For the last several years, we have attended a carol service held in York Minster for the charity FSID, which is the "Foundation for the Study of Infant Death". Sarah has mentioned the names of Trish and Rob, two very good friends who lost their first son at 17 weeks, just before Emma was born to Sarah and I. Today, for the first time, I was driven to just a few yards of the Minster, both because I cannot walk too far, and because of the cold. Sarah and I walked into the Minster together, and made our way to the nave, where the carol concert would be held.

The service has always been a moving one, as the theme of cot death, and the loss of a child naturally creates an emotional atmosphere, and one in which we all share a time of reflection together. The readings are always evocative of love and loss, and the sermon is one usually reflective of the support to be gained through loved ones, family and friends, and of course, faith. It has also been poignant to Sarah and I because of the number of miscarriages we've had, all of which are to me and to her, a child lost but never seen. For each and every one of Rob and Trish's friends, there is something to the service relevant to them and the number of tears shed over the years by all of us during the service could, I am sure, have created a small salt water lake. The fact it takes place in the minster is another factor in creating the unique atmosphere of contemplation and reflection I've always experienced in the service, and, as Sarah puts it, the minster itself is the kind of place that could make a Christian out of an agnostic.

The sermon this year was again about love, and support, and the places in which a person who is going through grief and loss can find solace, and how in some situations, words cannot express what needs or wants to be said. One quote I found moving in particular, attributed to St Francis of Assisi: "Go and spread the gospel, by words if necessary." For me, it was special because so many people I know, and have met or spoken to since the very beginning of my illness, have all, I know, wanted to say something of comfort, and yet for some of them, it is hard to know what to say. Many people are uncertain of how to be around a person who has cancer, and can, as a result, end up tongue tied, or speaking about something else entirely, or laughing just that little too loudly, or becoming ill at ease when a silence comes along in the conversation. Until my father became ill with cancer, I think I was one of those people who would be a little tongue tied around the illness, uncertain of what to say or do, of how to be. I know I just wanted to help in any way I could, to say something that might at least offer some comfort, or just to let the other know I was hoping for their recovery, but I also know I was a little scared of saying the wrong thing, or being insensitive, or just making a cock up. The one thing you'll notice about that is the concerns I felt were all about me! So I used to be this person who, through fear of embarrassment, would finish up avoiding the subject or skirting around it, or, at most having a very brief foray into the subject with a "How are you?" (usually asked in the hope they would say "Fine" and we wouldn't have to talk about it anymore!)

After my father's illness, I was able to face cancer more realistically, by which I mean with a greater concern for the person with the illness than how I looked talking to them about it. By the time Sarah's mother was diagnosed, I was much more able to just be with the fact of her illness. In fact, for reasons I have forgotten, I was the only member of family there when she found out she had cancer - she was given the diagnosis in Reading Hospital, and I recall vividly how taken aback she was, and how much she could not believe she could have got the illness, having lived a life free of alcohol almost completely, of smoking, of any excess of any kind whatsoever. I know for a fact, I did more by just being there and holding her hand than I could have done with a thousand words, no matter how perceptively, or wisely, or appropriately chosen those words had been.

I know it even more now.

I know by merely attending the service today, as we have in many years past, we all of us are expressing our love and support for the two people who have lost the most precious thing one can lose. I know when I hug Trish to say hello at the service, she is being supported in the way a thousand words could never provide.

This year, I was also aware of the strength and depth of feeling for me and mine and Sarah's situation, although not once was my illness mentioned by any one of our friends. That is the way it can be sometimes with love.

Tomorrow, I'll be in the hospital, having my cassette changed, and possibly staying over night. I'll also have to mention my increasing shortness of breath, and the pains I sometimes get in my left hand side - the left lung is where the lesions were a few months ago - because I am concerned perhaps while the attention has been focussed on my ever more ugly rear, the unseen tumours in my lung may have been partying away unnoticed, ready to spring a surprise on me.

But, whatever happens, I know beyond any shadow of doubt, I, and my family, will be cossetted and supported by friends and family, even though it may be silently, and from a distance.