Big girl pants.

Honestly, it feels like there’s very little to report from the months that followed my ICU visit. Life just went on. Days blurred together, counted in blood results and obs checks, with little to separate one day from the next.

Of course, I still had my moments. Cancer doesn’t exactly do things easily.

For instance, there was the evening my auntie was asked to check in on me.

My parents were going to be in Scotland, helping my brother settle into his new uni accommodation. They were only meant to be away for the weekend, and Ben would still be there to look after me and keep me company. But, I hated the idea of them being so far away.

Up until the day they left, I’d been fine.

But then it started. The shaking. The first sign of infection, when your body tells you that your temperature is high and it doesn’t like it.

“You’re just stressing,” my mum said. “You’ll be grand.” 

Gone were the days of instant sympathy. We were well past that now.

“I guess so,” I replied nervously. But somehow I still knew. 

And lo and behold, a thermometer shoved into my ear a few minutes later confirmed the worst.

Despite now very much not wanting my mum to leave, my stubborn refusal to appear weak – helped along by my nurse telling me to put on my big girl pants – saw me reluctantly tell my parents I’d be fine and that they should go before they missed their boat.

At that, my brother didn’t hesitate for a second. He said his goodbyes, and off he went, my parents following behind. Brotherly love, eh?

As for the infection… like always, things had to get worse before they got better.

Cue my wonderful aunt, Clair.

Not to lay it on too thick, but she really is an angel. Incredibly kind, with a calm, grounding presence and a wicked sense of humour. She also happens to be a children’s nurse, which meant she’d seen her fair share of illness and hospital wards. Therefore, taking care of me for a few hours should have been wee buns.

But unfortunately that wasn't the case, and instead, that night most likely left her traumatised.

When she arrived by my bedside, there I was: sweat pouring out of me, skin as pale as my white cotton bedsheet, and my blood pressure somewhere down by my boots.

It wasn’t subtle. 

It wasn’t reassuring. 

And it certainly wasn’t my best look.

Worse still, I could tell my poor aunt was thinking the same.

That night, we kept the conversation light. She stayed while I drifted in and out of sleep, helped me to and from the bathroom, poured water, adjusted blankets – all the small, ordinary things that suddenly feel enormous when you can’t do them for yourself.

But that look on her face never left. And behind the calm voice and reassuring smile, I could see the panic she was trying so hard to hide.

So, to try and put her at ease, every so often I’d casually slip into the conversation that I was fine. That this was normal. That infections happened all the time. 

Because, in truth, they did. This was all just part of the process.

But she’d never seen me like this before. And no matter who you are – stranger or niece – seeing someone ill in that way is hard to comprehend.

I remember the first few times I saw friends and strangers lying sick in their beds. I remember the feel of their thin frames, bones sharp beneath their skin as I hugged them. The pale faces. The heavy eyes. The way blankets seemed to swallow their small bodies whole.

But at some point, it all becomes normal.

At some point, it doesn’t shock or scare you the way it once did.

Now, as relfect on that night, I hate to imagine the worry she carried home with her – the anxiety of not knowing how the rest of the night unfolded.

Thankfully, time is a incredible healer, and now we look back on that night and laugh. 

Laugh about how she came to look after me, but somehow I ended up looking after her. 

About how my mum and I thought she’d be the perfect person to call because of her job, forgetting that a cancer ward is an entirely different experience.

And about how completely desensitised my mum and I had become to how crazy life with cancer really was.

To us, it was just another night on the ward. 

To everyone else, it was terrifying.

Thankfully, we never had to call on my aunt again. But if we had, I’m pretty certain she wouldn’t have answered.

So, to my wonderful aunt and Clairy godmother: sorry for the nightmares!