An Ordinary Day

Two to three years ago, I read Any Ordinary Day by Leigh Sales. In it, she explores what happens when life suddenly changes in an instant, through interviews with people who have lived through these moments, from natural disasters and acts of terrorism to accidents and personal trauma. She brings to light the psychology of fear, grief, and resilience.

I remember turning the last page of that book and thinking: why don’t we talk about this enough?

I gifted the book to someone in my life who I thought could benefit from that perspective, with a little courage, and maybe a little entitlement in believing I knew what another person was going through. Life showed me a couple of years later that my own trauma and declining health would need this perspective more than anyone I thought I was helping.

An ordinary day for me looks like a morning routine of breakfast and exercise, working, planning what to eat through it, connecting with family and friends, and more working.

The week of July 14th, 2025 was a little out of the ordinary for me. I had the week off. A week to check in with myself. A GP visit. Hair care. A pamper day. Small things that felt like maintenance.

Wednesday, July 16th, 2025. The blood test results.

A phone call, yes, over the phone, at 4:43pm, advising me I needed to rush to the emergency room. They suspected I had Chronic Myeloid Leukaemia (CML, or blood cancer for short). At 10am that day, I was sitting in my hairdresser’s chair, blabbing on about who knows what. At 4pm, I was on a video call with a very close friend I hadn’t seen in months. Come to think about it, the only thing out of the ordinary that day was the GP calling me with an ER referral.

My changed life began the moment that call ended.

I cried.

Then I packed a bag for the hospital.

The drive was 35 to 40 minutes, silent, heavy, anxious.

Instinctively, I started searching the words I’d just heard.

What does this mean?

What’s the treatment?

Could it be something else?

And if I’m honest, I was angry. Annoyed. Irritated that this was interrupting my to do list. My gut knew tomorrow’s plans were cancelled, and that nothing would ever be the same again.

When I arrived at emergency, I followed the process. Checked in. Explained. Showed the pathology email. Within ten minutes, I was on a bed, nurses taking bloods, machines humming, doctors asking questions.

How are you feeling?

What brought you in?

When did this start?

Then one doctor sat beside my bed.

“Do you know why you’re here?” he asked.

He made me say it out loud.

Not gently.

Not cruelly.

Just factually, as if naming it was the first step in making it real.

I remember how strange it felt to hear my own voice carry words my body hadn’t caught up to yet. I didn’t feel brave.I didn’t feel resilient.I didn’t even feel scared yet.

I just felt… suspended.

Between before and after. Between who I was that morning and whoever I was about to become. Between the life I recognised and the one I hadn’t learned how to live yet.

Everything that came next, the treatment, the routines, the adjustments, would arrive soon enough.

But this moment belonged to itself.