I was to be examined several times throughout the day.
Following another blood sample taken in the ward, the experts were sure that they had correctly diagnosed the problem, and my parents were informed around lunch time on that first day in hospital. One final test was required, the dreaded bone marrow biopsy, scheduled for the Monday, but its results were not likely to change anything.
The events of the day had swamped me. I was confused and worried. When a bespectacled, distinguished looking man entered the ward, flanked by his understudies, I knew that the moment of truth had arrived. In the even fluorescent light, I searched his eyes for answers.
" ... and finally we can be fairly certain that you have leukaemia."
I waited for a layman's description and a prognosis.
The word itself had not registered with me, but the expression on my father's face, which I glimpsed as he moved past the hall window, gave rise to grave concern from deep within. I knew his understanding of the term was far better than my own.

" ... there is a disorder in your blood involving the white blood cells, ... You will have to stay with us for six to twelve weeks ... chemotherapy, radiotherapy ... "
I tried so hard to concentrate, but I was tiring badly. I remember thinking that my heart was pumping at an incredible rate. Several courses of drugs were to be administered with the aim of retarding the proliferation of the white blood cells to the point of controlling them, and then eliminating them.
" ... but the important thing is that we will cure you."

It was the type of commitment that I had been waiting for.

Perhaps he said that he would try to cure me, or maybe in some other way my hearing was inaccurate. But at the time, I felt that I heard what I have recorded above, and the effect of this could not be underestimated. At that very moment I was at ease with the situation. And through the difficult times that followed, the echo of this statement, and its implications in my mind, served as a rock-solid foundation for resurgences of faith and confidence in the struggle for good health.

I was going to get better. My rigid body could relax.
Tension receded in waves as I contemplated my future. My life was not being threatened, or so I thought, and a short stay
in hospital couldn't do me too much harm. I was blissfully ignorant of leukaemia's effects and reputation.
This was, in retrospect, quite lucky. Real depression was a long way off.

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