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“I tried to stay strong and positive, but I did have the occasional wobble” – Anna’s experience of being treated for AML ...

1/16/2018

Anna Howell was 52 when she received a bolt out of the blue – she was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia following an, otherwise good, routine check-up. A year and a half on from that day, and following a successful transplant, she reveals how she’s now taking life by the horns and carrying on regardless.

My first day as an in-patient

I hadn’t been feeling good for a couple of weeks, but I had no idea how seriously ill I was. I was 52 so had attended my annual over-50 check-up which was, it seemed, all good. I did, however, think I should tell the nurse that I had unexplained bruises, a sore mouth and that I was generally under the weather. Thankfully, she referred me to the doctor the same day. I was sent for further blood tests, after which I went home not, as it turns out, unduly worried.

The next morning, 12th April, 2016, I received a call from my GP who informed me that my platelets were low (23). I asked what that meant and much to my shock he told me that I had leukaemia. The fact that St George’s hospital in Tooting, London, near where I live, had a bed waiting for me was my first clear indication of just how bad things were. I remember a sense of disbelief coupled with a strange calmness as I called my husband, Richard, and a good friend, who hastily packed me an overnight bag. I even told the poor unsuspecting builders who had just started major renovations on our kitchen of my diagnosis. Waiting in A&E, I remember thinking about my children and how were we going to break the news to them, and the fact that I might not live to see Richard and my 25th wedding anniversary. Within an hour I was in a private room on the haematology ward surrounded by staff asking a constant stream of questions; did I have siblings was one of the. Sadly, neither of my brothers were a match

I remember thinking about my children and how were we going to break the news to them, and the fact that I might not live to see Richard and my 25th wedding anniversary

It was at this point I was told I had Acute Myeloid Leukaemia (AML). A Macmillan nurse explained that their aim was to cure me but still that night I prayed and cried myself to sleep thinking about my children and my husband. It was the first of the four hourly observations day and night, which I had over a six month period with only the occasional respite at home – neutrophils permitting of course. Going home was lovely but when I did get home I felt very scared and vulnerable. It’s incredible how reliant on the hospital and nurses you become.

The following morning it was full steam ahead. Nurses began poking and prodding me with needles to fit the PIC line and take a bone marrow biopsy. Usually the sight of needles or blood would make me pass out but I got used to very quickly as I didn’t have a choice. Two days after diagnosis I began my first round of a gruelling regime of chemotherapy (I had four in total). I managed to take a semblance of control back when I made the decision have my hair cut early on. It made the loss of losing if far more manageable. Most other decisions were taken out of my hands and put into those of the specialists. That’s when I decided I would be the perfect patient – I spent my days thinking, reading, watching programmes on my iPad, chatting and laughing with my family, visitors and the staff, many of whom were truly amazing.

I felt very scared and vulnerable. It’s incredible how reliant on the hospital and nurses you become

My family and friends kept my spirits up by frequent visits, endless snacks (most of which my husband ate), lovely gifts, text messages and emails. My son returned from his gap year trip to America for ten days, and my daughter who came up and down from Cardiff, was my rock. I will always be indebted to those friends who fed my family, cleaned my house, sorted out my Christmas tree by the time that came around, did my washing, gave their love and support and visited throughout my illness – I couldn’t have done it without them. As time went by I slowly felt strong enough to take on board more information and do some research myself, always trying not to look at survival rates. I tried to stay strong and positive, but I did have the occasional wobble. My consultant recommended counselling and I had a couple of sessions which really helped me process the situation I was in. My friends told me how strong I was but I can honestly say that I didn’t feel strong all of the time. It was just something that I had to go through and keep believing I could beat.

The longer I waited for them to find a donor match, the more anxious I became. The third round of chemo, was very tough; I had liver failure and spent three days in intensive care. When it recovered I returned to the ward about twelve kilos heavier... Kim Kardashian’s bottom had nothing on me! The problem was soon sorted out with medication and a chest drain. During all of this my husband helped me shower and stayed with me for a few nights as I was very worried about what was to come. I then received the fantastic news that a 9/10 donor match had been found through Anthony Nolan (what an amazing and selfless gift). Prior to the transplant I had a long, scary meeting with my consultant who went into great depth about the procedure, the cons, and the prognosis. The tests prior to the transplant threw up another curveball when they revealed I had heart failure. It was devastating news at the time, but manageable with the right medication.

Waiting for my neutrophils to rise!

First family holiday in 18 months to Madeira

The conditioning chemo before my transplant was adapted to take into account my newly discovered heart condition. The haematology team and the coronary care team worked closely together. The transplant was actually an anti-climax – my family gathered and it was all over in half an hour. I’m now much like the Queen – I have two birthdays, the second being 14th September 2016 (transplant day). Following the transplant I had mucositis, nausea and lost my appetite but, even with all that, it was by no means as bad as I expected. I went home just before my 54th birthday, however, over the next couple of months I succumbed to a number of viruses and was re-admitted. I lost significant weight and couldn’t eat. When I did go home I avoided anyone who was ill and big crowds to limit my exposure to infection. Antibacterial gel and wipes are now permanent fixtures in my house.

The first few months were also plagued with fatigue. It was such a big issue it took so much effort to even have a shower or get dressed. I prayed for each day to end and hoped I would feel better the following morning. Again, my friends rallied around and set up a rota to take me to numerous appointments and get me out of the house for a coffee or a walk. Slowly, but surely I gained back the weight and strength and started to feel better. I finally returned to work in October 2017 (17 months after diagnoses) on a phased return. It’s been a huge milestone for me. I am so grateful to my supportive employers for keeping my job open – it really gave me something to aim for during my treatment.

I would be lying if I said I didn’t worry about the future, but now I say to myself ‘Why worry about something that might not happen? Live for the day’.

I go to hospital every five or six weeks for blood tests – my husband says I don’t breathe until I get the results; as a patient you become obsessed with them. I have accepted that the haematology day unit will always be part of my life. I have even popped into my old wards to visit the staff. I have also had my twelve month immunisations and will have my measles, mumps and rubella vaccine (MMR) in September, both enabling me to get out and about. And that’s exactly what I’m doing. I have been on numerous trips over the past six months – to Dublin, France, Austria, Majorca, Palma and Madeira, making up for lost time. We have also booked to go to South Africa this summer. I am really living life to the full again and enjoying every day that I spend with my family and friends. I have met some fantastic people in hospital due to my illness, many of whom I now share a close bond.

I don’t have the same strength and stamina I used to but I have adjusted to my new ‘normal’ with a few gentle reminders to slow down at times. Yes, I will be on medication for the rest of my life, but I know it is giving me a better quality of life too. I would be lying if I said I didn’t worry about the future, but now I say to myself ‘Why worry about something that might not happen? Live for the day’.

Do you know someone who has been affected by acute leukaemia?
Would you like to share your story with us? If so, get in touch here.

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The impact leukaemia has had on my life since my diagnosis 11 years ago

12/20/2017

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When I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia in December 2006, the shock and fear were palpitating. Eleven years and one stem-cell transplant later, I'm back to living life the way I prayed I'd be able to when I was in hospital. It's by no means been an easy journey but it is possible. Here's my story ...

Back in 2007 undergoing my stem cell transplant

It's at this time of year I always take a few moments out of all the last-minute Christmas and New Year’s Eve preparations to reflect on another year passing; it’s eleven years since my world was turned upside down when I was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia in December 2006. You may remember in our bulletin last year I shared my diagnosis story, with you. This year I wanted to share how I feel being so far on from that day and the impact it’s has on my life since.

At times it all feels like it was only yesterday. I still remember the feeling I had when I turned up at Redditch Alexandra Hospital. I’d been at the Villa game (we lost, naturally) and despite having excruciating back pain, shortness of breath, blood spots and bruising, I didn’t think for a second there would be anything seriously wrong. Yet, just a few hours later, I found myself having been transferred to Worcester Royal Hospital and suddenly holed up in an isolation room undergoing chemotherapy. The days turned into months and I’d often sit by my small hospital window waving at strangers passing by; it felt like my only interaction with the outside world. Seven months later I was transferred to Birmingham Queen Elizabeth hospital to undergo my stem cell transplant. It was here I would, at times, float in and out of consciousness whilst consuming large doses of opium to soothe the searing pain in my throat and encounter some of my darkest days.

I’d often sit by my small hospital window waving at strangers passing by; it felt like my only interaction with the outside world

Yet, despite these vivid memories, two years of treatment including highly intensive chemotherapy, and a life saving transplant, I really don't feel a great deal different to how I did back then. I’ve always tried to live my life to the full and relish new opportunities and, thankfully, I still continue to do so. I like to think I’ve grown up from the care-free 23-year-old I was before my diagnosis but I’m still very much the outgoing, fun-loving, happy person I’ve always been. That’s not to say there haven’t been some noticeable changes. My illness and treatment as a whole has left me with a shorter temper and a higher level of impatience with things. I attribute this to my initial poor prognosis and the need for immediate treatment, taking away my chance to perhaps process things properly and take in the enormity and severity of the situation I was facing. There was some fantastic help available at the time and I spoke to both a counsellor and psychotherapist, both of which helped enormously. But, in the aftermath, I suppressed a lot of how I felt and at times I still feel the effects of that today. Since full body radiotherapy I’ve noticed my attention wanes more easily, my ability for mental arithmetic has reduced significantly, and my general understanding of situations or simple working out of things takes me longer to process, all of which can frustrate me greatly. I was told by my consultant in Birmingham that these things could happen as a result of treatment but I hoped, and expected, it would be temporary rather than permanent.

I really don't feel a great deal different to how I did back then. I’ve always tried to live my life to the full and relish new opportunities and, thankfully, I still continue to do so

With any diagnosis, it’s not just changes within yourself that you notice. People around you often feel the effects just as much, albeit in different ways. Close friends and family often worry about you more than you do yourself and want to treat you with kid gloves; any sign of an ache or pain and they are the ones encouraging you to go to the doctors as a precaution. And the emotional scars can last a lot longer than any physical ones. Those closest to you never forget where they were when they heard the news and how they felt receiving it. I was reminded of this last year when many of my friends and family made me an anniversary video of how far I’ve come and how my journey still resonates with them to this day. In truth they have all been my saving grace over the last decade. They all stepped up when I desperately needed their support and they haven’t changed at all in how they treat me; I’ve always been Jonjo to them and never Jonjo who had cancer.

A chat with my mom a short while ago really struck a chord too. She said that I'm still very much the same person and that all the aspirations I had in my early twenties remained once I was on the road to recovery. Ambitions such as wanting to travel the world, experience other cultures, meet new people, live and work in London, learn to play the guitar, and buy my own house were and are still as important to me. I made sure when I was given clearance by my team of consultants that I took myself off on the round-the-world trip I’d longed for and I have now been in London now for the past seven years, currently living in the flat I now own. I am still as excited by life and all it has to offer and my illness certainly doesn’t hold me back in any way.

Living life to the full in Loas, South East Asia in 2010

The biggest question I get asked is if I ever worry about my cancer coming back. In truth I can honestly say I don't. I am lucky enough to have had my life saved by an incredible man called Andreas who signed up to be a donor when he was in school in Hamelin, Germany. I often joke that I’m in a better place than most as I’ve been rebuilt by a German. He was my closest match for my stem cell transplant and my body, thankfully, accepted his bone marrow. I feel it would be unfair of me to have spent the past decade worrying about a relapse after being so lucky to survive the initial diagnosis and then the transplant, so I choose to focus on where I am rather than where I could be. In the early days it definitely crossed my mind but as the years have passed it’s been much easier to let go of those worries and thoughts. I’ve never wanted to allow my illness to define me so my choice has to be to look at it as if it were any ailment that has now passed. Many people I know have not been as fortunate as I have so I feel it is as much a testament to them as it is myself that I try to live with no fear and a positive mindset.

My family and friends all stepped up when I desperately needed their support and they haven’t changed at all in how they treat me; I’ve always been Jonjo to them and never Jonjo who had cancer.

And, of course, I am forever indebted to the NHS. I still have annual check-ups and a blood test back in Birmingham to ensure my counts are all presenting as normal. I decided early on to continue going back home for these yearly visits rather than bring them to London as I like to go and see my consultant, the person who has helped me so much throughout the past eleven years. It’s always a sobering reminder of what an incredible job these doctors and nurses did for me and I hope that my visits remind them of the great work they do too.

With my Mom at my new house in London, 2017

The biggest change to my life over the past even years has been setting up and running Bpositive. When I was laid up on my hospital bed on the East 3a bone marrow transplant ward in Birmingham undergoing daily treatment I prayed to God that I would get through it all and be able to continue with my life. When it’s compromised you just want to do anything you can to eradicate that fear and worry of dying and get yourself back to your own normality. I promised myself that if I made it out the other side I was going try to help others who were affected too. There were often times I was without anyone of a similar age or with a similar diagnosis to talk to. I kept a diary and signed off everyday with my blood group and special mantra – Bpositive. And now, that ambition and promise has become a reality. We’ve been registered for nearly five years and through the work that Bpositive does I am often in consultation with people affected, like I was, by acute leukaemia. It’s the greatest privilege to be here now talking to others and helping them through their own journey. Without my own experience I wouldn’t be able to do this. I’m a great believer that life brings you challenges for a reason and mine has taught me the value of what I have and brought me closer to what I love most in the world – interacting with people.

It’s the greatest privilege to be here now talking to others and helping them through their own journey. Without my own experience I wouldn’t be able to do this.

Everyone who encounters leukaemia will have a different experience to mine but I hope that by continuing to share my own story and other peoples' through our monthly bulletin that it will help many people who are facing similar difficulties to those I did eleven years ago. To know that the things I dreamt of from a hospital bed are happening fulfills me with such personal triumph and happiness. It really is the driving force behind my thirst for life.

For anyone facing their own challenges in the coming year, don’t lose sight of your own hopes and dreams and try to always Bpositive.

Do you know someone who has been affected by acute leukaemia?
Would you like to share your story with us? If so, get in touch here.

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“Sport has been a saviour for me and my boys” Helen shares how she has coped with the loss of her husband ...

11/28/2017

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When Helen Hill’s husband Matt, 44, passed away in September 2012 from Acute Lymphoblastic leukaemia, she wasn’t sure how she would cope without him or how she would bring up their two boys alone. On the fifth anniversary of his death, she decided to write down how she has managed her grief over the last five years. She hopes that by sharing her story, she will be able to help anyone else facing a similar loss. She speaks with such love, courage and strength for what she has been through, as well as great honesty and hope for the future.

"Riding beyond my comfort zone" – Helen with her two sons Luke (left) and Jack

Every time I switch on the computer my husband Matt’s smiley face stares back at me. Little did I know when I took that photo that he wouldn’t be with us much longer. It’s now the fifth anniversary of his death and I thought it appropriate, for myself and others, to put some of my thoughts down about how myself and my two lovely (most of the time!) teenage boys, Jack, 14, and Luke, 16, have coped with our devastating loss.

In September 2011, Matt, then age 43, went to the doctors complaining of flu like symptoms he couldn’t shake off. After numerous tests he was rushed to the Royal Free Hospital in London with a diagnosis of Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia (ALL). The thirteen months that followed involved long stays in hospital for Matt, and a succession of visits for myself, and our two boys, then just 8 and 10. It was hard for them to accept or understand why their dad was ill with cancer but they took it all in their stride and together we were always hopeful he would recover. Sadly, that was not the case and Matt passed away on Tuesday, 20th November, 2012.

It was hard for my boys to accept or understand why their dad was ill with cancer but they took it all in their stride and together we were always hopeful he would recover

We live in St Margaret’s Bay, a beautiful village nestled between the iconic White Cliffs of Dover. When Matt and I first discovered it we fell in love with it instantly. It was our oasis and, for Matt, an escape from city life. And I have been lucky to be surrounded by close family and friends who have, in the aftermath, been here to support us, acting as role models to the boys, and giving invaluable help and advice when needed.

Sport has especially been a saviour for us. We have always been what you call a ‘sporty’ family. In fact Matt and I first met in Cornwall when we were both on a windsurfing holiday, and we have instilled in our two boys a love of the water and the great outdoors. It was especially important to Matt that we all continued with our adventures and I hope that I have lived up to his expectations.

Being on my own hasn’t always been easy. The hardest thing is not having somebody to share your dreams with

At 52, I have certainly got fitter with age as I no longer have any excuse not to do something. Shortly after Matt’s death my youngest son Jack, then 9, wanted to try road biking. We were lucky that there was a very good local club so we turned up and he gave it a go. He was hooked. We took our first challenge together, participating in the Great Notts bike ride with my brother-in-law, completing a distance of 50 miles. We all trained hard and it wasn’t long before both the boys were racing ahead and commenting that their uncle was a bit slow! We then went to Newport velodrome with the cycling club to have a go at track cycling. I hadn’t done it before and the idea of having no brakes, fixed gears, and pedals that if you stop pedalling you fall off, filled me with fear. In fact, it turned out to be an amazing experience – I felt like Victoria Pendleton. The boys also had a go on the Olympic velodrome – a crowd of onlookers were watching and as Jack completed his lap they erupted into a wonderful spontaneous applause. It was probably because they hadn’t seen a small person on the track with such skinny legs. They aren’t much bigger now but the power behind them is quite incredible.

Matt's love of sport has been passed down to his and Helen's two beloved boys

Cycling has kept us all going and we have completed many challenges for ourselves and charity. I have taken on the London Ride 100, and cycled from London to Paris with Bloodwise helping to raise over £20,000. The boys have completed 130 miles in one day too. It’s Jack’s dream to become a professional cyclist so I am hoping it becomes a reality. Our motto is dream big, work hard.

Being on my own hasn’t always been easy. The hardest thing is not having somebody to share your dreams with or discuss the important things, like the boys, with. Matt and I always had a close and easy-going relationship. He was my best friend as well as my husband.

On the other hand, I may not have tried some of the things that I have done had this not happened. Losing someone you love makes you realise that you really have to live for the moment. We got a dog called Jet, which we probably wouldn’t have done before. He really is the best thing that has happened to us since Matt died and I would recommend it to anybody as therapy and help coping with loss. When he arrived it was like having a new born baby in the house but without the nappies. It was quite difficult training him to go to the toilet outside but lucky for us we have a tiled floor. I was beginning to wonder what we had let ourselves in for but we persevered and we now have the most adorable friend, always pleased to see us with his wagging tail and always happy to be cuddled and made a fuss of.

If I’ve learnt anything from this situation, it’s that life does go on and it is important to be strong. You just have to find new ways of drawing on that inner strength and, as you might say, B Positive!

Do you know someone who has been affected by acute leukaemia?
Would you like to share your story with us? If so, get in touch here.

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I know that complications or a relapse are possible but I’ve decided that living and not worrying are my “new normal” ... Louise's story

10/30/2017

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When Louise Coventry, 56, from Sydney, Australia, was diagnosed with Myelodysplastic Syndrome in April 2016, she was shocked as she hadn't felt unwell. Over the next 18 months she underwent two bone marrow transplants, numerous blood transfusions and a stay in intensive care. She's now six months into her second recovery, making plans for the future with her husband Brett, and choosing not to worry about anything in her 'new normal'.

Louise, during treatment for Myelodysplastic Syndrome in April 2016

A cancer diagnosis can come out of nowhere. Within seconds your future hopes and plans are fractured. Is this really happening? is a common thought. During mine, I felt a numbness take over me. It was impossible to absorb the reality or severity of what I was being told.

My bombshell came on a Friday in April 2016, I’d gone to the doctors for a routine blood test to eliminate the idea of something very minor and totally unrelated. By 10am the following morning I was sitting in a bed in the emergency department being told very little. Frighteningly, the doctor's non-committal comments seemed to indicate something serious. I sat hoping for a mistake at the lab but my additional blood tests didn’t seem to be confirming there had been one. I was admitted that day, still with no real information, and still feeling positive there had to be some kind of mistake. After all, I felt so well and healthy. Two weekends before I’d spent two hours kayaking, and a month earlier I’d ridden in a charity bike ride. But in hindsight there probably had been a few minor indicators. I’d experienced tiredness, sweating, easy bruising, and some bleeding gums, all symptoms that are very easy to ignore.

At 55-years-old, it was my first ever night in hospital. I was restless and barely slept. In the morning the doctors visited and revealed more information. It was the first time anyone had actually spoken about the potential seriousness of my condition. They then scheduled a bone marrow biopsy. At this stage I was more terrified of the procedure than actually finding something wrong. ‘I'm so healthy, this can't be right’, I kept telling myself. I hung onto that denial for quite a while!

A cancer diagnosis can come out of nowhere. Within seconds your future hopes and plans are fractured.

The results of the biopsy triggered an immediate response from the doctors and within days my husband, Brett, and I were hearing the words acute Myelodysplastic Syndrome (MDS). The words ‘serious’ ‘life-threatening’, ‘immediate treatment’ and ‘stem cell transplant’ were ringing in our ears. Brett was devastated and I remember feeling completely numb. Until now we had held off telling my parents (who were aged 78 and 88) hoping to spare them the devastation.
After many blood tests I finally conceded that this was not a lab error and I began to share my diagnosis with family and friends. I knew I would need their love and support to get me through. I was fortunate to be surrounded by the most beautiful, caring and positive people. Every text, email, phone call and visit truly helped when I was struggling to come to terms with my diagnosis. Throughout my treatment, my friends rallied round and supported me in so many loving ways.
The search for a compatible bone marrow donor began immediately, firstly with my brother and sister and then onto the world register. Although we were not a 100% match, it was eventually decided that my sister would be my donor. My beautiful, generous and special sister. My brother was off the hook as he wasn't a close enough match.

I then began three months of a mild chemotherapy to prevent my MDS escalating to Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML). The chemo was never going to eliminate the need for a stem cell transplant, rather just keep it from progressing further. In September I started the conditioning treatment as an inpatient. Everything I'd ever heard about stem cell transplants terrified me. I heard a lot of ’it's really tough’ but no one seemed to ever be able to answer what this ‘really tough’ looked like as it’s so dependent on how your body responds to the chemo, the radiation, and the transplant. I felt so unprepared, I literally had no idea on what to expect. It was the first time the inner strength of which I've always been quietly proud of deserted me.

I felt so unprepared, I literally had no idea of what to expect. It was the first time the inner strength of which I've always been quietly proud of deserted me.

Then, in following weeks, I started to take ownership of the obvious. No one could do this apart from me. I knew it was time to step up. Reaching this milestone gave me a peace I can't explain. I knew that there were risks but I also trusted I was in good hands with the very best practitioners, My inner strength flooded back. I thought to myself ‘I can do this. Others before me have and so can I. Of course I'll be in the positive percent of survivors. Why shouldn't I?’ My sense of self came back.

This belief never really deserted me, although, at difficult times it did get a little swamped and I needed to dig deeper. Brett gave me a framed quote which sat in my hospital room. It said ‘I may not be there yet, but I'm closer than I was yesterday’. Reading that on hard days helped me to reflect on just how much I had already achieved. It helped me to remember the positives of our situation and that tomorrow was always a new day bringing me closer to recovery and our before cancer life. I so wanted to be well again. I wanted to spend many more years loving this gorgeous man.

Over the first few days, I had all the pre-transplant procedures including a central venous catheter inserted (to administer my medication), plasma exchange, nasal tube and chemo. Thankfully, it all went as expected. On the day of transplant my beautiful sister, Cath, went under general anaesthtic and had her stem cells removed from her marrow in readiness of my transplant later in the day. Again, there were no real problems. Cath and my family were with me and we all held hands and smiled during the transplant. I felt so fortunate to have it. The following days were tough as my white cells and neutrophils were very low and I waited for my gifted cells to graft.

My sister Cath and I as I receive her precious cells via the stem cell transplant

I was so fatigued and experienced intense diarrhoea and nausea. My hair fell out. Eating became near impossible and each feeble attempt resulted in vomiting. As a result, I lost a lot of weight. After a week I had to rely on the feeding tube and had to really concentrate on keeping my oral medication down. I had an extremely sore back due to lying in a hospital bed for so long. I couldn’t sit comfortably or sleep. The doctors had to prescribe morphine, endone and fentanyl but nothing seemed to help so I spent the nights walking the ward with my trusty IV trolley just to relieve the pressure. The nurses joked that I would end up wearing the lino out. I also had horrible nightmares (even when I was awake) so they took me off the fentanyl. It's one scary drug! Thankfully the nightmares stopped.

My inner strength flooded back. I thought to myself ‘I can do this'. My sense of self came back.

In the days following, despite needing many blood transfusions, fluids and other medications, I gradually begin to feel much better. My cells counts started to rise and all the side effects greatly reduced. I only had one fever and infection which I recovered from quickly. After a month my professor said I could go home. I'm was so happy I couldn’t get the smile off my face. To have my own bed in my own home felt incredible. My back returned to normal and I could continue my recovery at home. It felt like the worst was behind us.

Over the next few months things were good. We started to plan our life again, caught up with friends, talked about taking an overseas trips, returning to work and rebuilding my fitness. All the things I took for granted eight months earlier. Unfortunately, at the four month mark the doctors discovered that my DNA was 100% mine – in a successful transplant the recipient (me) changes DNA and blood group to that of the donor (Cath). There was no evidence of Cath's DNA in my bone marrow. The transplant had failed.

20th wedding anniversary! What a way to celebrate.

We were devastated and trying to process what it meant when the professor explained that I would need another transplant! The numbness I felt at the first diagnosis returned, although we recovered more quickly the second time. We were getting good at bouncing back deciding there was nothing else for it other than to step up again.

As difficult as the second transplant was going to be, it was definitely better than the alternative. The wheels were set in motion and although I was dreading it all over again it was a tad easier as I kind of knew what was ahead. I kept reminding myself that it would only be a month (hopefully) of unpleasantness and then I would be back on track.
I was readmitted in March 2017 and my transplant was scheduled for March 22nd which happened to be mine and Brett’s 20th wedding anniversary! It felt like a good omen but definitely not the way we had intended to celebrate. The nurses sweetly averted their eyes as my husband sneaked in champagne and a few friends to celebrate hospital style!

I responded to the second transplant (again with donated bone marrow from my sister Cath) in much the same fashion as the first so I knew I could do it again. Blessedly, my back didn’t give me any pain but instead I developed a serious infection. My temperature hit 40 degrees and my blood pressure plummeted. The doctors explained that I needed to go to intensive care. I'd been so strong until this point so I allowed myself my first tear. I was really really scared. I’d only ever thought of intensive care as a place where people died. I was in for three days and felt truly lousy. The nurses were amazing and made my stay less scary. They assured me with their calmness and nurturing and within days of being treated for the infection, I returned to my ward. It was so weird that the hospital room on the ward, which has felt like a prison before, suddenly represented a haven to return to. Within a month I got the okay to go home again. I was over the moon and just couldn’t wait to start the recovery again.

My husband Brett and I celebrating 5 months after the second transplant

I'm now successfully at the six month mark and I feel almost like before cancer.. My DNA is 98% Cath's and my blood group has transitioned too. ‘Almost like twins’ is now the family joke. We have always been a very close and I never doubted that Cath would be there for me as I would her. That does not dispute my gratitude and overwhelming love for her. The reality of what she has endured for me twice is so very special. She plays it down and says it a given she’d be there for me as I would her but the love, strength and joy of sisterhood is unequaled. I am forever grateful, not just for her lifesaving cells but for the unwavering and indescribable love and support she provides everyday.

The love, strength and joy of sisterhood is unequaled. I am forever grateful, not just for her lifesaving cells but for the unwavering and indescribable love and support she provides everyday.

The love each member of my family share is credited to my beautiful mum and dad who have modelled what unconditional love is. They are our rock, our centre. They sat with me every day whilst I was in hospital and came daily to make lunch and look after me in the first weeks of being home. They were always there for me. And of course my gorgeous man. By my side every day, loving me, encouraging me and believing in me. Believing in our future together. That was so important.

I'm now starting back at work two days a week and Brett and I are planning our trip to Croatia for next year when I'll have the health to travel internationally. Of course, I know that complications or a relapse are possible but I've decided that living and not worrying are now my ‘new normal’.

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Living life in the ‘new normal’ ...

9/27/2017

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Tony, 66, was diagnosed with ALL two years ago. He was initially put on a UK trail as his treatment was complicated by the addition of the Philidephia chromosone and his age. Sadly he developed further complications which meant the treatment had to be stopped. He is still in remission and living life in the ‘new normal’. His wife Sylvia tells us their story.

Tony, in hospital during consolidation, whilst recovering from Stephen's Johnston Syndrome

The 9th April will always be a date we remember. It’s the day my husband Tony was told he was very poorly with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia (ALL). All I could think was ‘heck, that sounds bad’. We had never heard of it. We knew leukaemia was a blood disorder but we had never thought of it as being a type of blood cancer. Looking back all the signs were there; the extreme tiredness, the aches and pains, and the breathlessness but we put it down to just getting old!

Tony had a physical job. He was a carpet cleaner and was finding it increasingly more difficult to carry on. He was losing weight, looking gaunt and his complexion started to appear grey and ‘pinched’. Eventually he went to the GP who was dismissive (this didn’t go down well) but thankfully sent him for a blood test. Within a couple of hours Tony was asked back to the surgery. It didn’t sound good so I went along with him.

With a hemoglobin level (the protein in red blood cells that carries oxygen throughout the body) of 53 (it should normally be around 135-175 for men) the doctor sent him direct to A&E for a blood transfusion. The offer of an ambulance set alarm bells ringing. The hospital didn’t seem too worried but he was admitted as a precaution. At first they were unable to discover the cause, but then the bombshell was dropped when the resident haemotologist saw the blasts (immature cells) in his blood. Things started to happen pretty rapidly from then on. Tony had 60% blasts.

After these tests he was told he had ALL, without me or anyone else in the room and then left to absorb the news alone. I didn’t know either that they had told also told him he had an acute form of leukaemia and, without treatment, he would maybe only have six months to live.

Looking back all the signs were there; the extreme tiredness, the aches and pains

Then we had the first glimmer of good news – remission after the first round of chemo. It was fabulous to hear but slowly the reality of it all was creeping in. Life had changed overnight and we began to look for the new ‘normals’. The Macmillian cancer team were fantastic. They were there to answer all our questions, and boy, were there plenty. But more than that, they took control of the important stuff we had no idea about, like blue badges for parking, and social care benefits. Tony worked all his life but the money side of things didn’t occur to us.

As time moved on, Tony developed numerous allergies during his treatment. The weirdest is that he became intolerant red meat and he now breaks out in random rashes and an upset tummy.

He and I kept in touch whilst he was in hospital by Skyping nightly. Then one morning he came on screen looking like he had been three rounds with Mike Tyson. It transpired that in the night he had got up to use the bathroom and as he sat on the edge of the bed felt dizzy and fell face first flat to the floor. The swearing coming from his room alerted his nurses and they rushed in to help him. A portable X-ray showed nothing was broken but my goodness he had two wonderful black eyes and still carries the marks from the episode today.

Life had changed overnight and we began to look for the new ‘normals’

He also had symptoms of neuropathy (when the nerve fibres react) caused by some of the chemo medication which were hard for him to cope with. He struggled to get around in the early days as his feet first tingled and then became numb. It has eased a little, but still to this day lingers.

After the first stage of treatment Tony came home. The plan at first was to start the consolidation stage of treatment (used to kill any remaining cancer cells after remission) as an outpatient, but that was soon out of the question. On top of the side effects from the chemo, Tony developed what’s known as Stephens Johnston Syndrome – a rare disorder of your skin and mucus membranes. In this case, Tony got it as a reaction to the chemo. It left him having to be tube fed with a morphine driver for the intense pain from his ulcerated lips, mouth and throat. Twice I stayed overnight, not expecting him to be alive the next day. Somehow he was. These were some of the darkest times of 2015.

Tony, chatting to Sylvia via Skype early on in his treatment for ALL

The doctors stopped the consolidation and rested him a week or two, deciding to take him straight onto the maintenance phase (to avoid the cancer returning) and he was given a carrier bag full of tablets to take at home. He managed the first treatment but again the ulcers appeared. This time not so bad as to need tube feeding, and this time not the same Stephens Johnston Syndrome. It turned out to be a bad bout of herpatic ulcers. He was readmitted again.

The consultants reviewed his case and decided that this time enough was enough and all of Tony’s chemo treatment, apart from the TKI Imatiib to control the PH+, was to stop. He was removed from the trial too. It was a terrifying and confusing moment. We had been told he needed the chemo to live and now they were stopping it all. He was told that sometimes having a decent quality of life outweighs the attempts to beat the cancer.

We have moments when life is not ruled by blood counts and treatments again, but it’s always there in the background

The medical team then told him that if he had a raised temperature then we must go straight back to the hospital within the ‘golden hour’ of it starting. We live 40 minutes from the hospital so that was scary too. A couple of times early on his temperature rose, and he was readmitted for IV antibiotic to cope with the infection and sepsis he developed. Direct access to the specialist cancer ward and medical teams was reassuring.

We now know that the ALL is there, the PH+ is lurking in the background but at this present time it’s all under control. The regular bone marrow biopsies are also on hold until such time as things kick off again. And that’s the time bomb with Tony’s illness. It’s not if, but when. He has regular blood transfusions that have been set roughly three weeks apart, and he sees his consultant every ten weeks. Everyone knows him in the hospital, even the pharmacy. In a strange way, it’s like a home from home.

Tony, getting a sense of life back at home whilst still receiving chemotherapy

Other than that life is (almost) back to normal. We can't live life like we used to, we can’t go abroad, and we prefer to stay close to home, just in case. But we set goals to aim for and, at the moment, we are awaiting the arrival of our third grandchild – after all they are our future now. The support from our children, Tony’s family and our close friends has been immense. We see them all more regularly which cheers him up. Our children are particularly protective of him.

The one thing that matters now is more than two years after we first heard about ALL Tony is still here

We have moments when life is not ruled by blood counts and treatments again, but it’s always there in the background. People think Tony is fine now, and outwardly I suppose it must appear so. But I see the depression that often hits him now, and how quickly he tires. I often have to remind them that he is still very poorly. Even the common cold means a trip to see his consultant team as our GP wont deal with it.

But the one thing that matters now is more than two years after we first heard about ALL Tony is still here, enjoying a different lifestyle for sure, but still in remission, which is good.

Photography by Aden Priest Photography

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Life without Alex ... Harriet's story

8/23/2017

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When Harriet's sister, Alex, 30, passed away in February from complications following treatment for ALL, she wasn't prepared for the multitude of feelings she would experience. In the six testing months that have followed, it's been a painful, frustrating, sad, and confusing time, learning to live with and manage the many different emotions. To help herself and others move forward, she's been brave enough to write it all down. In this searingly honest blog, she discusses what life without Alex has been like...

Alex and me in New Zealand around 2 and 4 years old

For those of you who have been following Alex’s blog and don’t know her personally we sadly lost Alex in February. I know there were a few of you she spoke with who had been or were going through treatment and she found a lot of support and resilience in talking to those in similar situations. I am so sorry to be the bearer of this news and sorry it didn’t come sooner. Don’t let this cast a dark cloud over your fight but take inspiration from Alex’s.

For weeks, even months now I have been telling myself to write down how I am feeling, memories that come to me, and things I want to say to Alex. But I haven’t. Why? It’s 6 months on Wednesday since Alex passed away and I have not approached how I feel honestly. I have talked a little and written a few texts to Alex. But that’s it. No one tells you how to deal with grief and no one can. I’m not even sure I know what it is apart from a label to give some sensation and process you’re supposedly meant to go through.

Many of you who know me well, who I’ve let in, will know I’m not good at talking about how I feel. Mum and I often have our best talks over text and I don’t think that’s necessarily bad. I find it hard to verbalise emotion as it’s too overpowering so often I become closed off or mostly I just cry!!! So I am hijacking Alex’s blog to talk about my experience over this 6 months and to just write….i hope others might gain something from it. To start talking about grief and dealing with losing someone so close. After all, Alex wanted to talk honestly about her experience with leukaemia and treatment so I should follow suit ...

Alex wanted to talk honestly about her experience with leukaemia and treatment so I should follow suit ...

To begin with in the hours and days following the early morning of February 23rd 2017 where I felt Alex leave this world i think I only experienced shock. Despair of course, but also an out of body sensation where it wasn’t happening to me. I’d seen it countless times on greys anatomy and I just felt like I was watching an episode where the family are told what’s happened. As a lot of you know this virus came out of nowhere and struck Alex hard. She fought of course but before we knew what was happening it was over. So it was very difficult to accept. To understand and appreciate what had just happened.

I'd never seen someone die before. That sounds so obvious writing it down. But I think that explains in part how I processed things in the following months. The only losses I’d experienced were my grandparents when I was very young. To be told that your sister was not going to be resuscitated again after a long period of CPR was like being punched in the chest. You want to argue with the doctors but it’s a losing battle and that’s a real struggle to get your head and heart around. The helplessness. I can’t even explain. It’s nothing I want anyone to have to go through. And then to see her slip away was indescribable. All I can hold on to is we were there when she went. Holding her. That image, the sensations, the feel of her skin as I kissed her goodbye. I will never forget. It was horrid, but I hope it was peaceful and comforting for her. In a way, I believe the fact we were there and it was so unreal helped. Not sure why. It haunts me but it also comforts me.

The following few days I had a huge amount of support and love from friends and for that I am eternally grateful. The heart wrenching, chest crushing feelings that wash over you in the early stages of grief were there and I felt I couldn’t breathe but had those around me to breathe for me. You know who you are.
I still find it hard knowing that many of Alex’s closest friends never got a chance in the last few weeks to properly tell Alex how they loved her and to say goodbye. That hurts me too. I hope you don’t dwell on that. I’m sorry you couldn’t come to her. But she knew she had love around her. So much. From the beginning.

Alex (left) having treatment at Portsmouth hospital – I turned up in the same scarf as Alex was using for headscarf, and the same cardigan.

The first month arranging funeral plans and seeing friends a lot meant it was sort of clinical, I’d managed to disassociate myself with what had happened. A coping mechanism I suppose. Also mum and Mike were so distressed I was trying to take some of that away perhaps. So I was focused on raising funds to remember Alex and say thank you to Southampton. We saw her doctors and nurses and celebrated who Alex was. I slowly got my routine back and returned to work. Life frustratingly waits for no one and moves on so I did too. I told myself Alex would want me to be happy but deep down I’d found myself feeling guilty for not being more distraught. Our minds are strange things. Some days the little things would upset me but then I’d go days being OK and wonder why I wasn’t depressed. Why I wanted to be I’m not sure. Probably felt it’s what Alex deserved. The strongest emotion in the first couple of months was I found I’d be angry at people (people I didn’t know) often for no big reason. But work, my friends, Alex’s friends, Callum, mum and Mike were all there for me in their own ways and this was so important. Although I didn’t talk I knew a hug or text was just a moment away if needed. I hope I was there for my mum. She has the most amazing friends but I also wonder if I did enough for her ...

Now the excitement of summer plans is almost over I’m still as busy as ever but I’m finding things harder and guess that’s why I wanted to start writing (my way of talking). many questions continue to circulate my thoughts and maybe always will:

Am I inherently selfish for being able to get on with my life?
Do my friends think I’m cold for doing so. For talking about Alex without crying. For being happy
Am I cold?
Why did this have to happen? Why am I here and not Alex?
Are my friends scared to approach the subject now especially as I seem OK?
Will my mum be OK?
What will the future look like?

Then the more tortuous thoughts of: I should have done more, I should have been there more for Alex, I should be doing something more now, I wish I’d stayed with her that night. Why didn’t I stay. She would have stayed with me.

Some days the little things would upset me but then I’d go days being OK and wonder why I wasn’t depressed

The hardest and most prominent emotion is that I’m exceptionally sad she can’t experience this wonderful world anymore. I’m sad for the things she will miss in her life and i can’t share with her in mine. However, that she had her 30 years is magical and I remember that every day. There was and is so much to Alex. Such a huge energy that I can’t really see everything she was and is to me right now, like I need to remake the puzzle, if that makes sense. The difference I’ve noticed recently is that I really want to remember and embrace things about Alex and about our years together rather than put them out of my head.

Myself (right) and Alex at a mutual friends wedding summer 2015

She well and truly embraced life. Seems such a cliche but I can’t not say it because it’s so true. Even her illness she embraced. She wasn’t afraid of it. She didn’t ignore it or shut down. She shone!!!! She has helped others through it in life and hopefully in her death too. It is this that helps me appreciate life so much more and I am still angered by people who take life for granted and/or the life and love of others.

So ... That’s been life without Alex in as best a way I could describe. Life is odd. Life is precious. Alex is somewhere in the universe just not physically anymore. I feel happy and sad together it’s confusing. What I do know is She is a continuous inspiration to me. I believe she’s helping me get through this and is by my side. For me and for her I want to continue with her desire to raise awareness. So after sometime I am going to post again but about the virus so you all have an understanding of the risks to those who have undergone stem cell transplants and what happened…. then I hope to continue the writing she did on ALL and try to promote donations of blood, platelets and stem cells. I will be doing the London marathon in her honour next year (hopefully) wearing the weight of half the transfusions she received (~7kg)

Please please talk to me about Alex and about how you’re doing. I always think of you all. Also, If you want to contribute to the blog please contact me and please keep posting your blood donations online and sharing.

Love you always Alex.
Harriet xxx

This article was kindly provided to us by Harriet through Alex's own blog alexisallin.com

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Darya's journey through AML. Part four – Moving forward.

7/28/2017

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Darya, 26, is a Canadian writer who has adopted Amsterdam as her forever home. She is currently writing a memoir to chronicle her experiences through a cancer diagnosis, treatment, and life-after-the-fact, while navigating life as an expat and a newlywed. Aside from writing, she spends her time reading, journaling, and trying to define a new normal.

My mom and sister surprised me with a Christmas village set up like the one we have back home in Canada.

I would like to reiterate here that I am by no means a medical expert and what I am sharing now is what I remember being told by my doctors. Please bear this in mind while reading.

Moving forward
Recovery from my transplantation has been, beyond a doubt, the most emotionally and physically taxing part of this whole process; but also the most magical.

Conditioning chemotherapy and transplantation: the immediate side effects
I was lucky and did not have to undergo TBI (total body irradiation) like others often do when conditioning for the actual transplantation. However, that doesn’t mean that recovering from the conditioning phase of chemotherapy — an extra high dose of cyclophosphamide mixed with busulfan — was an easy task.

As these medications affect the fast growing cells, and I had pain in my belly through the first two periods of recover, I had a quite painful and shocking incident wherein I was having extreme belly pains plus a fever. On top of that, I ended up having an allergic reaction to the antibiotics I was given for the fever. Aside from that, most of the time spent in hospital recovering from chemotherapy and transplantation was spent sleeping a lot, and eating barely anything. This was very hard, I won’t sugar coat that, but it’s possible to get through it with a smile. It’s a choice, and I will preach this time and time again. Yes, there are issues and infections that come up in the recovery process, as the stem cells take their time to engraft. There is no doubt about it that this is one of the most difficult and dangerous times. But I chose to take it with a smile.

The easiest and most important way to do that, for me, was to make sure that my hospital room was a place that felt like home, temporarily. My recovery time was during the Christmas holidays, and I was lucky enough to have my family around to come and decorate my room for me. Seeing not only the cards and letters of encouragement from family, but also a little Christmas village on the table in my room kept my spirits up. I made an effort to encourage my family to come with stories about their adventures in the city, or to keep me informed about what was going on back home in Canada. When days felt difficult, I would make a point to sing the songs from my teenage years that always put me in a good mood, and brought back memories from those days. And on nights I couldn’t sleep, I would put in my earbuds and watch my favourite romantic comedies, especially the holiday ones! I mean who doesn’t love a good dose of Love Actually around the holidays?

There is no doubt about it that the transplant is one of the most difficult and dangerous times. But I chose to take it with a smile.

Going home and my chimerism test
After spending a quiet, lonely New Years Eve with my sister in hospital, and then another seven days to recover from extreme dehydration, I was given the go ahead to go home, for good.

Nothing was quite as exciting as walking into my new home with my fiancé. During the first few months of home recovery, I continued to take a mound of medication daily, and slept quite a lot. I was blessed with an incredible fiancé and caregiver, who always made sure I was taking my medication, eating, and getting enough fluids — or at least as much as I could manage. I spent a lot of days in our California King size bed, but oh how I was grateful to be in my house, around my stuff.

In February, just some 60 or so days after my transplantation, it was time to do a chimerism test. Now what I know about this test is that it basically shows how many of the blood cells are from the donor, and how many of your own cells are left. My doctor said that the highest possible result is greater than 95%. With telling me that, he also shared that my results were just that: greater than 95% donor cells. Given my status as a stem cell transplantation recipient, I can definitely say that this was one of the best days of recovery.

This was the first solid breakfast my fiancé prepared for me when I arrived home from the hospital after 5 weeks of very bland hospital bread and ham.

Graft-Versus-Host-Disease (GVHD) … um, what?
Something that my medical team had mentioned pre-transplantation was the fact that, post-transplantation, there is the risk of developing GVHD. Basically, this means that the new stem cells from the donor are working a bit too hard, and seeing the recipient’s body as foreign. My doctor told me that a bit of GVHD is a good sign because it is a tiny proof that the transplantation was successful — that the new cells are fighting, so, in theory, they associate this with the cells having also attacked any remaining leukaemia cells.

While GVHD is a good sign, it is not a fun one, that’s for certain. Before being hospitalised and put on IV feeding, I spent seven weeks with unbearable stomach pain and less-than-solid bowel evacuations at a frequency I didn't know was possible. On top of that, one of my medications caused serious nausea and vomiting. When my symptoms finally met the hospital’s standards for further investigation into GVHD, I was scheduled for an emergency colonoscopy whose pathology report confirmed the suspected diagnosis.

I spent five weeks in hospital being treated with steroids; I was put on NPO for 48 hours — which means no oral intake, not even water; I was given IV protein and nutrients; and finally, I was allowed to slowly start reintegrating liquids and food into my diet. This was probably the most difficult part for me as I love food of all kinds and it had been so long since I’d been able to eat anything I craved. Honestly, it had been so long since I’d been able to keep a meal down.

This all sounds horrible, but again, I managed to go through this hospitalisation with the biggest smile on my face. My fiancé visited every day and we would do laps and laps around the hospital; we would watch movies and funny sitcoms; we were even able to have some sleepovers when I had a room to myself. When he wasn’t around, I was writing, or reading, or watching Gossip Girl. (And no, I am not ashamed to admit I watched the series from start to finish during this stay!) I always had my handy dandy Hello Kitty blanket by my side, and wrapped around me when I left the room and the nurses loved to see me walking around. They would say that they loved it when patients would get really bored and stir crazy — this sounds so strange — because it meant that they were feeling better. And they were right, I was feeling great.

I was able to go home by the end of March to celebrate my birthday with family who had flown into Amsterdam to celebrate with me. It was the most wonderful gift.

A slightly frustrated selfie from me (thankfully!) last day of a week’s hospitalisation with oxygen. I’m wearing a t-shirt from one of my favourite bands which was a surprise gift from a best friend from home.

First my gut, now my lungs?
In July of 2016, I was hospitalised for a fever and low oxygen saturation. I was in hospital for a week, on oxygen. Once my oxygen levels regulated themselves and my fever was gone, I was sent home. Until late August I was experience difficulty breathing and catching my breath after any kind of activity. My mom made (what we then called) an emergency visit to calm me and give me love, as well as join me at my doctor’s appointments. After speaking with my hematologist, doing a pulmonary function test, and meeting with a pulmonologist, the consensus was that I would need treatment for GVHD in my lungs.

It’s been nearly a year since I started treatment for GVHD of my lungs, which sometimes feels completely experimental. The FAM regiment I am still on (Foster inhaler, Azitromycine, and Montelukast) is entirely experimental in the United States at the moment. But I will keep a smile on my face, through all of this, because you know what? I'm still here, and I plan to be for a long time. In the last year, since that diagnosis, I have become a wife and will be going back to school in September.

As my counsellor says, I was given the time so I damn well should make use of it!

Click here to read Part one, Part two
and Part three of Darya's story.

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Darya’s journey through AML | Part three – Stem cell transplantation?

6/28/2017

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Teambald: with my dad (who shaved his head in solidarity) and cousins during my “dip” after round two of chemo.

The ins and outs of stem cell transplantation
I am by no means a medical expert and what I am sharing now is what I remember being told by my doctors. Please bear this in mind while reading through this part of the series.

I was told by my doctors that 90% of people who are diagnosed with acute leukaemia require a stem cell transplantation. They shared that there was the possibility of being in one of three risk groups: good, intermediate, and poor. These risk groups are associated with the genetic mutations of the leukaemia cells. Some types (about 10% of cases of acute leukaemia) can be wiped out by chemotherapy and never come back, where others (about 90% of cases of acute leukaemia) require a stem cell transplantation due to their likelihood of recurrence.

While we were waiting for the cytogenetic results of my bone marrow aspiration, we hoped and prayed that I would be part of that 10%. Unfortunately, after weeks of waiting for the results, we were told that I was considered a “very poor risk” and that I would definitely need to undergo a stem cell transplantation. Hearing this news was incredibly difficult. On top of dealing with my own emotions, with my fiancé by my side, my sister and mom were also in the room. For this conversation we were visited by the doctor in charge of haematology in the hospital, the ward doctor and his assistant, and a nurse. As soon as I started to understand that we were getting bad news, yet again, I started to feel my face flush. I was terrified of what this meant for my future. The anxiety (and the stakes) were so high that I had to ask everyone to leave the room in order for me to process the information. The doctors were kind enough to leave, and I was given space to process the information before they came back, at a later time when I requested their presence, to explain the process in more detail.

All smiles with my IV on the last night in hospital before my pre-transplantation break.

Finding a donor
I was told that the odds of finding the donor from the international blood banks can be very slim, especially for someone from a non white-european background (my family is from the middle east). However, there is a 25% chance that a full blood sibling may be a match. Luckily, I have an older sister who was happy to do the test to see if she was a match. The waiting time – 2-3 weeks – was scary. There was a constant, lingering anxiety through the whole family about what might happen if she was not a match: what would happen if we had to go to the donor registry? And, in turn, what would happen if there was no match in the registry?

I was lucky. I was so so lucky that, after a couple of weeks of high stress and nerves, we were given the new that my sister was a match. It was a bit of a funny situation because she was at a retreat in Scotland where they had no cell service, so the hospital had a bit of a struggle getting in contact with her. I can almost hear her voice over the phone, from the reception desk at the cabin where she was staying, when she told me she was a perfect match and that we would be going forward with her as the donor for my stem cell transplantation.

I was lucky. I was so so lucky that, after a couple of weeks of high stress and nerves, we were given the new that my sister was a match.

My experience
I was out of what the doctors called the “dip” when my white blood cell count was back up to considerably safe level to no longer need round the clock supervision in hospital and allowed to go home. We were moving into a new apartment, so not only had my life been turned around by my diagnosis but my fiancé and I were starting from scratch in a new home. It was evidently a bit scary, but so exciting to know that I was going home to my new abode with my fiancé.

I was given about five weeks at home to recover from the first rounds of chemotherapy before returning to hospital for transplantation. Again, I was lucky. The pre-transplantation treatment for me did not include total body irradiation. I was given high dose cyclophosphamide and busulifan in order to kill off any remaining leukaemia cells, essentially emptying my immune system to be taken over by the donated stem cells.

Before my transplant my mom arrived at the hospital and decorated the cork board in my room.

Transplantation day
I received my stem cell transplantation, from my sister, around 10:00 on December 10, 2015 via intravenous transfusion. My family and fiancé were present for the the transfusion, as well as the ward doctor and a few of the nurses. It seemed that transplantation was an exciting and nerve wrecking day for every one. I was monitored very closely in case of allergic or adverse reactions but all in all the transfusion went quite smoothly. The room was full of positivity and excitement, and gratitude to science for giving me the chance to continue on living.

Many people refer to this day as their “new birthday”. I felt this way at first until I really had a chat with my fiancé and we realised and declared that, no, I was born on my actual birthday. This day, December 10th, is what we call my transplantiversary: the anniversary of the day where what felt like a simple IV transfusion saved my life.

Click here to read Part one and Part two of Darya's story.

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Darya’s journey through AML | Part two – Diagnosis. Now what?

5/30/2017

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Showing off my newly inserted CVC. The pink colouring is the antibacterial agent used to clean the area.

Diagnosis … now what?
I was told that we would have to begin chemotherapy almost immediately. However, since I was dealing with a staphylococcus infected cyst (ew!), it was important that I be treated with antibiotics to bring my immune system back to optimal function. The course of antibiotics would be administered intravenously (via a needle into my veins) and I would need to stay in hospital. So there I was, leukaemic cells brewing inside my bone marrow, fighting off an infection … and I’d only packed a bag for a couple of days! To top it all off, I was an ocean away from my family and would have to break the news to them via FaceTime.

Accepting my diagnosis was not easy, but I dug deep and found the strength to accept the fight that lay ahead of me. Having to break the news to my family was difficult. I have such a vivid memory of calling my mom at work. The last thing she was expecting was for her youngest child to call from the other side of the Atlantic with the kind of news I had to share, so getting her to go sit in her office, away from the hustle of the workplace, was a bit difficult. I remember asking her to sit down and pay attention and started to calmly tell her the news I had just received from my doctors.

I’m very lucky that she was able to drop everything and be on quite literally the next possible flight to come be with me for my first course of chemotherapy. Her arrival was such a relief, I was so grateful to have my mommy by my side.

Getting my central venous catheter
Going for my central venous catheter (CVC) was an experience, to say the least. My roommate warned me that the waiting room was cold, so I made sure to bring an extra blanket with me, just in case. I was given a small package with a few plastic things in it (including what looked like a very long and slim tube) and waited to be picked up by hospital transportation to be taken to have it inserted.

Transportation picked me up and took me to the angio surgery room. They rolled me into a white waiting room, separate from where family members and significant others were allowed to sit and wait. It was indeed cold, so I was happy that I had the extra layer. Once ready for me, a doctor’s assistant slid open a door which exposed a room lit with blue UV lights. I saw a few big screens and machines, and a table in the middle of the room. This was definitely an operating room and I instantly felt nervous.

Accepting my diagnosis was not easy, but I dug deep and found the strength to accept the fight that lay ahead of me.

After asking for my name and date of birth, I was moved from my mobile bed to the table in the centre of the room and instructed to lay still. The doctor’s assistant applied a coloured antibacterial agent and informed me that the doctor would be in shortly to begin the procedure. I was covered with a blue surgical sheet that had a hole in it – the hole was placed over the area that had been cleaned by the assistant. The doctor came in and began to search for a vein in my neck/chest area with an ultrasound probe. She reassured me I didn’t need be afraid and that, although it may look and feel like it’s going to be a surgery, it would actually be a very quick procedure that would be over in about 10-minutes.

Once she located a big enough vein – in my neck rather than in my chest, which I wasn’t terribly happy about - she poked me with a needle, giving me a local anaesthetic. She talked me through the procedure of insertion, using the ultrasound probe as a guide.

As she had promised, it didn’t take more than 10-minutes for the whole thing to be over. When it was done, the assistant pulled a giant X-ray machine over me to take a picture, ensuring that the CVC was placed correctly. Then they wished me luck with my treatment and put me back in the waiting room to wait for transportation back to the oncology ward.

Are chemo side effects real, though?
The days coming up to the start of my intensive chemotherapy seemed to blur together as I was bombarded with a lot of information and instructions. We had had a conversation with another patient who was in treatment for AML as well, but was receiving his second dose at the time of my first. He had shared his experience with the first dosage, which included an allergic reaction, but we were told that every patient experiences the medication and its side effects in different ways.

One of the pre-chemo conversations I remember the most clearly was the conversation about hair loss. One of the nurses sat with me to explain the different and most common side effects. When asked if I had any questions, I immediately asked about my hair. It was starting to become more and more real to me that I would be going through chemo, and I had accepted that I would encounter fatigue and nausea. But I just couldn’t accept that I would be losing my hair. They said hair loss doesn’t happen until about two weeks after the start of treatment, so I decided to keep my hair as long as it was, for as long as I could.

Cherishing my hair while it was still on my head.

After my first haircut.

Chemo round 1: Universe, can you hear me?
I vividly remember the night before my first dose of chemotherapy, which was to be administered intravenously, around the clock for seven days. My mom was at the hospital with me until I went to bed and we were both very nervous. We had a lovely conversation with my nurse as I was feeling very anxious. He shared with me that in his experience, it’s those moments of fear and unknown before treatment begins where most people (re)connect with their spirituality.

I grew up in a family of scientists, and religion was not a prominent thing in our household. My parents believed in “a God”, but it was never clear to me which one. So I didn’t really have a spiritual side of my life to (re)connect with. Through psychotherapy in my late teens to early twenties, my therapist spoke to me a lot about the power and energies of the Universe and shared some of her own beliefs to help me find a balance of my own that made sense. That night, I turned to the Universe and I prayed. A prayer of gratitude and of hope that the Universe would help me find a way to get through what I was going through. This became a nightly ritual, along with singing made up songs to my body, asking all my cells to work hard and help me through.

The actual process of chemo was the standard combination of 7-day, round the clock drip of Cytarabine (ara-C), and 3 3-hour doses of idarubicin on days 1 through 3. During that week of 24/7 drip, I wasn’t allowed to leave the ward and, as the side effects took a few days to kick in, I felt like I was going stir crazy.

We had a lovely celebration with my mom, sister, and fiance when my first round of chemo drip was finally over; We headed down to the hospital cafeteria and I (finally, after a week of cravings) got to have an ice cream!

Spending time with my fiancé and family in the hospital cafeteria after the first round of chemo.

If you missed Part one of Darya's story then you can read it by clicking here.

Do you know someone who has been affected by acute leukaemia?
Would you like to share your story with us? If so, get in touch here.

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Darya's journey through AML. Part one – diagnosis.

4/28/2017

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Before being diagnosed with AML

I’ve told this story more times than I can count, and I’m certain that every time I tell it, it comes out differently, with new insight and memories from my recovery. And yet I know that every time I tell it the same warrior in me appears.

A Family affair
The months before my diagnosis were divine. July 2015 was beautiful. My boyfriend and I had been together for a year. We began the month with my extended family on the Greek island of Crete to celebrate the wedding of one of my cousins. We returned home to Amsterdam with love in our hearts and my sister and two teenage cousins in tow. I spent three weeks being a tourist in my own city with the most important people in my life. And at the end of the month my boyfriend proposed. I responded with an ecstatic “yes!”. In August, my sister and cousins headed back to their respective homes, and my fiancé and I started this new chapter of our lives together. We officially moved in together and chose the date of our upcoming nuptials.

Things then started to go downhill when a cyst I had caused a Staph infection (Staphylococcus is a type of bacteria that can cause many types of infection) put me in the hospital for a couple of days. After being released from the hospital, I made a follow up appointment with blood tests for the end of the month. Nothing could have prepared us for what was to come.

When a routine test leads to hospital administration
What started as a routine test turned into a bone marrow puncture to determine the cause of some abnormal blood results. This was the beginning of the most difficult adventure of my life.

On September 1st I emailed my professors to let them know I would miss my first class of the semester due to a doctor’s appointment. Routine blood tests had become normal for me after a lupus diagnosis in 2013 so I just saw it as an extension of that. The lumbar puncture was horrible. Local anesthetic did nothing to numb the area of my lower back where the needle was inserted. I writhed and let out howls of pain, just minutes after promising the nurse and doctor that I was not a screamer. I asked for a sedative while my fiancé sat just outside the door, newspaper in hand, waiting for it to be over. A few minutes after the test was over, he was allowed back in the room and I laid there on the testing table, in and out of consciousness as the sedative kicked in. The pain in my back after that test was excruciating.

Regardless, after about 15 minutes of rest, they managed to get me up and out of the day ward and on the bus home. When we got back, I told my fiancé I wasn’t feeling any better. Low and behold, after holding a thermometer under my tongue for a minute or so, it showed that my temperature was rising towards a fever.

Throughout this, I had also been dealing with a second cyst and assumed that this one, too, had become infected based on its size, the swelling around it, and the pain it was causing me. I called my doctor to ask what they recommended. The nurse who answered the line spoke with my doctor and they said I should get myself back to the hospital. They advised me to pack a bag as they were uncertain as to how long I would be staying this time. Thinking this was just another staph infection, I packed for a couple of days and we called a taxi to get us back to the hospital. Being admitted this way is a bit complicated, they send you to the emergency room where you are assessed by the doctor on call and, after preliminary tests, are admitted and sent to your respective ward.

My time in the emergency room was quite interesting. I lay on the emergency bed with my fiancé sat next to me and we spent a lot of time just waiting. Funnily enough, it was the same staff that had taken me in just a few weeks prior for my first infection. I had a slight idea of what to expect – some blood tests, an IV drip, and a visit to the infectious diseases ward. But this wait was not quite that simple. For whatever reason, the doctor on call kept coming around to tell me that it would just be a little bit longer, and that the haematologist was looking at my bloods. Is it embarrassing to share that at this point, I didn’t even know what a haematologist was?

Getting ready for a nap, exhausted after an unexpected weekend in the hospital. August 2015

Laying in my first hospital bed of many, waiting… September 1, 2015 - diagnosis day

Rolling into the Onco ward
Fast forward a few hours and finally someone came to take me to the other ward. I remember thinking I was heading back to the infectious diseases ward and hoping I wouldn’t be stuck with the heavy breather who couldn’t sleep through the night last time I was there. We arrived on the same floor as my last admission to hospital, but turned left instead of right. As they were rolling me through and into the ward, I noticed that the notices on the doors all mentioned oncology. At that point I didn’t know what oncology was either! I was put into a private room with a private bathroom. I couldn’t help but laugh wondering how contagious was I? We tried not to think anything of it or to consult our good friend Dr. Google. I’ll be home soon, I thought.

Diagnosis
It was around 15:30 when the ‘white coats’ walked in. This is how I refer to the four people who entered my room with somber looks on their faces. Among them was the nurse I had met when I arrived on the ward, the nephrologist who was in charge of my lupus, the doctor who had done the bone marrow aspiration earlier that morning, and an older, bald man with a kind face whom I did not recognise.

My nephrologist opened the conversation, letting me know that they had the results from the bone marrow aspiration and that it was bad. The kind-faced man took over the conversation and began to explain. They had found leukaemic blasts in my bone marrow, about 13%, and we would need to start treatment immediately. Or at least once they had taken care of the staph infection caused by the new cyst.

My fiancé and my first reaction, shocked, was simply to cry. The haematologist went on to explain that they checked and double checked the test results, that it took some time because they needed to identify 500 cells, and that there was no mix up in my file. This was really happening. As we cried, the doctors asked if we needed some time to take in the information and compose ourselves before moving forward. I quickly stopped my crying, wiped my tears, and firmly asked how we were going to fix the problem.

Happily home and my first “bald” selfie. October 2015

Split-second decisions : this will not be the end
In that moment I decided that this was my life and I wouldn’t let something like an early-stage AML diagnosis change that. Together with the doctors, I was determined to take control of my life, of my treatment, and of my healing.

Through the course of my treatment, I relied half on the power of the medicine I was being given and the allogenic stem cell transplant I would receive in December 2015 from my older sister. For the other half, I relied on my ability to think positively, to trust in the universe, to create a healing space through my hospital stays and later at home, and never utter the C word. That last tenet later changed with insight from the hospital social worker who encouraged me to associate the word cancer with the strength and resilience needed to kick the crap out of it, rather than the heart wrenching pain and suffering that is often attached to it.

Do you know someone who has been affected by acute leukaemia?
Would you like to share your story with us? If so, get in touch here.

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“I tried to stay strong and positive, but I did have the occasional wobble” – Anna’s experience of being treated for AML ...

The impact leukaemia has had on my life since my diagnosis 11 years ago

“Sport has been a saviour for me and my boys” Helen shares how she has coped with the loss of her husband ...

I know that complications or a relapse are possible but I’ve decided that living and not worrying are my “new normal” ... Louise's story

Living life in the ‘new normal’ ...

Life without Alex ... Harriet's story

Darya's journey through AML. Part four – Moving forward.

Darya’s journey through AML | Part three – Stem cell transplantation?

Darya’s journey through AML | Part two – Diagnosis. Now what?

Darya's journey through AML. Part one – diagnosis.

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