted as genuine on face value, I wanted to set my experience down to let you know I am real. The sentiments in these cards are real. The tears I cried while writing this were real. And wherever your journey, and that of the person in your life who you are thinking about getting a card for, goes, you are not alone. Others have walked it before, and will walk it beside you. And in that comes knowledge and experience and empathy that I hope will make things just that little bit easier for all.

For support and advice, I can’t recommend highly enough the Macmillan forums for sufferers and those set up specially for their loved ones. There are also closed Facebook groups for sufferers of specific cancers, stage four sufferers in particular, and partners of cancer sufferers.
The Maggie’s centres across the UK do amazing work in supporting patients and families.

PS. To be transparent Shopify’s AI was used to create the example images of the cards on desks and tables, but not to put together the actual cards. I will be planting trees to offset this use of AI. It really is me in front of all those drugs in the above picture, before I had to shave my beard from the chemo side effects. And now it’s growing back I feel like the person in the mirror is me again.