Scars that stayed.

As I write these pages and think ahead to those still to come, I’m struck by how many of my reflections aren’t about what was happening in my body, but about what was happening to me.

Not the cancer itself, but the quiet shift in my sense of self.

At the start, everything felt emotional, messy, raw. And it was in those moments that I truly discovered who I was and what I was capable of enduring. They opened my eyes to an illness I’d only ever heard spoken about in whispers, one that had always lived in the shadows, waiting to claim its next victim.

It’s not that cancer is new or rarely heard of. But you’ll never truly understand what it means until it’s your name on the chart. Your blood under the microscope. Your body they’re fighting to save.

Once that diagnosis came, I was part of this strange new club – whether I wanted to be or not.

And although the treatment was intense, it often felt like it sat in the background, almost secondary to everything else: the mental recalibration, the moments of perspective, the unexpected acts of love. The pain might have been real, but so was the clarity.

And while I haven’t written much about the treatment itself – or the nights I doubted I’d make it to morning – those memories still hold weight.

Like my first rigour: that terrifying moment when your body starts to shake and shiver uncontrollably, as you bury yourself under blankets, desperate for warmth. Ironically, I later learned it was actually my body’s way of telling me my temperature was too high and infection was setting in. This also meant that wrapping myself up in any spare blanket I could find was definitely not the cure. Paracetamol was.

And the worst part? It was never just a one-off. These violent, manic bouts returned every cycle of chemo, usually when my immune system was stripped bare and I was waiting for the “reboot” – or, as they called it, neutropenia.

Then there was the day I needed a new PICC line after an infection claimed the first one.

The first insertion had been sore but manageable – maybe because I was too weak to fully react. But the second time…I came out looking like a patchwork doll.

Three failed attempts on my left arm. Three more on my right. Finally, one last attempt back on the left. By the end, my arms were a mess of bandages and dried blood, my muscles stiff from tensing as needle after needle pierced my veins.

I lay on that bed, tears running down my face, my free hand gripping the mattress as though it could anchor me, praying for it to end. Even now, the scars remain – permanent reminders of that day.

I can only thank god that attempt number seven marked the end of my ordeal.

Of course, there were other moments too. My stint in the high dependency unit, surrounded by wires and monitors, while Ben and Adam sat huddled in the corner watching the World Cup on an iPad. By then, my being unwell wasn’t novel anymore; life had carried on, and football was far more important than another round of obs.

There was also the night I could barely hold a cup of water, throwing up mid-rigour into a sick bowl in a pitch-dark room, lit only by the faint glow from the corridor. One of the nurses, sitting by my side, rubbing my back and attempting to steady my hand as I took sips to clear my mouth. 

Those memories are still there, lingering in the background. But they’re not the ones that defined me. Not the ones that taught me what strength really looked like. Or showed me what I needed to feel content – and who I could trust to be by my side.

I knew I’d never be the same when all this was over.

And with that knowledge came a strange cocktail of emotions –part grief, part acceptance, part curiosity about who I might become on the other side.

I guess time would tell.

After all, the end of my stay on Ward 4C was drawing closer, and plans to return to Northern Ireland – to family, to familiarity, to a version of home – were already in motion.