Forever in My Heart: The Story of My Battle Against Cancer

I know he was wrong to bash that man over the head with a golf club. Like I’ve said before, Jack can be a real Jekyll and Hyde character after he’s had a drink. But at the end of the day he is really, truly sorry, and in my mind that’s what counts. He admits he did wrong and, hopefully, has learned his lesson. People seem to forget he’s only twenty-one and at that age men make their mistakes.

We watched a DVD and had a takeaway and I tried to blank it out. We’ll just have to hope for the best.

In many ways I feel so protective towards Jack. He gets loads of flak whatever he does. No one seems to realise just how lovely he can be to me, and especially to my boys. They adore him.

I’ll never forget when I went on the Jonathan Ross show and he made a point of talking to me in the dressing room afterwards, telling me that Jack is a wrong ’un for me.

I was touched he cared that much about me–he is a dad himself after all–but I wanted to tell him Jack’s not all bad. He just gets slated in the press all the time no matter whether he deserves it or not.

I’m having more than my fair share of bad luck at the moment so I hope that to balance things up Jack can have some good luck in court tomorrow. Fingers, toes and everything else is crossed for him.

1st September 2008

I went on GMTV today to talk about the cancer. I wanted to set the record straight about a few things.

Like the fact that I certainly didn’t know I had cancer when I went in the Indian Big Brother house, because the doctors had told me my bleeding was just stress or bad periods. And that I’d already signed up to do the Living TV show Living with Jade long before any of this cancer nightmare started and it had nothing to do with it.

I never really plan what I’m going to say–it just all sort of comes out.

I told Fiona Phillips that I am not made of iron. I know people think I am strong, which is lovely, but this is tough.

I think maybe the first shock is wearing off because I’m not crying all the time any more and I managed not to cry too much on TV.

But after the show, I had two bits of bad news in a row.

First of all, Dr Ind called to tell me that I am definitely in stage two cancer and the doctors need to sit down and talk me through it step by step tomorrow. Great!

Then Jack’s mum Mary rang me to say that Jack has been sentenced to eighteen months in prison. It felt as though my world fell apart all over again.

He’ll only serve half inside and half with an electronic tag, but he is still being taken away from me just when I need him the most. I thought back to when we kissed goodbye that morning and I wished him luck. I didn’t believe for a minute I wouldn’t be seeing him again a few hours later. Maybe I should have realised it was a serious charge, but I didn’t.

Kate had just got back from Afghanistan that morning and I rang her in hysterics.

‘What am I going to do without him? How will I do this? I can’t cope!’

She tried to calm me down. Usually she can talk me through crap things that happen and make me see it’s not so bad. Not this time. I was just screaming and screaming.

In my hour of real need Jack had been snatched away and it hurt so badly.

I drove round to Mary’s house and fell into her arms, sobbing. She is completely gutted that her son has ended up in prison. They are a nice family who live in a lovely house and they have no experience of prison at all. It’s another world to Mary. She just can’t believe it.

‘I need his arms around me so much right now,’ I sobbed. ‘Why did they have to take him away? I love him and so do my boys. I won’t cope without him.’

She tried to comfort me but there wasn’t anything she could say or do to make it better. No one could help me that day. I just had to pick myself up and carry on because there is no other option. That’s all I can do. Just carry on.

2nd September 2008

I had a meeting with Dr Ind. Jack would usually have been at my side, but instead Mary offered to come in his place.

‘Don’t worry,’ I said–I hate putting people to any trouble–but she insisted.

So we drove off to Harley Street together. It took ages to get there and I was late–as usual.

While I was driving, Jack rang me from prison on my mobile.

‘Where are you?’ he said.

‘I’m still driving,’ I replied.

‘But you’re late!’ he cried. ‘Come on, Jade, this is important.’

I couldn’t believe he’d remembered the exact time of my visit and called up to check I got there. He worries about me so much.

We finally arrived and the doctor got out my records and scans and looked at them seriously, then he leant forward in his big chair to explain to me about the operation and the chemo and the radio I would have to have afterwards.

He said softly, ‘At this stage, Jade, I would advise my young patients to make a will.’

A will? Excuse me? When a doctor tells you to make a will it’s different from your financial advisor telling you.

My lip started to tremble and I could sense Mary was welling up.

‘May I have one of your tissues, please?’ I said, reaching for the box.

Then tears started streaming down my face. God, this cancer business was really serious. Who makes a will at twenty-seven, for god’s sake? I shouldn’t have to think of such things.

After the meeting, standing outside in the corridor I started to sob again. ‘I might die,’ I cried, feeling really low all of a sudden.

Mary put her arm around me. ‘No, you won’t,’ she said. ‘You are so strong. You’ll get yourself through this.’

I knew she meant well, and I was glad she was there, but sometimes I get sick of being called ‘strong’. It’s like anything that’s chucked at me, I just have to get on with and I’m sick of it. What else could I do but be strong? There were no choices.

We walked back to the car park together. ‘Can you drive?’ I asked, handing her the keys. ‘I don’t feel able to.’

I could see she was nervous. It was a new £135,000 Bentley, so I understood why.

‘You’ll be fine,’ I said. ‘I trust you.’

She got in the car while I went to the ticket machine to pay. It didn’t work. So I went to another machine. It didn’t work.

I pressed a buzzer to speak to a man. The conversation went something like this:

‘Excuse me, could you lift the barrier please?’ I asked.

‘Sorry?’ he said.

‘Excuse me, the ticket machine doesn’t work, could you lift the barrier?’

‘I don’t understand you,’ he replied. ‘Can’t help.’