The longest week.

I was relieved to hear my biopsy would be scheduled for the following day. Neither Dublin nor I had any appetite for wasting more time than necessary.

I might have been in remission, but remission felt temporary. Fragile. And given my luck of late, I wasn’t willing to gamble on how long it might last.

Unlike previous biopsies, which had always involved me lying with my back to the doctors and several intimidatingly large needles – mercifully sparing me from seeing what was about to happen – this one would be different.

They were doing a skin biopsy, taking a sample from one of the remaining lumps tucked neatly on the inside of my right leg. All that was needed was some anaesthetic to numb the area and then they’d get to work doing…well, whatever it was they were going to do.

Because despite being asked if I’d like to watch, I firmly declined. Instead I chose to lie back and let them get on with it, keeping my focus on the ceiling above and trying not to think too much about the fact that this small procedure now carried so much weight.

Thankfully, the pain itself was almost non-existent. I felt very little of what they were doing, which felt like a small mercy considering they’d taken a knife to my leg. Ironically, the worst part was the anaesthetic – multiple sharp injections that stung far more than the procedure they were meant to soften. Still, I suppose it was worth it.

I knew the pain would come later, once the numbness wore off and I started moving again, but I took comfort in knowing it couldn’t be worse than the weeks before, when my legs had been nothing but lumps, bruises, and constant ache. At least this pain had a purpose.

Back in my room on 10 North, I was told the results could take up to a week. Not exactly what I wanted to hear. I didn’t want to wait a week. I couldn’t understand how it could take that long when so many other tests had delivered answers within hours. 

It felt disproportionate – such a small cut holding such enormous consequences.

But wait I did, and what a long week it was. 

A week filled with worry, exhaustion, and a low hum of fear that never quite left me alone. I convinced myself it wouldn’t be good news, while still clinging to the idea that no news was good news – that if something were truly wrong, surely I’d know already.

My mum and dad did their best to fill the days and keep me distracted, but the questions were always there, pressing in during the quiet moments.

What if it was leukaemia again?

What would that mean?

Could I take any more treatment?

Could I survive another setback?

They were questions without answers, drifting through my mind whether I wanted them there or not.

I might have resigned myself to the worst outcome, but that didn’t mean I wanted to examine it too closely. Perhaps because, deep down, I already knew how I felt.

If it was leukaemia again, I wasn’t convinced I’d survive another round of treatment. The transplant alone was terrifying to me – intense chemotherapy, full-body irradiation, then the transplant itself – a process designed to break you down completely before building you back up. 

I was also tired of hoping. Tired of being told to stay positive. Tired of framing endurance as strength.

It felt easier, in some strange way, to loosen my grip and let things be. And that was when a quiet acceptance settled in – not dramatic, not hopeless – just calm. I knew that whatever happened, I could accept it. That if my fears were confirmed, and the leukaemia had returned, I could be okay with saying no more.

But as I’m still here, you already know how this part ends.

Because after a week, just as promised, I was told everything was fine.

I could start packing my bags.

I was ready for this next and final step.