False hope.

By the time we reached mid-September, I’d been in remission for several months, and the cells in my spinal fluid had finally been banished after a series of deeply unpleasant sessions curled up on a bed with a needle in my back.

I was close now. Close enough that the transplant felt less like an idea and more like something with a date attached to it. All that remained was to sign the documents confirming I understood the risks and potential side effects.

The list was extensive and unsettling, but it didn’t feel optional. Many of the risks came with life-altering consequences, and while I could only hope I wouldn’t be one of the people they applied to, refusing didn’t offer anything better.

Death was listed among the possibilities.

It was oddly matter-of-fact, set down alongside everything else, as if it were just another outcome to be acknowledged. But given the alternative, it didn’t feel like much of a deterrent.

Without the transplant, it wasn’t a risk at all – it was the likely conclusion.

However, before I could reach that stage, there was one last hurdle to clear: a collection of painful lumps that had spread across my legs.

Every movement felt stiff and heavy, as though my legs, once again, no longer knew what they were meant to do. Even the simplest tasks – like shifting in my bed or trying to put on joggers – felt deliberate and uncomfortable.

As a result, tests were done to work out what was going on but, thankfully, everything came back clear. It was just an anomaly – a word that implied resolution without really offering it.

I guess by this stage, I’d learned to stay guarded, to expect that there was always something more waiting beneath the surface.

But, as the pain eased and the lumps slowly disappeared, I tried my best to accept that all was fine.

And then came Dublin.

By this stage, I’d already had several appointments with the Dublin team, each one preparing me for something that still felt completely out of reach, following the same predictable rhythm of introductions, blood tests, and new information.

This visit, however, was different. Today, I would be signing my life over to their care, marking one step closer to my transplant.

But before asking me to sign the final document, my consultant said she wanted to do one last check.

As she listened to my breathing, she asked how I’d been feeling over the past few weeks.

I told her everything had been grand, before adding – almost as an afterthought – especially now that my legs were healing.

She stopped to look me in the face.

“What?” she said. “What was wrong with your legs?”

I froze. She hadn’t known. The team in Belfast hadn’t told her, and I could tell immediately that this wasn’t something she was happy to be hearing for the first time.

“They’re fine now,” I said quickly. “They did tests. Most of the lumps have even disappeared.”

I felt at that moment that I needed her to believe me. I needed this to stay on track. But my reassurance made little difference, and instead, I was asked to remove my tights and show her my legs that were now painted with the bruises left behind.

That’s when she asked the question. The one I knew was coming, but hoped deep down would stay sealed.

“Did they do a biopsy?”

I couldn’t look at her as I answered. 

“No. They didn’t.”

That was it. That was enough.

She told me I could get dressed again, and turned back to her computer, her fingers already moving swiftly across the keyboard.

In that moment, it was clear two things had been decided: Belfast was about to receive a rather stern email, and my transplant would be getting pushed back – again.

“It could be leukaemia,” she tried to explain. “It can sometimes present this way.”

But all I could do was nod, numb with the familiar fear that there would always be something else – another problem to solve, another delay standing between me and the treatment I needed.

Was this it? Was this really how it was going to be?

By then, experience had taught me that hope was a fragile thing, and luck rarely landed in my favour. So when I returned to my little room on 10 North, sleep never came.

My mind was exhausted. 

My patience was thinning. 

And whatever hope I’d carried with me to Dublin was now gone.

I felt certain I knew how this would end. That the biopsy results wouldn’t be in my favour, and that the transplant would never come.

How could I be in this situation again?