At least there was Coke.

I thought a bone-marrow biopsy would be as bad as it got. 

Then someone decided to put a needle into my spine. 

(Really puts a nice new spin on being stabbed in the back.)

“Just a precaution,” they said. 

“Just to be certain.” 

“Just to be safe.”

The pitch suggested it would be like a bone-marrow biopsy, bringing with it the same set of rules: big needle, my back to the perpetrators, a prayer to the gods that whatever happened next would be quick.

Only this time the sample would come from my spinal fluid.

And because it’s apparently rude to show up to a party empty-handed, the consultant figured we might as well bring along an injection of chemo too. Just in case.

Unfortunately, I seemed to be the only one at this party still unsure of what just in case actually meant. Which is perhaps unfair of me to say. After all, they did try to explain what was about to happen – tossing out acronyms like LP, CNS and IT, as though speaking fluent medical jargon might somehow make “needle in the spine” sound less alarming.

Plus, there was a great silver lining to their pitch: once it was done, I could reward myself with a fizzy drink – Coca-Cola was best – since caffeine supposedly helped stave off the post-LP headache.

(Note to anyone in the medical profession: come up with better silver linings.)

But, despite all this, there was one minor detail they failed to mention: the electric knee-jerks and hip spasms that would jolt through my body whenever the needle met a nerve on its way to my spine. And however much I wanted to flinch in these moments, I had to resist. 

Why? Because this was all part of enduring a lumbar puncture – the final test the team needed to be certain everything was fine after my MRI the day before.

But when the consultant and registrar invited Mum and me into one of the visitor rooms, away from listening ears and pity-filled eyes, it was clear that their certainty had betrayed me, and things had taken a turn for the worse.

The leukaemia was now in my central nervous system – my brain – having crossed a barrier of protection I hadn’t even known existed.

And I wasn’t alone in my shock. Later I’d learn that even the consultants hadn’t expected the results to be what they were – that they too had been let down by the whims of certainty.

Soon I would begin having regular lumbar punctures, each one delivering an intrathecal dose of chemo. 

I’d have to abandon the trial I’d been following and its current course of treatment, as this certainly wasn’t part of the plan. 

And my third round of the vibrant CPX would be replaced with an extra round of high-dose Cytarabine.

But none of this answered the one question I couldn't say out loud.

Was this the beginning of the end?