10 North.

It’s funny. I’d spent weeks – months even – worrying about relapsing. I’d convinced myself so many times that it was back: trembling down the phone to Mum, crying into Ben as he held me tightly, desperate to calm my tears. In those moments, I’d been so sure. So certain.

But now? Now I couldn’t believe it. Nothing about this felt like before.

Instead of chaos and panic, I was told to go home. To wait.

Wait for a bed.

Wait for the doctors to decide what comes next.

Wait for the leukaemia to tighten its grip on me.

So that’s what I did. I went home and I prepared.

I bought new pyjamas and loungewear, and all the things I hadn’t known to bring last time.

Gin Gins for nausea.

A baby toothbrush with super-soft bristles to avoid bleeding gums.

My own blanket, and slippers with good grip.

Lavender oil to dab on my pillow.

An eye mask for sleeping through the day.

A full stock of gummy sweets – because chocolate would soon lose its appeal.

Earphones. iPad. Anything to keep me occupied.

And for that one week, I pretended things were normal, I carried my fears close, and waited for it all to begin again.

However, when the week ended, and I was stood outside Belfast City Hospital – bag in hand, supplies at the ready, its horrid yellow facade looming over me – something in me knew that this would be nothing like Glasgow.

We made our way to 10 North – a ward built for pain and torment, where every wall seemed to carry the weight of those who had once been confined inside it.

It couldn’t have been further from ward 4C. The place was old, dated, run-down. It was also bigger, stretched across two weary sections.

One section held three bays, each crammed with three or four beds and a single bathroom to share. Two bays sat at one end, one at the other, and in between, were two single rooms, usually reserved for younger patients or the dangerously ill. Adding to this section, was a neat row of ventilated rooms, saved for stem cell patients – though only if you had the good fortune of a sibling match. The rest of us? Sent to Dublin. Something to look forward to: another hospital, another medical team to get to know. 

The other side of 10 North wasn’t much of an upgrade: one bay with the same three or four beds, then a handful of single rooms. Some came with bathrooms, most without. You took what you got.

Maybe this is what other haematology or cancer wards look like. Maybe Glasgow was the anomaly. But to me, it was like night and day. What made it harder still was the brand-new cancer unit attached to the hospital. It was clean, modern, and had that high-tech, clinical feel that the Queen Elizabeth had. Practically all single rooms, all properly ventilated whether you were a transplant patient or not. So why weren’t we there? It’s a question I think many asked during their time on 10 North. 

But, at least for now, there was one constant between the two hospitals: the staff. Their kindness, their dedication…it was all there. Although, even that would come with question marks in the end.

As for me: I landed in a bay. A dark little corner bed, with three others.

In time, I’d find my rhythm in this new format. But right then, I was terrified.

I’d survived before, but as I lay there that first night, I wasn’t sure I had it in me again.