When I first met Craig … how can I put this delicately? … we got along together very very well, very very quickly. My mother would be ashamed of me.

But the next day, the general concensus was that we liked each other, but there were certain complications in the way, so we didn’t plan on taking what had been an enjoyable evening any further. So, seeing as we know a lot of the same people, we agreed to be just “mates” to minimise any awkwardness, and left it at that.

By this time, he’d already told me he suffered from Cystic Fibrosis, but all I knew about it was that it involved a lot of coughing, and coughing stuff up (my abject apologies if you’re reading this on your lunch break, by the way). But I wanted to know more, so I got straight on the internet to do my research. I was in floods of tears before I even reached the words ‘average life expectancy is 31’. I had just met this funny, cheerful, lovely person, who was facing a future of being gradually stifled by this horrible, unfair disease.

Long story short – we decided the “mates” thing was never going to happen, the complications ceased to be complications, and we were together within a fortnight. And since he’s lucky enough to not be so badly affected as he could be, his illness has been relatively in the background (with the exception of his pre-bedtime sulks when I’m nagging him to do his physiotherapy).

Occasionally I read on the internet about other people who have CF – a particularly inspiring read is a blog written by a sufferer called Emily Thackray, who was on the brink of death about three times in one year before finally receiving a vital double lung transplant. You can read her blog here – and I urge you to.

But I’ve also read stories of people who weren’t so lucky, and without fail, each time, I end up having to conceal the fact that I’m crying my eyes out at my desk. Of course, I could not read them and not upset myself, but in a way I feel compelled to, so I don’t ever let myself get complacent about the fact that Craig is, relatively speaking, incredibly lucky. The heartbroken tributes to people whose time ran out could so easily have been written for him, had things been different. And also, I kind of want to be prepared for how bad things can get, in case … well, let’s not go there.

So I’ve been upset for him plenty of times, but this morning was the first time I was actually scared for him. Last night, and as soon as he woke up this morning, he had two pretty massive nosebleeds, apparently as a result of coughing too much, and his blood pressure rocketing because of it. He was also coughing a lot and saying it was hurting him a lot more than it usually does. He said it felt like his right lung was tearing away from where it should be. And apparently the last time it felt that bad was when he had a chest infection at the age of 10 and had to be hospitalised for two weeks.

Of course, in the grand scheme of Cystic Fibrosis, one chest infection and one hospital stay is nothing, but the reason lung deterioration in CF patients is so prevalent is because of repeated chest infections. After each one, the lungs are a little weaker, so the next one can take hold easier. Then the next, then the next …

I know that one chest infection isn’t going to be the end of him, but the thing I fear most is it developing into that. Even though he’s been told he can expect to keep going for another 40 years or so, I don’t want his lungs to be so easily infected. Because each time that happens, they get weaker. And while I’m certainly not about to turn on my heel and get the hell out of there the minute things get difficult or scary, I can’t stand how helpless it makes me feel.

I’m going to stop depressing myself now, and remind myself that he’s going to be here for decades to come, and even if he does develop a full-blown chest infection, he’s going to get better, he’s going to run the London Marathon, and he’s not about to let his naughty lungs (who we’ve not-so-affectionately nicknamed The Old Gits after the Harry Enfield charactrs) stop him from being the cheeky, cheerful, energetic person who loves football, music, who burps too much, drinks too much on occasion, and has an obsessive need to scatter shoes, wet towels, and each and every one of his belongings over my bedroom floor.

Please – help current and future CF sufferers to enjoy many more years of irritating their partners, by giving whatever you can spare to sponsor him for the London Marathon here .