An ordinary miracle.

It’s funny. I waited so long for this moment. 

Almost eight months, to be exact.

It was the thing that would save me. Or at least give me a fighting chance.

I’d spent nights crying, convinced this day would never come. And days planning, just in case it did.

I’d travelled back and forth to Dublin more times than I could count.

Meetings with the team. Endless blood tests. Preparations layered on top of preparations.

I’d even signed the traumatic consent form that politely outlined every possible disaster. 

Organ failure. Infection. Rejection. Death. 

A neat summary of everything that could go wrong, with my signature at the bottom to say I accepted it.

And yet, after all of it. The fear, the hope, the endless uncertainty. It all came down to a plastic bag hung from a hook.

I mean, I didn’t really know what I expected. I never thought to ask. 

I understood how they collected the stem cells. I knew it wouldn’t be a “proper” transplant, involving bright lights and an operating table. But somewhere in my mind, I’d imagined something more dramatic. Something that matched the weight of it all. Something with a little flair.

Instead, what I got was the medical equivalent of a shrug and an “Aye, that’ll do.”

To be fair, if it had been surgery, I’d have been none the wiser. Knocked out. Stitched up. Given the highlights later. 

At least with this, I had a front-row seat.

But for something that had carried so much weight, and had meant so much for so long…

I’m not going to lie, it was all rather unimpressive.

Did I really travel all the way to Dublin for just a fancy bag of blood?

On the outside, it looked identical to every other transfusion I’d had. A stand. A line. A pouch of deep red, hooked up and ready to drip. 

In fact, if you’d walked past the room, you wouldn’t have known anything extraordinary was happening. You wouldn’t have guessed that my entire future was hanging from that pole.

Inside, though, it was more serious, requiring a nurse to remain by my side for the full two hours, watching closely in case my body decided to cause a scene.

Of course my parents were there for the big moment too. Phones out. Camera roll filling up. Group chats pinging.

“Today’s the day.” 

“Can’t believe we’re finally here.” 

“This better work after all she’s put us through!”

But once fifteen minutes or so had passed, the buzz faded.

The drip dripped. The nurse watched. And even they eventually looked at each other as if to say, is that it?

After eight long months, there I lay. My life-changing moment ticking along at a few millilitres per minute.

And for a brief, dangerously naïve second, I thought: maybe this won’t be so bad after all.