Needles, lies, and pugs with one eye.

So, what actually is leukaemia?

Put simply, it’s a type of blood cancer that starts in your bone marrow, the soft, spongy bit inside your bones where blood cells are made.

Normally, your bone marrow knows exactly what to do: produce the right mix of red cells, white cells, and platelets to keep your body ticking over. But with leukaemia, things go a bit rogue. So rogue, in fact, that your marrow starts pumping out faulty blood cells – usually white ones – either too many, too few, or a batch that just don’t work the way they should.

In short: the system that’s meant to protect you stops doing its job.

Now, if leukaemia starts in the blood, then surely a simple blood test can tell you exactly what type you’ve got… right?

You’d think so. But that would just be too easy.

See, while a blood test can pick up the warning signs – the dodgy numbers, the abnormal cells – it doesn’t always show the full picture. To really understand what’s going on, doctors need to go straight to the source: your bone marrow.

Think of it like dating. You can clock the red flags early – poor texting etiquette, weird vibes, too many mirror selfies – but to truly know what you’re dealing with, you’ve got to dig a little deeper.

Unfortunately, in this case, “digging deeper” doesn’t mean some light online stalking.

It means a bloody great needle in your back. Or, in medical terms, a bone marrow biopsy.

This form of biopsy is, essentially, a fun little team-building exercise for two healthcare professionals, complete with needles, numbing agents, and a rapidly dissolving sense of dignity for the one going through it.

Let me explain:

You curl up on your side, knees tucked to your chest, back to the docs, while they whisper sweet lies like “you’ll be fine” and “we’ll be gentle.”

Spoiler: they won’t be.

Because no matter how skilled or kind they are, those pesky little leukaemia cells don’t give up their secrets easily. It takes pressure. Persistence. And a wildly unfortunate amount of needle wiggling inside your bone.

*Insert sick emoji here.*

And if that's not enough, you also have to stay completely still.

Because nothing says “relax” like a giant needle in your hip and the quiet panic of not knowing how long it’ll last.

But hey... that's just one girl’s opinion.

Truth be told, it can get easier.

If your treatment’s working, the stars are aligned, and you've bagged yourself a doc who’s worth their weight in anaesthetic. Not too much to ask, right?

But for me? Most biopsies were brutal.

The kind that left me trembling with tears I didn’t see coming, and a grip on my mum’s hand so tight it left marks.

These biopsies were the ones you'd box up and tuck away, never wanting to remember.

Of course, every so often, there would be one that didn’t make me want to crawl out of my own skin.

In fact, I even have one I’d go so far as to call my favourite.

And it's all thanks to Dr Gillian.

Not because that particular one hurt any less (spoiler: it absolutely didn’t), but because somewhere between the numbing injections and the silent tears, she started telling me the story of her one-eyed pug, Brian and how he became...well...one-eyed.

Why she chose that moment, I’ll never know. Maybe she saw I was scared. Maybe she just wanted to fill the silence. Or maybe she understood something I didn’t yet have words for: that sometimes, when your body is being pushed to its limit, your mind needs somewhere else to go.

Of course, I don’t remember every detail - blame the drugs, the nerves, or the fact I was clinging to my pillow for dear life - but I do still remember the sound of her voice. The sound of me laughing. And the feeling that, for just a moment, I was human again.

Not a patient. Not a diagnosis. Not a body struggling to lie still. Just a girl being told a story by someone who cared enough to try.

Oh, and if you want to know how Brian lost his eye...Well, that one's between me and Brian.