I’m 27 and dying of cancer, but my friends are ‘ghosting’ me in my final days

Josh Cullen has very little time left to live – but due to a dispiriting feature of human nature, finds himself almost alone in the world

The last will and testament of Joshua Patrick Cullen gives his pet cats Aurora and Titch to his mother, his 3D printer to her boss Conrad, and what little else he owns to charity. Listing his wishes for his funeral, he asks that the service not be religious, says he does not want mourners wearing dark clothes, and stipulates he would like “as many people as possible” to attend.
This last bit is important, because since his diagnosis with a brain tumour, something curious has happened: one by one, friends have melted away. Whether out of awkwardness, fear or just an instinctive desire to steer clear of death, it seems they just don’t want to be around him. Their absence becomes more painful and poignant by the day, because he has very little time left to live. Four years after discovering he had stage four cancer, Josh is now literally on his deathbed. Aged just 27, he believes he only has a few days left to live. Remarkably, while the cancer started in his brain, it is only at this very late stage that it has begun to affect his ability to think clearly; talk, and read. It is his body, not his mind, that has been hardest hit.
Despite this bleakest of realities, his friends should not be afraid: Josh is remarkably good company, for a man on his last legs. Talking can be difficult, he tires quickly and his mouth keeps drying out, but laughter comes readily. His running joke with his mother, Magdalena, is that he has to snuff it by October 8 because that is when she is due to go back to work. She’s been on compassionate leave from her job at the frozen food company Iceland since doctors said there was nothing more they could do for him, but it’s not indefinite. 
“That’s my best before date. Her boss has been brilliant, letting her spend all this time looking after me, but I need to get a rush on,” he says, smiling. Somehow, there is plenty more humour to be found as he recounts a fate which is anything but funny. Next to the hospital bed that the NHS provided so that he can die at home, is an A4-sized “end of life planning book”. The title? “F–k! I’m Dead! Now What?” It’s characteristic of his sense of humour. Inside is all the information Magdalena (who prefers to be called Magdi) will need when he’s gone: bank account numbers and passwords, Facebook and email account log-ins, lists of people who matter to him.
Which brings us to the thorny subject of all the so-called friends who have suddenly found themselves too busy to see him. Long before he became too weak to make his way from bed to bathroom without using Magdi as a crutch, Josh’s old work colleagues and school friends started cooling on him, finding this and that excuse to avoid meeting up. When he suggested going for a drink, they would never exactly say no, but they seemed strangely loath to commit. After a while, it became embarrassing to keep asking.
It turns out that there’s a name for this: cancer ghosting. It is a recognised phenomenon, sadly familiar to other patients and professionals. To those with no previous experience of this dispiriting feature of human nature, however, it comes as a tremendous shock. “People just don’t know how to deal with your diagnosis. Unfortunately, they almost throw you off to the side. But cancer isn’t contagious– so why not just say, ‘how can I help?’ Why not just be there?
“Each time I’ve tried to meet up – because they’re always the ones to forget about me – they’ve just ghosted me, in the kind of way people ghost in relationships. I wish there were more friends about, it wouldn’t feel so lonely. They used to send messages, but I hardly ever get that any more.”
While Josh describes this profound isolation without a trace of bitterness, Magdi struggles to suppress her anger at all those who have so thoughtlessly deserted her son. “I have no words for them. They have abandoned him,” she says quietly.
Indeed, this is such a severe case of cancer ghosting that were it not for her, it seems Josh would be almost all alone in the world. Not so long ago, he was a fit and handsome young man with huge horizons, dreaming of building a career in the airline industry and emigrating to Canada. Now he’s making plans for his own funeral. 
Magdi sleeps on a blow-up mattress next to his bed in their two-up-two-down house in Boston, Lincolnshire. Josh is totally dependent on her, and she doesn’t dare be more than a few feet away. Besides, she wants every last second with her son. So this stoic, uncomplaining woman (long ago divorced from Josh’s father) is up three to four times every night, helping him get to the toilet, ensuring he stays hydrated, and generally trying to make him as comfortable as she can. Broken as she must be, she seems to be operating on the same adrenalin and instinct as the mother of a newborn: somehow able to remain instantly alert to the slightest twitch from her son, whilst getting just enough rest to make it through another day. 
As Josh approaches his “best before date”, mother and son have fallen into a quiet routine. Every day, he wakes at 8am and has a hearty breakfast: a ham and cheese toasted sandwich, milky coffee, fruit and a sweet pastry (unlike most cancer patients towards the very end of their lives, he still has a good appetite). While Magdi potters around their house trying to find ways to fill the hours, he watches Netflix, fiddles around on Facebook, and sends WhatsApp messages to absent friends. 
He takes some 17 different medications a day to alleviate his symptoms, including powerful steroids. As a toddler, he was so cute that he was registered as a child model. Now he has what he calls “moon face” from the steroids he has been prescribed, which have pumped up his face. Certain pills make him sleepy, giving Magdi some respite. Her physical challenge is not just exhaustion, but the sheer bulk of her son. Unlike most cancer patients towards the end of their lives, Josh has not lost weight. On the contrary, he has piled on the pounds, a side effect of his medication. At the same time, the tumour has left him with very limited mobility, particularly on his right side. He cannot get out of bed or walk unaided. Their short journey between bed and bathroom is like a macabre three-legged race, son draped over mother.
Hers is a deeply moving exhibition of exhaustless maternal love. The agony of watching him grow more bloated, incapacitated and cut off from all that twenty-somethings should be able to enjoy is unfathomable, but this is what terminal cancer looks like and demands of families. Both mother and son feel it’s important not to gloss over how horrible and ugly cancer is, a concern they share about the Princess of Wales’ recent video about her own experiences. 
In the Hollywood-style message, she looked every bit as beautiful as she did pre-cancer. Her husband and children looked joyful. She openly acknowledged that she is not yet out of the woods, but was literally in sun-dappled woods for the film, skipping around with her children in a floaty dress. Josh certainly isn’t criticising her, but feels the meticulously choreographed footage – viewed by millions of people around the world – somewhat underplays the grimness of the condition.
“The film is lovely, but it just doesn’t feel very real. The truth is that cancer is often doom and gloom. People die,” he says simply. In his own case, statistically speaking, there was never much hope. Diagnosed with a grade four glioblastoma on Christmas Eve 2020, he was given between 12-18 months to live. 
The first Josh knew that anything was wrong was when he collapsed at work. One minute he was doing his job, processing parcels for the logistics company DHL, the next he was being blue-lighted to a hospital in the grip of the Covid pandemic. Mercifully, the NHS didn’t hang around. After an MRI scan revealed a suspicious mass on his brain, he underwent surgery within three weeks. Only after they had operated could doctors assess the severity of the tumour, which turned out to be the absolute worst. To those in brain tumour circles, it is known as “The Terminator.”
All this is more than enough tragedy for one man and his family, but there would be another awful twist. Around 18 months ago, during a break in his treatment, Josh’s girlfriend Becca fell pregnant. The pair were overjoyed, but it was both unexpected and dangerous. Chemotherapy drugs are well known to affect the reproductive system, potentially risking the life of an unborn baby. With characteristic optimism, Josh says he knew all this but “still expected good news.” It was not to be. 
Following weeks of complications, baby Poppy Grace was born prematurely last summer. Tragically, she was severely disabled and lived for just two precious hours. While coming to terms with his own mortality, Josh has had to deal with this other shattering loss. Of course he would never have wished it this way, but there is a fragment of solace in her passing: somehow he feels less alone on his own journey to a place where (though he is not religious) he truly believes they will be together. Her ashes, preserved in a ring he wears on his wedding ring finger, are a constant source of comfort. “In a way, she will always be with me,” he says. 
This young man, who yearned to move to Toronto or the snow-capped mountains of Banff, and desperately wanted to be a dad, didn’t do anything to cause or deserve his brain tumour. It was just bad luck. In what little time he has left, he’s eking out as much joy in life as can be had under the circumstances, looking at beautiful black and white photographs of his daughter, watching escapist movies and trying to be thankful. Around 6.30pm every evening, Magdi lets him have a dram of his favourite single malt whisky. Alcohol may not do him much good, but at this point who cares? 
He is eternally grateful to all the healthcare professionals who have kept him alive this long and overjoyed that he ever got to be a father. When he tries to put his gratitude to his mother into words, he is overcome. As for those elusive friends?
Here’s hoping that at the very least, they find the courage to pay their respects when he is gone.
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