As I look towards the High Holy Days, I’m reminded of a line from The Marvellous Mrs Maisel: “You try explaining Yom Kippur to a gentile; we’re happy but we’re starving, its New Years’ but we’re guilty. All the paradoxes of life are in play.”

It’s the same with cancer. Chemotherapy is horrific but it will save your life, everything hurts but its good for you and each day is a gift but they mostly suck.

I knew soon after my cancer diagnosis that I would have to keep notes and tell my story one day. It was a way to cope with the crazy, the surreal, and the terrifying. My breast cancer was diagnosed as fast growing, invasive and aggressive in April 2018 but caught early enough to attempt a cure.

The plan was brutal. A double mastectomy followed by six months of chemotherapy followed by 10-15 years of hormone therapy resulting in a permanent medical menopause. I asked my doctor when life would return to normal, she said at least 12 months. “Like a gap year?” I asked. “Mmm,” she said.

I was not a checker; I found my lump by accident. I thought I was too young and too busy for cancer. My kids were two and seven years old at the time and the chances are good I will be around to watch them grow. I was very lucky.

There are a lot of scary statistics out there. One in two of us will get some form of cancer, one in eight women will at some point in their in their lifetime get some form of breast cancer.

I was vaguely aware of those stats, but I had no idea that women in their 20s, 30s and 40s can get it. In fact, every year in the UK, around 10 per cent of women diagnosed are under the age of 45, I was 42.

But having said all that nine out of ten lumps are benign and until you find out for sure you don’t want to jump to any conclusions… if you find any unusual changes you’ve still got to get it all checked. This can be a challenging experience.

I wish someone had told me what to pack for a five-hour panic attack in a pencil box of a waiting room. I was completely unprepared and had nothing to distract me from the most terrifying collection of pamphlets in the world. One of them was for a hospice.

Before cancer, I was a professional singer and actress. I was the featured voice in the musical score for ITV’s Maigret with Rowan Atkinson and recorded the title song to the drama The Halcyon. I worked with stars such as John Cale, Petula Clark and Bobby McFerrin.

After cancer, I became a comedian. It just sort of happened. Jacqueline Nicholls who runs the music programme at JW3 asked if I could do a concert, then I got cancer, so we postponed.

I knew I wanted to do a show about my experience. I also realised I could do something useful and raise awareness by writing and performing comedy about breast cancer.

My show My Cancer Gap Year tries to answer questions like: What’s it like to have cancer? How do you say goodbye to your hair, breasts and hormones? What’s the surprise secret to a happy marriage? What’s the worst thing you can say to a person with cancer? Plenty of contenders for that one it turns out.

I don’t feel like a “survivor”, that word has very different connotations in my family. I feel as though I have had an experience with a disease and so far, I’m still here.

A mash-up of cancer, song and comedy is not an obvious one but its everything I am. The sum of all my experiences, as a show girl, a mum, a recording artist, cancer patient and, now, comedian.

I had never done stand-up comedy before January 2019. I didn’t want to offend anyone by making light of sensitive material, but in the end, I wanted to be able to be authentic about the ridiculous parts of my “gap year” while treating the disease others may have experienced with respect.

My husband and I laughed so much right from the very beginning. It was our way to cope and heal from the shock of it all. I remember both of us flabbergasted into laughter after a lengthy discussion with my insurance company over my “wig budget”.

Eventually I performed short excerpts to ‘focus groups’: my cancer friends, including those with terminal diagnosis, my women friends, young and old before moving onto very mixed crowds and comedy nights all around London. I got incredible responses from crowds who loved what I was trying to do.

It’s a mighty thing to use this C word in a comedy club. The temperature of the room goes down so quickly as the audience waits for my cue on whether its OK to laugh at someone who has cancer. That’s the amazing thing about comedy — I know immediately whether a line works or not — and if it doesn’t, I get to rewrite and try again. The best moments are when a young woman says after a show, “I’m going to check myself now. I’m going to take care of myself.” That is incredible.

One of my favourite jokes from my stand-up set is about the reconstruction of my breasts. I had expandable implants fused to my skin using a mesh made from…pig flesh. Other flesh mesh was available, but according to my surgeon, pig flesh mesh is the best. I am therefore part pig.

It led to some very awkward conversations with my vegan friends and indeed my rabbi. I’m allowed into my local synagogue now as long as I sign a waiver each time guaranteeing absolutely no-one will consume me on the premises.

The show is my way of trying to do something useful with my experience; raising awareness, raising money, showing respect and gratitude for everyone that helped me, and perhaps help others to cope and heal.

It is an honour to share my experience. It is an honour to be alive.

My Cancer Gap Year is at JW3 on October 31. Find out more here.