Not the plan.

I attended my first appointment with the oncology psychologist with little to report. It was only an introductory session: a chance to share my story, talk a little about past anxieties, and agree on a path forward.

When she learned I was to be married in a few months, we agreed to hold off on starting the in-depth PTSD treatment. And honestly, I was relieved. From the way she described it – how difficult it would be, how confronting – I’d most likely need treatment for the treatment.

Did I really want this? I wasn’t so sure.

So after leaving that stuffy little room, lined with old books and heavy air, I took a breath, gathered my thoughts, and made my way towards Laurel House. I had the rest of the day ahead of me. I could unravel everything from the appointment later.

In the meantime, I was planning what I’d get up to once my bloods were taken. Drive home. Maybe stop for a cuppa and cake at my favourite café. Wander the shops for an hour. Then be back in time for Ben arriving from work. I could even stop by the butcher’s and pick up something nice for dinner. What should we have? How about chicken?

With my mind busy sketching out plans for the afternoon, I hardly noticed arriving outside Laurel House. It was all so familiar at this stage: walking through the doors, taking the lift, signing in, then waiting to be called for my bloods.

And the next step was just as simple: once enough time had passed, the nurse would ask me to remove the pressure I was placing on the cotton-covered pinprick they’d just made in my arm. They’d assess the site to make sure the bleeding had stopped, then place a small beige plaster over the tiny mark, and send me on my way.

At least, that’s what should have happened that afternoon.

Not me, hyperventilating in the waiting room, all alone as tears streamed down my face soaking patches into my dress.

Not my mum, abandoning her colleagues and tearing down the dual carriageway at god-knows-what speed to reach me.

Not me, lying on my side, clenching her hand, as Dr Aaron performed a bone marrow biopsy.

But when the nurse ran my blood through the machine, an irregularity in my platelet count made her nervous. I was told I couldn’t leave. Not without seeing a doctor.

The only problem? There wasn’t a haematologist in the clinic that day. Dr Aaron was in Belfast – along with every other consultant, it seemed.

So I waited.

I sat in that quiet waiting room, a handful of patients scattered around, each avoiding my tear-filled eyes and heavy sobs. I tried my aunt, who worked in the hospital – it turned out it was her day off. I rang my mum again and again – no answer.

When I finally reached her, I still didn’t know what was happening. Only that Dr Aaron had been contacted, and was driving back to perform a biopsy. My platelets were a concern, though no one could say how much of one.

Fortunately, Mum – who I’d begged to get there as soon as possible, not expecting her to take it quite so literally – arrived just in time to give me a big hug, share some reassuring words, and sit with me as the team prepared my nightmare.

I couldn’t understand it. It had to be a mistake. I felt fine – better than fine.

The biopsy, I thought, would clear things up. And Dr Aaron, after taking the sample, said it all looked clear: nothing obvious, nothing too concerning.

That was good. Right?

But the results wouldn’t come until tomorrow. For now, all we could do was wait and pray.

One thing was certain though: I was never going to an appointment on my own again.