She is gone with the wind

Love and loss in the cancerverse

The first time I met Kathrin was the last time I hugged her.

She lived in Munich, Germany with her husband and little son. I lived in London with my partner Sarah. We’d met each other online through the lung cancerverse. Her story shared by a mutual friend Yvonne, via her lung cancer charity. The Kathrin I met on social media was a pilates and yoga teacher. From her photos and story, I sensed her a graceful, centred human.

A woman who cared for her body and helped others care for theirs. A woman who began to feel incomprehensibly tired, who was told it was probably due to peri-menopause. A woman who developed crippling foot pain, who eventually had a scan that led to more tests that led to a Stage 4 ALK-positive lung cancer diagnosis. A woman whose cancer remarkably almost disappeared from her bones, liver, spine and lungs thanks to a targeted therapy drug; who was re-evaluating what it meant to be alive on this curious planet in the new version of herself. Who was rebuilding, eating good food, meditating, planning for her own pilates studio, caring for her little boy.

November last year: Yvonne and her charity co-founder Jan organise a charity ball to raise funds for research. Sarah and I drive down to Bristol and attend. It’s proper glad rags time. We dress up in our finery. I borrow gold shoes, buy a gold belt. Kathrin and her husband are flying in from Germany. My cancer bestie, Sarah Li and her beau Robin are joining us there. We have lung cancer but we shall go to the ball.

There is fizz, excitement and glamour; rarely spotted on planet lung cancer. I bounce into the ballroom and immediately there she is: Kathrin. My heart leaps into action and I dash towards her as her eyes and smile dash towards me. The embrace between two people who have a deep, cellular connection with few words or even having met in the real world is exquisite, precious. Each body holds the other’s wounded body. The tears that have been shed are felt. There’s a rare, quiet exchange as if we worship at the same church, as if we’ve listened to the same sermons. Our souls nod at one another. You know. I know. We know.

Kathrin and I discovering we are real actual human beings in the three-dimensional world. November 2025

We’ve been communicating via social media for six months when we meet. We ping words of hope and joy and celebrate good scan results. We champion one another, leave voice notes. If I look at our online chat it’s full of colour, silliness, joy; dancing and laughing emojis, exclamation marks. We talk about wellbeing, supplements and the daily joy of dark chocolate. We wonder whether we could run a retreat together with Kathrin running the movement sessions. We’re thrilled that our bodies will meet in person.

The night at the ball is glorious. We smile and natter. We commune as a group. My Sarah, Kathrin and Alex, Sarah Li and Robin, Yvonne and her husband Quentin. Charlie and her wife Max. Gini and her husband. One of each pair has Stage 4 lung cancer. There is dancing. We’re no longer people with lung cancer as our commonality. We’re disco queens and kings, our bodies groove and sashay, we get on down and get on up. If we’re sick, then arms and legs have missed the memo. We know the harshness of bodily mistrust and failure, so we celebrate this ease and joy. We’re pumping and laughing.

Kathrin dancing in the green light, smiling and grooving. November 2025

The next morning Kathrin, Sarah Li and I go to breakfast with our co-pilots, our loves. We talk about our mutual love of coffee. We want the simple act of drinking one to be the best it can be. It’s one of life’s pleasures for us all. We talk gently of cancer, fear and hope, of friendship and the lifeline that it is. We talk of gathering in Munich, of visiting Kathrin and Alex’s home. We feel, I know we feel, safe. We feel safe with one another in a world where often we are ‘other’. A world where people don’t know what to say to us. We know what to say without saying anything at all. An invisible magic thread links our bodies, our souls.

Sarah Li, me and Kathrin. If the coffee’s good, life is good. November 2025

Shortly before Christmas, she messages. Her consultant is worried about her latest scan. Now, on planet lung cancer we know the agony of waiting, the torture of not knowing, the pain of the what-ifs. And when it happens, and happen it does, we believe that all will be well. With our heart and cells, we believe. We trust that medicine, clinicians will calmly create a clear plan. Will find the next option. Will fix us. We hold on tightly to the rope of hope. We protect our cancer family fiercely and we refuse to let doubt leak into our spirits. We have an almost holy sense that our friends will live in health. And they feel this for us. In our solidarity, we are solid. We will not float away.

As the weeks pass, Kathrin becomes quieter. Sarah Li and Yvonne and I send messages of love and hope to her and later to Alex too. She’s becoming sick and she’s in hospital. Here is not the place to share her pain and suffering. It’s ultimately private. It belongs to her and her extraordinarily loving husband Alex and her little boy. As does the profound love.

We exchange messages with Alex lots in May. Kathrin writes too that she is feeling better. There’s perhaps a chance to see an oncologist in Paris or Switzerland. But then she becomes weaker and sicker. Too poorly to travel. Hope runs onstage then dashes off again. At the end of May, she’s in a beautiful palliative care hospital, with fresh air and comfort and kindness.

On the morning of Thursday 4th June, Alex messages. He has never messaged in the morning before.

‘She is gone with the wind. Safe journey dear beloved Kathrin’.

How we, her friends, feel is not for now. Our hearts are for Alex and for their beautiful seven-year-old boy.

Just over a week later, Sarah Li, Yvonne, my Sarah and I travel to Munich from London. It’s the first time any of us have visited. We eat pretzels and drink coffee before the celebration of her life; the coffee isn’t good but the pretzels are our new favourite thing. Kathrin isn’t at the table with us but we feel her. She’s our connection to Munich, this is her home. If we’re here for her, then we’re here with her.

We arrive at the church and suddenly the absence of our friend is real. Beautifully, people are wearing colours and clothes that Kathrin would love. Dresses float around ankles; scarves of all colours adorn necks. We are yellow, green, pink and blue. A smiling, young woman hands us a taper to light and a memorial card. On the front of the card is an image from a Georgia O’Keefe painting and on the back a photo of Kathrin cartwheeling on the beach.

From Pink Shell, 1931; Georgia O’Keefe

We join the hushed line of people ready to light a candle by the coffin. Alex, darling Alex, hugs each of us in turn and we hold him tightly. Kathrin and Alex’s son is running around wonderfully, playfully in his Germany football kit. The air moves as he rushes. And this life and joy and movement is so precious to witness.

The coffin that has the privilege of carrying our friend on her journey is adorned with pale pink roses, with rosemary, eucalyptus and fresh lemons. With hydrangeas, lime green and tinged with pink. There are pots of lavender. Hay surrounds the pots. Incense wafts through the high vaulted room. The church has criss-cross windows high above us and no paintings or statues. It is simple and spacious and allows room for us to breathe. We are holding Kathrin; the priest is holding us. We are gentled by his presence.

The service is conducted in Bavarian German. Yvonne, Sarah Li, my Sarah and I don’t understand the words but we feel deeply the presence of love. Of gratitude. Of a strength in the presence of some divine or celestial place where her spirit perhaps is. There is comfort that, despite our lack of understanding, we’re sharing solace and love. Beginning to explore what it means when the physical body leaves us. And how in our hearts the soul has not.

The tapers are softening, melting and changing shape. Some bend into beautiful shapes like drooping flowers.

I feel Kathrin’s smile.

Sorrow rises from deep in our bodies. Eyes fill and spill and tears pass from one person to the other. Whilst one weeps, the other comforts. And still their son runs and plays inside and outside the church. He is little Kathrin, of Kathrin. Her body has endured enough. But he is here. His body is here. Alex is here. Their loved ones and friends are here.

A friend of Alex’s plays the cello. This is language we understand. Bach’s Prelude from Cello Suite No.1 in G Major breaks our hearts with waves of sound that release the poignancy and beauty of this moment. It is quite the most perfect choice of music.

And, as the service ends, magically the last taper snuffs out. I see a waft of grey, soft smoke. It rises, floats upwards and then dissipates into the air. Our time in this holy space is over. It is time to release our friend.

Inside the card handed to us is a picture of Kathrin. In it, she looks with strong eyes and a soft smile. She’s not afraid. She’s not in pain. She is beautiful. She’s looking at us. And in the card too are words by Van Morrison.

‘Hark, now hear the sailors cry

Smell the sea and feel the sky

Let your soul and spirit fly

Into the Mystic.’

Kathrin. You have flown. You are flying. And we’ll carry you in our hearts.

When I stretch my body, when I see a rose, when I dance, when I look at photos of us all, I’ll feel you. I’ll look up and see you in the sky. You brought light, sunshine and strength to us. Fly high sweet woman.

If you are grieving for a loved one, I offer my heartfelt condolences. There are charities that support the grieving through these times. In the cancerverse we hold each other tightly; whether you are a person living with cancer, recovered from cancer or a loved one of someone who has died of cancer. We carry one another in our hearts. Reach out and share your sorrow with someone who loves you if you can. And if you know someone who is grieving, maybe send them a heart.

We met Kathrin through Oncogene Cancer Research. A remarkable charity that helps people with oncogene-driven lung cancers live longer, lovelier lives and powers lung cancer research.