Consolidation it was termed, as I had achieved a state of
remission well before this time. But still each time I had a blood
test, or a bone marrow, my heart would be in my mouth awaiting
the results. When the time arrived for my ninth CROP I was
becoming weary of the battle. I knew only too well what would
follow in the five days ahead, and mentally I was approaching a danger zone.
There was no guarantee forthcoming that any of the CROPs
would be my last, and I desperately needed to sight an end. This
is the mental pain of treatment.
An end to the ritual. The five-day trauma which extended its
fear into the preceding days, creating a terror that became
increasingly hard to overcome.
I could see in the distant future a healthy life free from the
torment of leukaemia, but it seemed further and further away.
I wondered how much more 1 could take. My volatile ernotions
exploded during June of 1978.
