By this time, the leukaemia had established a solid foothold in my body. The proliferation of white blood cells. The effects on so many systems. I walked defeated along the pathway home, feeling confused and disappointed.
I remember Dad looking up from behind his paper as I walked past. He was not aware that I had been gone no more than fifteen minutes. A pathetic effort.
"Did you get far?"
"No. I'm feeling too tired to run," I replied, then sat for a moment.
I was puzzled by my inability to run, but couldn't blame illness, so my lack of fitness had to be at fault. I realise now that I was badly anaemic.
I left the room a worried young man. The perspiration on my brow was not the result of exercise.


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