When I was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer in January last year, I thought that’s it, goodbye life. It turns out I was quite wrong.
Even though the fatigue which is part of the illness means I can no longer dash around meeting friends and prancing along red carpets as I used to in my television fat-cat days as presenter of the consumer show That’s Life!, my own life is still worth living and enjoyable.
The new wonder drug I’m on – Osimertinib, a cancer growth blocker – may hold back the spread of my disease for months, even years.
So now, aged 84, I’ve been given time to reflect. And instead of blotting out happiness, my diagnosis, the blunt reminder of my mortality, has intensified my appreciation of little things. And this has made me unexpectedly happy.
Obviously, I can’t pretend I’ve found the universal secret of contentment. There is no one silver bullet, no one answer that fits all.
But what I have discovered is a combination of small pleasures, a very personal patchwork of delight.
In our youth, when life stretches endlessly before us, we can often ignore these moments, underestimate them, our eyes fixed on our towering dreams and ambitions.
But when the horizon draws really close, your gaze focuses on the details, you consciously enjoy each moment.
From silk pillowcases to spring bulbs, and Boots the neighbour’s cat, after celebrating the Christmas she thought she’d never live to see, Dame Esther shares her very own ‘personal patchwork of delight’
Today, I no longer get bored. I never try to force the hands of the clock forward, as I did as a child.
And – I hope this doesn’t sound too goody-goody – I find every moment has the capacity to cheer, bringing something to appreciate.
So I have put together a list of my top 10 reasons to be cheerful, to encourage you, in these dark winter days, to create a cheering list of your own.
1. I’ve learned to embrace insomnia
I now treasure each minute I have left, even the insomnia I used to struggle against, desperately trying to fall asleep and failing.
I welcome the dark hours around three in the morning when I wake with a snap and stay awake. Even though I am on my own.
My bed is old, but at least that means it has adapted over the years to my shape. As I snuggle down I am surrounded with warm, loving memories.
So much happiness with my kind, generous, funny late husband, Desmond Wilcox, who died in 2000. So many sleepy conversations with my three children – Miriam, now 46, Rebecca, 44, and Joshua, 43 – and my five grandchildren, who’ve all variously piled in next to me to dispel their nightmares or to tell each other stories.
My phone next to me supplies me with the World Service, and Wordle and Scrabble if my brain is feeling energetic.
And, instead of investing in a new mattress, I splashed my cash on silk pillowcases.
I consciously enjoy the cosy comfort. Even at 3am.
2. Trees still soothe and delight me
If ever life gets on top of you and gloom descends like a blanket, I strongly recommend you go outside, find the nearest tree and look up into its branches.
Trees have a wonderful way to restore. When I was choosing a country cottage, a refuge from city life, I had to decide between one near the seaside and another in a forest.
I chose trees, and they still continue to delight me.
From my bedroom I look at chestnut, hawthorn, holly and oak. My bathroom view has yew trees, copper beech and liquidamber.
I’m so grateful to the previous generations who planted them.
Esther Rantzen after she was made a Dame by Princess Anne at an investiture ceremony at Buckingham Palace in 2015
I’ve followed their example, adding to the oaks, apples and beeches as an investment for the future I won’t see.
I love gazing upwards at lacy patterns of twigs, then buds, then leaves, bright green blazing into autumn scarlet and gold, then back to twigs again.
And what sound is sweeter than the rustle of breeze in the branches, what is more dramatic than the blast of a gale that might – what a tragedy – bring that wonderful piece of natural architecture crashing down?
3. A cup of tea is just the tonic
A new survey reveals that Generation Z no longer drink tea.
They dismiss it as ‘an old people’s drink’ and prefer sparkling water. Poor dears, they don’t know what they’re missing.
A cup of tea doesn’t just slake your thirst, it carries so many different messages: welcome, thank you, never mind, and cheer up.
The three times I was pregnant, I immediately went off tea, coffee and alcohol.
I never went back to coffee – haven’t drunk it for more than 40 years. And I was never keen on alcohol, so gradually dwindling down my glasses of wine until now I don’t touch it at all has been no great loss.
But when each pregnancy ended and a lovely new baby arrived, I instantly celebrated with a cup of tea.
I have my standards: it has to be drunk in a porcelain mug, none of that chunky earthenware stuff that detracts from the comforting taste and warmth.
I start the day with it, and cups of tea always accompany me whenever I have a difficult chore, such as filling in a VAT return.
It’s the cup that cheers but does not inebriate, my dear father Harry used to say. And, I would add, also warms your hands on a chilly night.
4. Spring bulbs bring such hope
My mother Katherine had a ritual, come October. She would fill bowls with soil and bury tulip, hyacinth and daffodil bulbs in them.
They would then be imprisoned in the dark cupboard under the stairs in our little house in Cricklewood, until their shoots demonstrated enough strength and determination to be liberated into the light.
We distributed the bowls around our house but they never quite resembled the military vigour of the shop-bought bowls. Regardless, on the darkest winter days they made us think of spring.
Fortunately, I have inherited my mother’s love of flowers, so the bulbs she planted have become a family tradition.
When I thought I would drop off my perch in a matter of weeks, there seemed little point in ordering bulbs which would not flower for months.
Happily the new drug has postponed my perch-dropping for months, even years, so I’m surviving and this winter’s bulbs are in the soil.
Hope is here. Spring’s on its way.
5. Magic of TV can bring us closer
Harsh things are often said about television, but it gives so much pleasure.
Not just in being company for those who live alone, but for the fun it provides as we watch from the comfort of our sofas.
We aren’t just sitting passively with eyes glazed, we are actively joining in with our favourite programmes, arguing with the Strictly judges, matching our wits against the quiz contestants, wondering whether our old jug could possibly be as rare and valuable as one that has just raised hundreds of pounds at a Flog It! auction.
Dame Esther with Queen Camilla during a visit to a school in Cornwall in July 2022
My parents used to keep our first television in the hall, not in our sitting room, because even though my father was one of the BBC engineers who designed the early sets, they feared it would ruin what they called ‘the art of conversation’.
The inevitable result was that my sister Priscilla and I spent long evenings sitting in the hall, and the boy who delivered our evening newspaper spent ages peering through the letterbox.
But in any case, my parents’ fears turned out to be unjustified, as television turns out to create conversation, at least in my life.
I used to ring my dear friend, the late John Pitman (my fellow reporter on Braden’s Week, a Sixties consumer show) when Who Wants to be a Millionaire? started, seeing how many questions we got right, and how close we got to a million.
And during Strictly, a couple of friends and I watched it simultaneously but apart, texting each other to guess what the scores would be and which cheerfully striving contestant would be turfed out.
It often became a controversy almost as lively as the Brexit debate – but much more fun.
6. Comfort of the neighbour’s cat
I am a dog person. I’ve lived with dogs my whole life, and loved them all.
In fact so heartbroken was I when the last lovely labrador, Arthur, died, I couldn’t bring myself to replace him, which is one reason the neighbour’s cat decided to move in with us.
Boots is what’s called a ‘tuxedo cat’, mainly black with white whiskers, white chest and white paws.
We believe he’s about 16 and, in his youth, had been an outdoor cat, fed by the neighbour during the day, then spending each night hunting. But when, in 2022, that neighbour moved out, and the new neighbours brought with them a bouncy noisy dog, Boots voted with his paws and arrived at our door.
Gradually, he’s exerted more and more control over us. They say dogs have owners, but cats have servants.
Now he spends every night curled up, bagel-like, on our sofa.
He even consents to sit on my daughter Miriam’s lap, purring and stamping his feet as she tickles his ears and rubs his chin.
Who knew cats could be such terrific company? All the better because they retain a level of independent aloofness which means they are in charge, and when they agree to be caressed, it’s a compliment.
Now I wouldn’t be without him.
7. Birdwatching is such a simple joy
It was only when a kind neighbour gave me a bird feeder a few years ago, and hung it on a branch of the apple tree outside my window, that I discovered the joy of watching birds queueing up around it to devour nuts and fat balls.
Sometimes a flock of goldfinches. Sometimes a flamboyant woodpecker shouldering all the others out of the way.
Now impertinent robins follow us around the garden. In gusty weather, rooks rise from the oak tree tops and wheel across the sky, literally surfing the air.
On summer days, skylarks shower us with song from a height, which means we have to strain our eyes to pick out the tiny, serenading dots.
As my mother used to tell me, the best things often come in little parcels – and mothers are usually right, writes Dame Esther
8. Friends and family can lift the spirits
We humans need company, someone to care about, who cares about us. We are pack animals.
If you’re as lucky as I am, with a loving family that makes you laugh and sometimes cry, keeps you in order and your feet on the ground, then you will know they make life worth living.
I look forward each night to my son Joshua reading Harry Potter stories to his son Teddy and me via FaceTime.
I love the order my daughter Rebecca brings on her de-cluttering visits, and the new life she brings the sparkly stilettos she borrows from me, knowing I will never wear them again.
And how Miriam reminds me to eat, my illness being a notorious depressor of appetite.
Good friends are just as vital.
I have recently made a lovely friend down the road who picks bunches of flowers from her gorgeous garden for me and leaves them by my door.
Another very kind new friend, who lives around the corner, delivers the always chatty, illuminating parish magazine.
If you haven’t got neighbours who lift your spirits, do reach out into the community.
There may be a local choir or drop-in centre, somewhere to enjoy an activity and share a few jokes with others.
That first step is not easy, I recognise that, but you may find people who add real joy to your life.
9. A Sunday roast – nothing beats it
It used to be a luxury when I was a child, the Sunday roast chicken with all the trimmings – a real treat to look forward to.
Now it’s become a cheap, everyday meal. A shame really, as proper roast chicken is so delicious and so underestimated.
I don’t need fancy shmancy chicken, with hidden butter to squirt at you, or infused with garlic and herbs.
Leave it alone please, celebrity cooks – although I do enjoy a few trimmings, such as roasties and stuffing and gravy and peas.
There, my mouth is watering at the very thought.
10. Mark Steel, my Radio 4 crush
The radio is often an amazing source of strength, entertainment and news. There’s something about the way the voices and music connect straight into our hearts and minds.
But among all the riches available on radio, comedian Mark Steel is in a class of his own.
Embarrassingly, I have a secret crush on him.
His R4 series Mark Steel’s in Town, in which he visits towns all over the country, learns their quirky ways, and takes over a local hall to insult the inhabitants to their evident joy, is consistently funny and revealing – even when you have listened to them so often, as I have, that you can anticipate his every wicked joke at their expense.
Mark, you are marvellous.
So what makes life worth living?
This is the year I never thought I would survive, a Christmas I never thought I would still be around to enjoy.
There have been moments in the past 12 months of high excitement – the huge relief when the assisted dying Bill, which I supported, passed its second reading, something I never expected to see.
But such extremes are rare. They aren’t what make us glad to wake up in the morning.
So I commend to you this New Year, if you have a moment, while others are resolving to lose weight or drink less, set down a list of the small joys life can give you over the next 12 months.
Not the big ones, the little ones.
As my mother used to tell me, the best things often come in little parcels – and mothers are usually right.