I slowly tilt my head backwards and open my eyes to see the blue sky.

It’s a far cry from opening my eyes in bed 12 bay 4 of the national neurosurgery hospital to see the blue curtain that was wrapped around my small bed space. 

As I look up into the sky there is not a cloud to be seen.

I feel the cold fresh mountain air enter my nose then my lungs and it fills my body with life.

Again, it’s a far cry from my morning breath only 7 weeks ago in hospital.

I had dreamed of this moment but I didn’t think it would come till April.

In fact, if I am honest there was parts of me before surgery that thought it might never happen again. 

I wasn’t just back on skis, I was on a chairlift in Alp D’Huez. 

I want to stop time and just be in this moment. 

As the fresh mountain air filled every cell of my body I brought my vision back to the snow-covered mountains.  

There is a silence as I reach the top of the lift, a calming feeling of freedom. 

As the chair slows to a stop so I can get off I have never felt so alive. 

For me to ski involves some out-of-the-box thinking.

Support shorts, special design leggings, an exoskeleton called the ski mojo, a weight lifting belt and a special walking stick with a short ski on the bottom. 

It’s a faff getting ready each morning and I need help getting my paralysed foot into a ski boot, but every part is worth it as I stand at the top of this chairlift looking over the Alps.

It’s hard to not cry - I am overwhelmed with emotions and thoughts of my own mortality and this gift of life that I have been given. 

I paused and reflected on what I wrote about last week - about how Ian Baxter was sat in that empty seat in the hotel telling me to get my boots on. 

I had done it, I know he would be smiling.

As would Roberto, my hospital friend who died during my last surgery. Roberto’s last words to me were “Keep going David, never give up”.

I felt both of these characters’ words travel through my body, almost as if they were with me. 

It was now time to do what I had been dreaming about in hospital, and by that I mean point my skis downhill and let them go.

It feels like my own private ski slope. 

There was a cloud inversion and as I somehow link each turn together with my paralysed body I can see the clouds covering the valley below. 

It was almost a spiritual moment - here I am, skiing above the clouds after only weeks after I was lying in my hospital bed. 

There was a calming feeling I had never felt before on snow.

It wasn’t about getting to the bottom as fast as possible, I will leave that to the racers.

This was about making every turn last longer.

 I didn’t want to finish. I wanted this feeling to last for ever.

50km later I had skied non-stop till the final lift.

I live in fear it will be my last time, and I know one day it will.

But for now I am very much alive and feeling my skis on the snow is the only thing I want. 

After three days of beautiful blue skies and fresh snow it was time for my final run of this trip before the journey home to face oncology. 

That last run was the most incredible feeling I have ever experienced, it felt perfect and as I unclipped my skis I had left it all on the hill, I could hardly walk as I had no energy left. 

That’s the way to end a day skiing. 

Now it was the come down, and when I say that hits hard I can’t put into words just how hard. 

It wasn’t long after taken my ski boots off that I had out my trainers on and walked into the cancer centre in London. 

So many people and as I sat in the only free chair I just look at the floor till I hear my name.

There is the odd glance and eye contact with a fellow human and a gentle smile of I feel you.

It always strikes me just how many people are here.

Thankfully today I felt my visit was positive, my Chest CT scans were clear and my oncologist was telling me about the new radiation machine with image-guided delivery

It could mean that my tumour where the lower dosage of radiation was delivered in 2019 can be hit with more radiation and give me more time. 

I left feeling a rush of happiness as I was fully aware there were other people today in there who didn’t get good news. 

This week I was given the greatest gift and that was life.