Off course.

I might not remember much, but I remember that day.

Or at least, I remember the moment it began. For me, anyway. Not the moment it began for everyone else.

By then I'd been discharged from the ward and was staying in accommodation the NHS had arranged for us, returning to the hospital three times a week for check-ups and treatment, with each appointment following the same rigid routine.

Check in. 

Wait. 

Blood test. 

Wait. Usually for a couple of hours. 

Magnesium, platelets, or blood transfusion, it depended on what my body needed that day. 

Wait, again. 

Speak to the consultant. 

Home.

It was a routine that usually began around 10 a.m. and, if we were lucky, saw us back at the hotel by three.

But that day…

I don’t remember the morning.

I don’t remember getting dressed.

I don’t remember travelling to the hospital.

I don’t remember the blood tests or sitting in the waiting area before my infusion.

The first thing I remember is opening my eyes.

And voices. Lots of voices.

My mum and dad were there. That was the first thing that confused me. Why were they there? Why had they been brought into the room?

Mum was trying not to cry, but a few stray tears were already sliding down her cheeks. Dad didn’t look much better.

My consultant was standing in the corner with another doctor I recognised from the ward. They were whispering to each other, glancing at me – concern written across their faces – before turning back to one another to whisper some more.

Around them, nurses moved in and out of the room, collecting things, adjusting equipment. One of them was holding my hand, speaking softly, trying to keep me calm.

Why was I here? What is this room?

My consciousness kept slipping.

One moment I was present. The next, I wasn’t. It was just darkness.

But then I felt it.

It was as if I was floating. Like I was lifting away from myself, experiencing an out-of-body movement.

This is death, I thought. And this is what dying must feel like.

There was no pain. I was grateful for that.

But there was sadness. A lot of it. I was sad that this moment had arrived without warning. Sad that I wouldn’t get to say goodbye to Ben, who was back in Scotland completing his teaching probation. Sad that after everything, this was how I would go.

But alongside the sadness, was also the feeling of peace. This was happening, and I couldn’t stop it, and that was okay. I'd prepared myself long ago for this moment.

I looked at my mum and dad and told them I loved them. I told them it was okay. That I was okay. Whether I actually said the words out loud, I don’t know. But in my memory, I did.

Then, just as I closed my eyes ready to drift away into my death, something jolted me back.

Not a machine. 

Not some nurse giving CPR.

I just… came out of it. Miraculously recovered from whatever the hell had just happened.

But the calmness only lasted a few minutes.

Now I was lying on a bed in that same little room. The doctors and nurses, apparently no longer interested in my drama, had disappeared.

My mum and dad were still by my side though, telling me I was going for a scan.

A scan for what?

What’s wrong with me? 

And why on earth am I in a hospital?

My mind was racing, trying to piece reality back together.

Leukaemia.

That was the first piece to fall back into place.

You had a stem cell transplant.

A stem cell transplant? Is that even a real thing?

It felt like a dream. Or perhaps a nightmare.

Had I been asleep this whole time? Had it all just happened in my head?

Whatever was going on, none of it made sense.

But before I knew it, I was outside the MRI suite answering the kind of questions they ask people with traumatic head injuries.

“Who’s the Prime Minister?”

Fortunately, I knew the answer to that one. Although even on a good day that question could have easily produced several different answers. Politics never was my strong suit.

But everything else still felt distant. Foggy.

I just couldn’t fully grasp that I’d had leukaemia. That I’d had a transplant. That I was in a hospital in Dublin.

During the MRI, though, my mind suddenly felt clearer.

Perhaps it was the stillness, or the fear. Perhaps it was the giant magnets pointed directly at my head. Whatever it was, the fog had lifted and I was aware of my reality again.

Only now my questions included:

What if the leukaemia was back? 

What if it had reached my central nervous system again? 

What if the transplant hadn’t worked?

But those answers would have to wait, as the clarity I’d found during the MRI didn’t last long.

My mind was drifting again, slipping in and out of consciousness, caught somewhere between reality and whatever chaos my brain was inventing.

This time, when I resurfaced, I was back on the ward, told I’d need to stay overnight for observation. Which seemed like a good call, all things considered.

I remember my mum and dad leaving to go back to the hotel to collect some things for me. And before they left, I made my mum write it all down.

That I was in Dublin. 

That I was in St James’s Hospital. 

That I’d had leukaemia and a stem cell transplant.

But why?

Because I was terrified that once they walked out of the room, my mind would erase it all again. That I'd have to experience the same realisation over and over. Reliving the fear, the doubt, the shock and the confusion, with no one by my side to explain.

When they returned with my things, I remember going to the bathroom and getting changed, before clambering back into bed.

We were talking. I don’t remember about what now. Just normal conversation.

Then the doctor came in. She told us the scan was clear, and that I was okay. Better than okay.

She told me I’d been cured, and that the leukaemia was gone for good.

She said it so calmly, too, so matter-of-factly, that I allowed myself to accept it.

She added that they would begin making arrangements for us to return home to Northern Ireland. Just like that. As if the entire day had never happened. It really was quite a turn of events.

So, as soon as she left, we started making plans. Mum and Dad would go back to the accommodation and pack. Once ready, they'd come and collect me, and we’d drive home that night. No time wasting.

Back to Ballymena. Back to my own bed. Back to the safe and familiar.

As I held my head in my hands, I let out a long sigh of relief. For the first time that day, for the first time in months, it felt like things might actually be okay. That my future was wide open again.

But when I lowered my hands from my face, the room was dark. Silent. Empty.

I was alone. And outside the window it was night.

Where was my mum and dad? What had happened to going home? What about being cancer free?

The conversation had felt so real. Every word. Every detail.

But none of it had happened.

My parents hadn’t spoken about packing. No doctor had told me I was cured. I hadn’t said a single word to anyone. At least not anything I can actually remember saying. I'd simply been drifting in and out for hours, and now my mind was coming back to reality.

The next morning, a doctor did come to see us, and confirmed that the scans were clear. But she didn’t say anything about being cured. Why would she?

Instead, she explained that what I'd experienced the day before was a side effect of the medication I was taking.

The confusion. The drifting in and out of consciousness. The conversations I believed had happened but hadn’t. It was unusual, she said, but not unheard of in patients receiving treatment like mine.

And it all came down to one drug. One I needed to stay on.

180mg a day.

60mg every morning, afternoon and evening.

I would stay on this drug for months, before slowly being weaned off by summer.

I would experience similar, but less traumatic hallucinations.

I would have panic attacks for no explainable reason.

I would feel numb, emotionless, unable to even form any thoughts.

I would frustrate the people around me, and understandably so.

I'd be terrified of contacting friends and family, out of fear it was all a hallucination. That I'd made up more moments in my head.

Reality was no longer something I trusted.

And it was all because of steroids.