Laurel House.

Coming home should have been the easy part.

I’d be heading back to the towns and villages I knew all too well; to familiar faces and the stories tied up in them; to the unmistakable chorus of Northern Irish accents I’d missed while living in Scotland.

But returning home came at a price: starting over with a brand-new healthcare team of consultants, nurses, and social workers. And while they may have known the system, they didn’t know me. Would I be able to trust them in the same way?

I knew I couldn’t really compare oncology staff to a GP practice. They’re different worlds, with different expertise. But after the experience I’d had with my GP surgery in Glasgow, I was wary of the unknown, especially when it meant putting my life in their hands. These people didn’t know me, they didn’t know my quirks. They hadn’t seen me at my worst, or learned the shorthand of my story the way the Glasgow team had.

Still, I took comfort in knowing the team in Glasgow would have been thorough in my handover, passing every detail on to Northern Ireland, leaving no stone unturned. And fortunately, the moment I walked into Laurel House, a small cancer unit tucked beside Antrim Area Hospital, my fears melted away.

My Teenage and Young Adult nurse specialist, Kerry, was the first person I met, and who made the centre feel less like a clinic and more like a haven. She was so full of energy but never overbearing; gentle and kind, but with a spark that said she wasn’t a pushover. She was sharp, clever, and immediately reassuring.

Then there was Dr Aaron. He had that same calmness I’d felt with Dr Gillian in Glasgow – steady, approachable, and with just enough humour to remind you he was human too.

Finally, I could breathe.

And after my first few weeks, visits to Laurel House fell into a steady rhythm. Mum and I would arrive, bloods would be taken, we’d grab a cuppa and a chat with Kerry, then we'd wait for Dr Aaron to call us in to review a script that rarely changed: blood counts, tablets, how I was feeling... 

On paper, everything was looking good. 

Results were steady. Tablets were being lowered. And the physical signs of cancer were fading with each visit – and with them, the number of appointments I had to attend.

But my battle wasn’t just about maintaining good blood counts, it was also about fixing my mental health.

I’d been referred for assessment not long after returning home, and just before December the outcome was decided: post-traumatic stress. 

Seriously? I could’ve told them that one for free

Still, with a formal diagnosis, now all I had to do was wait for an appointment with the oncology psychologist.

Until that time came, I found that my fear of relapse was slowly easing with every boringly positive check-up. My strength was creeping back, bit by bit. My hair was growing as fiery as ever, despite everyone saying it would change. And the wedding? It was now only four months away.

So maybe I got cocky. Maybe I was just arrogant about how well I was doing.

Either way, a few days after passing my driving test and learning I finally had an appointment with the psychologist, I decided it was time to go it alone.

I’d drive myself to the hospital, go to my psychology appointment, and, since I was already in the area, I’d pop into Laurel House to get my bloods checked. It was all arranged.

For the first time in a long time, it would just be me. No Mum. No Ben. I was ready to prove I could handle it. That life was edging its way back to normal.

But normal, of course, had other plans that afternoon.