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.