In 2024, I was unexpectedly diagnosed with leukaemia. I was 34. I had no symptoms (none!) and it came at the worst possible time, although there is never a good time.
I am a musician and was one week away from flying to New Zealand to be in a show. I was extremely excited about the show and, to be organised, I thought I’d get a blood test to check my iron levels before I left the country for five weeks.
Six hours after the blood test, I got a call from my doctor telling me that something was wrong. I was what’s called neutropenic. In layman’s terms it meant I had no immune system and I needed to go to hospital immediately.
It made no sense. I had been in Savers, at my nieces’ school fete and the pub the day before. The doctor said to wear two masks and stand outside or I might not survive an infection – which sounded like a ridiculous overreaction for what I was sure was a mixed-up test. It wasn’t. After entering that hospital I wouldn’t leave it again for six weeks.
At around 7pm that night I was told I had cancer (who knew they have haematologists in emergency?). The diagnosis was utterly overwhelming. Although my family is amazing, they weren’t close by that night. A friend had come for a few hours to help translate what the doctors were saying while I was in a state of shock. But I was alone in my hospital bed when I woke up around 3am and it all suddenly hit me. All I could think about was that not only was I not going to New Zealand, but I also had cancer, and it was going to kill me. It always seems to kill people in the movies – I beg you writers to stop doing that. Lots of us live.
As I was death spiralling, a nurse walked past and asked if I was OK. I wasn’t. I just dissolved and, through tears, explained what was happening. He asked if I wanted a hug. I did, and I have never needed one more in my life. His name was Ben.
That night was probably the scariest part of my whole time with cancer – I’m now in remission. I never saw Ben again but his name stuck with me through the six weeks in hospital and eight months of chemo. His kind act meant the world to me then, and still means the world to me now.
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