Receiving, Relearning, Rebuilding

Getting to the diagnosis is a story I’ll write one day.I’m not quite ready to admit how much I ignored myself, but I am ready to talk about the journey since the phone call.

Yes, I found out over the phone.

They needed a reason good enough to make me get myself to the emergency department immediately and start treatment. Was there a better way to do it? I’m not sure.But I’m grateful the system prioritised treatment over my sense of calm. In hindsight, it was the right call, and it’s now just a small, necessary memory.

My changed life began the moment that call ended.

I cried with my mum.I cried with my dad.Then I packed a bag for the hospital.

The drive was 35 to 40 minutes, silent, heavy, anxious. The pain in my parents’ eyes deserves its own piece; I’ll get to that, one day.

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.

He told my parents I was in good hands, that people with Chronic Myeloid Leukaemia (CML) live full life expectancies. He reassured, explained, and transferred me to the Haematology and Oncology ward.

We sent my parents’ home after 10 p.m. My new bed on Level 7 was ready by 1 a.m.

By 2 a.m., I was alone with the news for the first time.My heart heavy, tears in my eyes, curled up in a hospital bed overlooking the courtyard, listening to the ventilator’s rhythm.I felt so many things but not fear. I was already searching for a plan.

The Next Day;

More tests. Two blood transfusions. A biopsy.

Tell the broader family.

Call work.

I don’t remember much of that call — just my mum asking, “Why did you make it sound like you’ll be back next week?” and my boss saying, “Don’t worry about anything else just take care of you.”

I am one of the lucky ones who has a super decent human as a boss/manager/friend. But you could hear the anxiety in both our voices. I am the support system at work. So what happens when the support system needs support? The company wouldn’t fall apart without me but I knew my absence would be felt. And that weighed on me as much as the diagnosis.

More tests.

Then, 100 percent confirmation.

The plan arrived and with it, hope.

I was referred to a specialised oncology hospital to start targeted treatment as an outpatient, supported by lifestyle changes and a new routine.

“Great,” I thought. “Let’s go.”

Except I forgot one thing, this plan isn't linear. (They do tell you that just hard to understand what that means without living through it).

There’s adjustment.

There are side effects.

There’s learning to live with something that’s both invisible and constant.

My family, friends, colleagues everyone wanted to help.My parents and siblings. My aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, and my work besties (my boss firmly included in that list).They couldn’t believe it, but they all asked the same question: What can we do for you?

I moved back home.

Being close to my support system felt necessary. Asking them to interrupt their lives completely for me didn’t but being near them did.

I bought a new desk and monitor for ergonomic support. Mum elevated her cooking skills, taking that weight off me one less thing to manage.

Becoming an outpatient meant learning to be patient.

Appointments. Bloodwork. Waiting rooms. Monitoring schedules. And yet, how lucky are we to have access to a system that moves this fast, this precisely?

At the oncology hospital, I could feel the priority, the precision. I was one patient among hundreds, maybe thousands — and still, they knew my name, my chart, my next step.

I found myself in awe:How does this system hold so many people in crisis at once? How does it still run so seamlessly?

Outside, the word “cancer” is whispered. Inside, it’s part of everyday language — discussed, understood, respected. In here, there’s no fear in naming it.

My environments were changing. I was changing.

Since that day, I’ve been receiving; care, love, patience, time.

I’ve been relearning; how to listen, rest, and accept help.

And I’ve been rebuilding; my routines, my energy, and the way I show up for the world around me.

This part of the journey isn’t about what was lost; it’s about what’s being redefined.

And I have a feeling that story is only just beginning.