The lies we tell.

The first few weeks back home were made up of variations of the same conversation, with me delivering variations of the same lie. And it always began the same way: “You look so well.”

I suppose what they really meant was ‘well, considering'. 

Well considering I’d just spent five months in a hospital bed being pumped full of chemo, antibiotics, anti-sickness meds, and morphine, to name but a few. But the truth? I looked exactly as you’d expect me to: Pale. Exhausted. Broken.

Yes, I made an effort for my cousin’s wedding. I even treated myself with a visit to my beautician’s, and what wonders she worked on my dull, sickly skin. For a day, I looked radiant, healthy – the version of myself I’d been imagining during those endless months in hospital. The version of myself I’d clung to.

But make-up can only do so much. Foundation can’t hide fatigue. Blusher can’t disguise the way illness hollows you out. And despite their kindness, I knew everyone could still see it.

Which is when the inevitable question came: “So…how are you doing?”

How was I doing?

On the surface: relieved to be finished, overjoyed to be home, excited to move forward –with wedding plans, a new home with Ben, and memories waiting to be made.

But beneath all that? I was terrified of relapse. Overwhelmed by the flashbacks and memories. Angry at circumstance. And afraid of wasting my “second chance.”

Five months earlier, when I first heard the words acute myeloid leukaemia, something inside me had changed – like a switch being flicked.

I had bad days, emotional days, nights when I lay awake wondering if I’d see next week, let alone next year. And yet, I carried on. Because what choice did I have?

I was a model patient. The poster girl for Keep calm and carry on. I did as I was told. Endured what needed to be endured. Pushed through every infection, every side effect, every painful setback.

But it wasn’t because I was brave or a fighter. It wasn’t because I was strong. It was because there was no other option.

And when the treatment ended, when that focus was gone, I crumbled.

The magnitude of it all finally hitting me: what I’d survived, what my body had been through, what it all really meant. And all I could do was cry.

Sometimes it came out of nowhere – sudden, uncontrollable sobs. But I knew what they were for - the real truth behind the tears. They were everything I’d bottled up from the moment I was told it was cancer. Everything I hadn’t let myself feel because I just needed to get through it. But now, I was left living in the aftermath.

After a couple of months of being back home and back to reality, the tears did ease somewhat. But the feelings? The fears? The unanswered questions? They were still there.

Would I relapse?

Would I ever be considered cured?

Is this just life now – hospital clinics and endless blood tests?

Will I ever be able to forget? Move on?

So, when people asked, “How are you doing?”

The truth was, I was a mess. But I refused to let anyone see how deep it really went.

Not Mum. Not Dad. Not even Ben.

They all knew I struggled. They all saw the cracks.

But the reality? Nobody knew just how broken I felt.