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Helen is my best friend. She's more like a sister, as we became school friends aged 11. She supported me through my unhappy first marriage, and was the only one of my friends not to disappear when my husband's bad behaviour became obnoxious then downright antisocial. When I called time on my marriage, everyone said hang in there, think of the kids. Helen said think of yourself. He's destroying you, and you'll end up destroying each other and the family. Get out for everyone's sake, especially your own.

There's only a month between us, so in 2002, we had two fantastic 50th birthday parties. She's a month older than me, and I remember joking at her party, 'Oh well, you're a month nearer death than I am!' How we both laughed, little knowing that by the end of the year those words would no longer be funny. In November, Helen was diagnosed with the most aggressive form of breast cancer.

When she told me, I knew it would do neither of us any good to dissolve into floods of tears. We'd always joked that, when our husbands died, we'd go on a widows' cruise. My second husband, Tony, gets seasick watching a bad weather report, and Helen's husband, Len, can't swim and is terrified of water. So we said when we'd seen them both off, we'd go on a widows' cruise together. So what did I say when my best friend told me she had cancer? I said: 'Don't you dare die on me. Who's going to come on the widows' cruise with me?' It took a lot to say that, and when I put the phone down, I cried buckets, but it was what Helen needed. Everyone around her was crying, and she couldn't handle any more grief.

She lived 200 miles from me, but I was there when she came around from her mastectomy. Of course, I took her a present. Flowers? No. Chocolates? No. Fruit? Absolutely not. My present was a cheap plaster bust of Napoleon, with a label around his neck: 'You said you'd need a new bust. Will this one do?' Helen laughed so much, she almost burst her stitches. So did the other patients in her room, and the nursing staff. It was a specialist breast cancer treatment unit, and all the patients in Helen's room were discharged days before the others. Helen's breast care nurse reckoned it was because Helen and I had kept them all amused with our double act. Well, they do say laughter is the best medicine, don't they?

There were some tears when, despite the ice cap that was supposed to prevent hair loss from chemotherapy, all Helen's beautiful long blonde hair fell out. But she had a great wig, and, when her own hair finally grew back, we had some more laughs. I hadn't seen Helen for a couple of months. When we met up, I grabbed a handful of her new hair, gave it a tug, and said, 'Helen, this wig is great, it's almost like real hair!' She should have retaliated, but she couldn't, she was laughing so much.

Five years on, Helen is now cancer free. I had my own scare when I was recently recalled after a mammogram, but Helen soon cheered me up. 'Sandra,' she said, 'Your bust is so tiny, EVERYONE would notice if there were any abnormalities. You're going to be OK. Stop being such an attention seeker.' Thankfully, she was right. We're now 55, and growing old disgracefully. When our husbands step out of line, we remind them that we can always schedule the widows' cruise for next week!

On a serious note, this approach worked for Helen, but it may not be appropriate for others. However, I truly believe that any cancer patient will benefit from cheerfulness and positive thinking. The last thing you feel like doing when a loved one is newly diagnosed with cancer is plastering a smile on your face. But it may be just the thing they need. In any event, do your best not to break down in front of them. It will help neither of you.

Learn more about this author, Sandra Piddock.
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