Seven months.

My mum and I arrived at Laurel House the following day, while Dad and Ben went on to work.

I had to believe it was a day like any other. That everything was going to be fine.

It was just an anomaly. A simple irregularity in my results, to which there would be a clear explanation. After all, Dr Aaron hadn’t seemed too concerned by the biopsy sample, and I’d been feeling too good.

Last time, I’d been like a zombie – pale, breathless, sweating through every layer of clothing. Not to mention exhausted and utterly broken by the aches and pains in my body.

But now I felt better than ever… or at least as good as anyone could feel after months of chemo. I was getting my strength back and slowly finding a rhythm that worked for me as I pieced together life after cancer.

So no. This was not going to be bad news.

And while I could tell you all about the waiting room and the silent fear we both carried. 

Me, reliving what I’d just been through and wondering how I could possibly survive it again. 

Mum, probably thinking the same. Wondering what would come next if the results weren’t what we hoped for.

She had only just started back at work after months off while I was in Glasgow. Adam was in his final year of school, his A-levels looming. And my grandad had been unwell, in and out of hospital himself. This was the last thing our family needed.

So let me just skip to the moment we entered Dr Aaron’s room. Both of us recognising the telltale signs of what was about to come.

Kerry was there, presumably for moral support. Dr Aaron’s notes were closed, his words already prepared. And for the first time, the air in that room felt different; the walls seemed emptier; his body language stiff.

Seven months. That’s all it had been.

Seven months since finishing treatment in Glasgow. 

Seven months of recovery, of remission. 

Seven months of trying to find my way again.

And then, in just seven sombre words, it all fell apart:

“I’m very sorry, the leukaemia has returned.”

Much like last time, I couldn’t quite grasp what was being said, although now I was painfully aware of the conversation happening around me.

Dr Aaron was giving us the standard spiel: he’d already been in touch with Belfast; here’s when treatment might start; here’s what to do in the meantime.

And all I could ask was: could I still get married?

Could I still get married? Seriously?

I knew it was a ridiculous question, even as I asked it. But it was the first thing that came to mind.

My first experience in Glasgow had been made bearable by one constant thought: that the following year, I would be getting married. That vision had been my focus. My anchor in the darkest of moments.

But now what would happen? Would I ever be a bride? Would Ben and I ever get our day? What would our families say when we told them it was cancelled?

A dozen questions, concerns, and conversations came flooding in, colliding in my head.

And then Dr Aaron asked me something I already knew the answer to, though I’d tried to push it to the back of my mind.

In Glasgow, had Adam been tested as a stem cell match?

Yes, he had. 

But was he a match? No.

Which meant only one thing.

Not only would I need a stem cell transplant to have any chance of surviving. I would also need to pray that somewhere out there, a stranger’s cells would be the perfect match for mine.

That somewhere out there, someone I’d never met, would be my lifesaver.