Stumbling through.

The truth is, there’s very little left to say about this momentous, life-saving moment of mine.

It all just very quickly became a routine of hospital appointments, naps in the afternoon, and whatever strange trauma the steroids had decided to dream up for me that day.

Of course, there were still moments to look back on and smile at.

The weekend Ben travelled over and treated us to a stay in the Hilton.

Afternoons spent wandering through Irish villages that looked like they'd been plucked from a postcard.

And the occasional wander into Dublin city centre, glowing under Christmas lights, doing its best to win me over.

However, I couldn’t ignore the fact we’d been there for months. Far longer than any of my fellow Belfast patients. In fact, it was starting to feel like I might never actually leave. Like this might just be life now.

That being said, I did get the odd break from my monotonous Dublin routine.

On one occasion, after a bit of negotiation and perhaps some mild emotional manipulation, I was given permission to travel to Scotland for the weekend with my parents.

Their plan was to visit my brother. Mine was to see Ben.

It therefore felt like such a win for all of us when my consultant finally gave in, and said we could go. Although the joy didn’t last long.

“With precautions,” she added, very firmly, already anticipating exactly how things might go. 

We weren’t too worried though. If something did go wrong, we’d just head to the Queen Elizabeth. After all, that’s where it all began.

And if I’m honest, by that point, the idea of being back there didn’t bother me. If anything, the familiar faces of Ward 4C felt far more comforting than another day spent in St James’. Not because I didn’t like the team. It was actually quite the opposite. But by that point, I just needed something different. Something to break the rhythm of it all.

But you know what they say about being careful what you wish for.

Because not long after that, we found ourselves boarding an early morning ferry to Scotland, making sure to plan everything down to the last detail. Which meant avoiding large groups of travellers, and taking every precaution we’d been told to take. So, what could possibly go wrong?

In the end, it wasn't the other passengers and my weakened immune system that we needed to worry about. It was me.

Because after 25 years, my parents should have known all too well that their daughter was a complete liability. Especially considering one of the many side effects of my treatment had been my inability to stay upright. A particularly unfortunate combination for someone as uncoordinated as me.

A slight stumble. A small slip. A trip over absolutely nothing.

It always ended the same way. With me, sprawled on the floor.

And there was never any point grabbing onto something to stop it. No last-ditch hope of recovery. Because once I started to go, that was it, I just had to give in to gravity.

Worse still, I never had the strength to get myself back up. It was all rather pathetic really. Some might even call it pitiful (love you too, mum and dad).

Therefore, I guess we should have known that this trip was never going to go smoothly. We just didn’t expect the chaos to arrive quite so early on.

We boarded the boat. 

Took the lift up to our suite (one of our attempts at avoiding other travellers).

And before the boat had even left the dock…I'd found myself flat on my hands and knees.

The glass water bottle I’d been holding? Shattered. 

My left hand? Gushing blood.

I repeat: THE BOAT HADN’T EVEN LEFT THE DOCK.

I’m pretty sure the staff on board that morning had expected an easy shift. It was 3.30am and the very few passengers who were onboard were generally curled up on a seat trying to sleep.

But instead, they got me. And things simply unravelled from there.

Although, to their credit, they were brilliant. Bandaging me up and keeping me calm.

However, once we arrived in Scotland, it was straight to the hospital. 

I mean, I wasn’t planning on bringing home any souvenirs from that trip, but a few stitches and a nice little scar felt fairly on brand for me.

Thankfully, the rest of the weekend passed without incident, and when we returned to Dublin, my consultant just laughed at my misfortune. She was probably relieved that nothing worse had happened.

Better yet, it didn’t seem to count against me when I later asked to go home for a few days to celebrate Christmas. At least that time I'd still be on Irish soil.

In the end, we spent four months in Dublin.

Four long, chaotic, exhausting, life-changing months.

And by March 2020, we were finally back in Northern Ireland, looking ahead to what would come next.

Which, as it turns out, was a global pandemic.

Fabulous.