‘My tumour’s shrunk again – the new treatment’s working but I can never move back home’

In her no-holds-barred column, Irish singer, actress and TV star Linda Nolan speaks candidly about living with cancer, a disease that has also struck sisters Anne and Coleen and took the life of their sister Bernie. This week, Linda has great news about her scan, but has to face facts about going home again

Maybe it was the slow-motion second I saw the kitchen dresser looming towards me. Or the moment of realisation that my brother Brian was handing me a pack of frozen bacon to clamp to my eye.

Either way, that nasty fall a couple of weeks ago knocked a bit of sense into me.

It forced me to finally accept I couldn’t return home. Home for me is officially five doors up from Denise and Tom’s. I only ever meant to stay here temporarily after my last diagnosis but I’ve remained for 18 months (God help them).

All this time I’ve talked about installing a stairlift and moving back. I now realise I could install a flying saucer and still could not live on my own again. It makes sense but I’m sad. My late husband Brian and I lived there before he died. Later, I did it up and was so proud I’d made it my own.

“I’ve got bifocal doors,” I told my friend Sue. “Oh great, you’ll be able to see brilliantly through them,” she replied.

But I realise home isn’t really about bricks and mortar. It’s about who you’re with, not where you are. Cancer helps you see that clearer than bifocal doors. This week I’d rather be nowhere but Denise’s front room celebrating my latest scan results with my family: it’s good news, the tumours are still stable and one has even shrunk. The new treatment is working.

Brian came with me this time and I’ve never seen him look so relieved.

So the big sort-out begins. I’ll have to decide what I can keep and what to give up. Maureen had a look. Apparently, I’ve got 40 ball dresses. Fabulous. Well, there was a time this Cinders went to the ball.

Brian’s dinner jacket and best suit are in the wardrobe, too. Our wedding album, all the boxes of photos he collected over the years. I fear there’s a few too many unopened online shopping packages, too.

So home wouldn’t be home now without Denise shouting at me for walking 10cm without my stick. If she’s Widow Twankey (I call her that – no wonder she shouts) and Maureen is the Wicked Witch (no, she really is – that’s who she’s playing this year in panto), then I’m Dorothy.

I’ve spent 18 months saying, “There’s no place like home” but, actually, I’m already here.