Tag Archives: Stem cells


Four weeks ago, 31 days ago to be precise, I swallowed what *might* be my last ever Ciclosporin tablet. It was a noteworthy moment. It was more than that, it was a milestone that warranted me taking a badly lit photograph to commit said moment to my iCloud memory. 
It was a milestone that was a long time coming and one which came with something I have been yearning for. It came with a deadline. At least, it came with something that is as close to a deadline as I can get. If I learnt anything last year, definite deadlines and timescales rarely exist in the weird and wonderful world of myeloma. So, when the Medically Trained Person said that if I was going to get Graft Versus Host Disease, it would happen within six weeks of me coming off the medication, I finally had a date in my diary. Additionally, as you do need to get all the relevant information, I was told that within the six week window, I would be most likely to show symptoms at the two week mark. 

If the odds were ever in my favour, I had an unpredictable Christmas ahead of me. I had something that could almost be called a plan. I had my date. A date to look forward to and a date dread. At least, that is how I felt for the first fortnight.

Four words have been stuck in my head and followed my thoughts from the moment I knew I was going to have a donor transplant. Graft Versus Host Disease, known as GVHD to save my fingers. It might be the one medical term that is easy to pronounce, but the mechanics of it, the good and the evil of it, waiting for it, are anything but easy. 

From the moment my sister’s cells entered my body, not a day has gone by where I have not replayed conversations in my head telling me that a transplant will be (much) more successful if one gets GVHD. That a lasting remission is most likely to occur if one gets GVHD. That one only wants minor GVHD and not severe GVHD. GVHD can be worse than the cancer the transplant was intended to treat. GVHD can kill you. My post transplant world has been categorised by these thoughts and unbearable waiting to see which one applies to me the most. 

Another thing I have learnt in the most painstakingly slow way, is that the symptoms for GVHD are so broad that it has made it impossible for me to trust my body. Let’s face it, before my last transplant I already had reason enough to not trust my body. It has left no room for rational thinking. Everyday, multiple times a day, with each bowel movement, scratch, headache, bout of indigestion and shooting pain, I would wonder whether it had finally come. It did not. It was like failing my GCSEs on a daily basis. 

I woke up and continue to wake up everyday and my body does not feel right, and I do not know the cause of it. One could say I ‘do not feel right’ because I am recovering from a transplant, but I want to know more. I need to be reassured and I cannot do it myself because my body does not feel my own. Maybe I should ask Big Sister. I am 98% her now after all…This constant questioning of the unknown something, is one awful, inescapable disease. Half hypochondria, part anxiety with a sprinkle of depression and that’s before we get to the diagnostics of the physical ailment. It is a weight far beyond my actual sizeable girth and one that has often been too much to bear. Telling myself that the last 150+ days have been about recovery and not failure has been my full time job. I could not talk or write about it through fear of jinxing my snail-like progress. 

My long standing mental list of acceptable GVHD symptoms consists of oesophageal problems, diarrhoea and a rash. By December, despite developing a bottom sponsored by Andrex, the Medically Trained People told me that I had not developed anything from my list. As unpredictable and unformed as my stools had become, the fact I had not lost any weight, led the Medically Trained People to conclude it was not bad enough to warrant the GVHD label. During that conversation, the Medically Trained Person started to talk about the prospect of not getting GVHD. I left St Bart’s dejected. I felt unwell, just not the right sort of unwell.
If I thought that my days post transplant on Ciclosporin were difficult, the booming ticking clock that has been everyday post 15 December has been something all the more sinister. The first day free from the nightmare inducing horse pills, felt promising. My stomach was worse than usual and I could not stop scratching my neck. Both things soon subsided and realistically, were most likely a symptom of my nervous energy.

Over the next fortnight, I felt awful. Each 24 hours felt like double that. I was impatient. I repeated potential outcomes over and over and over again. I am embarrassed to admit that I occasionally gave in to the Bad Thoughts. The more I waited for something conclusive, for my pot to boil, the more I predicted failure. Worse than failure, a few times, I concluded that not getting GVHD which would shorten any remission, would be the easiest outcome for me. It would mean that I did not have to live with the unpredictability of waiting for a relapse and I would not have to deal with the uncertainty that awaits me when I attempt to rejoin my life. The bottom line was that at least that outcome would have a definite ending…
Then do you know what happened? 

Two weeks to the day after I took my last pill, I got a mouth ulcer. By the end of that day, I had two, and then by the following day, my mouth felt like sandpaper. It still feels like sandpaper. I hoped, and a quick Google search made me hope that little bit more that the cause of my pus filled mouth was the elusive GVHD… One week after that, I opened my mouth to a Medically Trained Person and do you know what she said? 

Read between the lines.

In that single moment I went on a metaphorical diet and I exhaled. I text members of my Support Network an update. I phoned Mamma Jones with the news, to which she responded nonchalantly, “I knew it”. Most tellingly, I left the hospital with my smile intact despite having to wait two and a half hours to rehydrate to allow for my bloods taken.

Despite allowing myself to bask in my relief for a day, I’m not buying any party poppers or downing champagne yet. The champagne would be wasted on my rotting mouth anyway. The six weeks are not up yet and although I am now on medication to treat my mild GVHD, my fears remain. No longer am I waiting to get GVHD, I am now hoping that it does not worsen. More hypochondria. My liver has not been functioning as well as it ought and although I was told not to ‘panic’ about my results, I challenge anybody in my position not to do just that. After all, I may have finally got what I wished for, but I still do not have a body I can trust. 

As I said at the start of this, there is a very fine line between good and evil. I have two more incredibly slow weeks of trying to stay on the right side of it. 

And then, what the hell is going to happen? 

Patience is not my virtue.

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Definitely Not Normal

There is nothing more anticlimactic than the word ‘transplant’ prefixed by the words ‘bone marrow’ or ‘stem cell’. Having experienced two SCT’s before, I knew this time round was not going to start with good looking people wearing scrubs shouting “stat”, whilst sporting my blood all over their latex gloves. My loved ones were not going to be waiting patiently for news in a reception area and it would appear the only soundtrack thus far comes from Julie Andrews. My allogenic transplant has looked nothing if not boring. I am convinced that the optional removal of a bunion would have looked more exciting than what we experienced up to and including on Thursday.

I’m poised for drama, but I do not know what that drama is going to look like yet, or when it is really going to begin, so in the meantime, I will share a few photographs of how Medically Trained People have made the extraordinary, appear somewhat ordinary.


Day Zero The First




Day Zero The Second

Many people, included I, am surprised by fact that the stem cells are not tested where they are harvested at St Bart’s. Instead, on each Day Zero after Big Sister had been drained and her pins were with needles, her stem cells were couriered to The Royal Free Hospital, some five miles away for testing. They would then travel back by courier, before entering me. It seems a strange world we live in that my sister’s bodily fluids could have visited the magical place known as Whitechapel without their maker being present. 

The cells were taken away in branded picnic bags. On the second day, Big Sister and I showed far too much excitement towards the courier returning our precious goods  when unfortunately for him, he came across the two of us in a lift. We squealed (because it meant I would be home by 20:00hrs) and he looked at us like we were at the wrong hospital. I captured the moment. 



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Something Borrowed

I am often being told that My Myeloma is not all my own. It would be correct to say that my illness is not all about me, the people around me have suffered effects of the illness just as I have; they’ve metaphorically and actually held my hand, they have lost a drinking mate, they put up with me and fained interest in me describing in minute detail what I have cooked on any given day, they have dealt with my mood swings and there are many, many more things that are too long to list here. 

Very soon (with my fingers crossed), somebody is going to be physically affected by My Myeloma. I will be borrowing something quite exceptional from my Big Sister. It’s beyond exceptional. It’s a minor miracle.  Just as this will be a new experience for me and a potential lifeline, it is a brand new experience for her. I’m not even sure if the word ‘experience’ encompasses the enormity of what she is about to do. I really isn’t just about me anymore…

Two weeks ago, Big Sister travelled to London for her pre transplant tests. From this, among other things, we learned that it is not only me who has to wait around a hospital.
And so, without further waffle, for one time only, I give you Big Sister:

I had known for 33 months that I was a match for my sister and that I carried round her magic medicine and possible cure. Just a few days after Emma’s diagnosis, my tissue was tested to see if I was a match. There was only a 25% chance that I would be, so we were all thrilled when it was confirmed I was a 10/10 match. I can still remember everything about the call from the hospital telling me this, and my phone call to Emma to tell her.

It’s been quite a responsibility carrying the stem cells around, if I had had my way they would have been taken as soon as we knew I was a match. I even carry around an ICE card in the event of an accident which states I am a living donor and they meant let me die until my stem cells have been harvested.

A few months ago, we were told I would need a medical before I donated. After months of asking, my medical for stem cell donation was arranged for the 11 June. I was anxious to say the least. What if, after all this time, Emma’s own stem cell transplants and our hopes, I couldn’t donate?
I caught the 7:21 train to London, sat in my reserved seat and tried to revise for my upcoming exams. Instead, all I could do was listen to the moron diagonally opposite me, try desperately hard to make conversation with the barrister next to him. Among the many conversation starters he came up with was ‘we all have cancer you know?’ I sat there wondering if I should say anything about his rather random and insensitive comment; in the end I figured my thoughts would be wasted as he was a proper know all. 
I hopped out the train and grabbed a taxi to St Barts. I was there a few minutes before my appointment. I was weighed and measured and then sent to see a consultant. The consultant was nice and cheery, he told me a load of things I already knew and completed a questionnaire about my health. I signed a consent form, the same one I give women at the hospital I am training at, before they have a caesarean, except this time ‘donate stem cells’ was written in the blank space.
Next, I went to meet my CNS, my very own CNS, how about that? She talked to me about dates, and we agreed that the harvest would start on the 22 July. I assumed this meant I had passed the medical, although no one said. My CNS then sent me for an ECG, and some blood tests.
I wandered round the huge hospital to where I was told I would get my ECG, only to be told the department had recently moved and I now needed to be at the other end of the hospital….so off I went. I was called in immediately, it took about 5 minutes to stick on all the sensor thingies and then just a minute to do the trace. I was handed the trace and told to take it back to the CNS. I was a bit reluctant to hand the ECG trace over before I knew it was ok, so I quickly Googled what a good trace looked like. Mine was similar, what a relief, so I handed it over.
Next it was time to take ‘some’ blood samples. Off I went, back to the main building and up to the 6th floor. I went and sat in a bay where other people were having chemo. A nurse came and started taking out the empty sample bottles. Now I am not going to lie, I hate needles, I always have and always will. Trying desperately hard not to embarrass myself in front of these poorly people that have to under go needles frequently, I let her take my blood…..all 16 bottles.

Finally, I was sent to the pharmacy to get my G-CSF injections. I waited over an hour, but they never appeared. It turns out that the prescription was wrong. As a result, I couldn’t meet Emma for lunch and Emma will now need to collect my injections for me at some point.

A week or so later, I had a text from my CNS to say all my blood tests were ok. The next day, I received a letter in the post from St Barts. My heart pounded a bit as I opened it, luckily it was a confirmation to my GP that I was suitable to donate, requesting they do check up on me following the harvest.

So after all that, and after 33 months, on the 18 July, I will start to inject myself with G-CSF, the growth hormone to make more stem cells. I’m not entirely sure how I will do this, but I will cross that bridge at the time. On the 21 July, I will go to St Barts for my pre-op tests. On the 22 July, I will have my stem cells harvested. They will be cleaned up and given straight to Emma. 
It all sounds quite simple. If simple means needles, stem cells and giving your little sister a lifeline. 

Can it really, finally, be happening?


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Day + 13

For 15 days and 14 nights I have ‘defied all odds’ and I have only stepped in foot of a hospital once to see the view from the 16th floor of the tower. The world I have seen has been very much restricted to half of University Street, approximately a fifth of Huntley Street, a few lifts, the Ambulatory Care, a treatment room or two and the Cotton Rooms. Most of my day, I would guess at least 90% of my day has been reserved for my bed and the room it is in.

I have saved you from the monotony of this, mainly because I have not had the energy to put words into sentences in my real life, let alone on a blog, but I have an hour to kill right now, so I thought, why not share my 200 metre in diameter bubble.

90 percent of my time on or in bed is a long old time to spend on or in a bed. We had to buy a blanket, so I could feel there was some distinction between the day and the night. I have watched, or at least listened to a lot of television. If daytime TV were not so horrific and my brain function not so limited, I could have enjoyed myself.



Anybody with a beady eye would have noticed that I swapped beds in the photos above.  There is a valid reason and that reason is because I was without a Mamma Jones or Big Sister from Monday morning and the former said I needed to be next to the emergency alarm. That was one of the most significant events over the last fortnight. Similar, but nowhere as painful as my five stools.

The Cotton Rooms, as I would have said the last time I experienced them, are more than palatable, I think they are better than anything Lenny Henry would advertise, and it has working air conditioning, which I could never not be a fan of. 

If the views from my beds were not riveting enough for you, I walked, possibly an entire cumulative mile in the same shoes, seeing and experiencing all of this, whilst feeling like there was a trout living in my skull, using all my available energy. 






It may cause some feelings of envy in you, for I have been told that not all Ambulatory Care ‘hotels’, are as slick as what I have had the (dis)pleasure to experience. The good old NHS, eh?

My favourite thing to look at each day is not a cold EMan ripe for sniffing, but a lone building, which reminded me half of the house in ‘batteries not included’ and half of the house in ‘Up’. It was a last building standing, for it’s immediate neighbours had been not so long demolished. My photo of it, does not do it justice.


Bed, wake up, force down some food and a drink, shower, walk, obs, walk, bed. Bed, wake up, force down some food and a drink, shower, walk, obs, walk, bed…. That’s been the last 14 days. 

Right now however, I have mixed things up a little and my view is this and my is it beautiful:


My routine will continue to be monotonous and I will continue to be weak, but I will be in my own beds, with the dog/dogs around me, in my own space with on demand television services, feeling rather smug in the knowledge that I had an autogenous stem cell transplant, without being hospitalised.  There is very little I can feel smug about, so I will embrace becoming an urban myeloma legend.

I’m home and that, on Day + 13 is bloody brilliant.


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Please not this blog was written yesterday. Today is Day+5, but really, who is counting? 

I have to be blunt. This sitting around and waiting to get sick, is nonsense. It is a nonsense that is really is getting on my tits. That’s right, on my tits. I am aware that that statement is somewhat crude, but I do not want to use my very limited energy coming up with a more palatable way to express my frustration. Waiting to be deemed ill enough to be admitted to hospital is beyond tiresome. Knowing what that illness feels and looks like, and waiting for it to happen, is not something I would wish on my top ten list of worst enemies. It has to get worse before I can feel better. I cannot compartmentalise this yet. I cannot cross the bridge yet.

Today is Day + 4, the day I was admitted to hospital during the last transplant. I did not envisage outdoing my previous milestone. I planned, and I prepared, and I convinced myself that the treatment would take me down much quicker than it did last time… I am quickly trying to readjust my thinking. It’s back to the drawing board. It’s difficult to do that when every minute of every hour of every day of this last five days, I have waited with pure dread for the unforgivable mucotitus. The chickens have not hatched.

At this point during the last transplant, I felt worse than I currently feel. My bowel had already started to fill a reservoir, my stomach was cramping, I had not eaten for 24 hours and I had a fever. Today, I feel quite nauseous, but the three anti sickness pills taken three times a day, seem to be doing their job and I managed to nearly finish my lunch earlier. An outsider would be forgiven for thinking it was a piece of cake, but to the feeling of almost constant near vomit, add the need for 12-16 hours of sleep every day since Friday, burping after every sip of water, stiff joints and the occasional sweaty brow; and a poorly Emma you make. Just not poorly enough. What I experience now, I would  describe as ‘horrible’, but it is nothing compared to what is to come and I feel that most keenly. Am I allow to seek sympathy now when I know I am going to need so much more in a few days, or am I just crying wolf? 

There is a lady in the hotel who had her transplant on the same day as me, and she is waiting to become unwell  just like me. However, I am jealous of her, because unlike me, she has not experienced the ‘feeling unwell’ before. It’s ridiculous, but I think I found not knowing exactly what to expect much easier than I have the last 72 hours of remembering. I would be the first to admit that I do not recall how accurately I have remembered it all. Accurate or not, my current anxiety is real

As things currently stand, my White Blood Count and Neutrophils both stand above 2, I do not have a temperature, my mouth feels woolly and my stools are non-existent. I am eating, but I am unable to drink more than a litre a day. I am more than under the weather. 

I am whinging. I know I am whinging. I cannot help it. It’s the fatigue and the overwhelming fear that I will not be strong enough to manage the pain and inflammation of my body’s mucous membrane. That my friends, is the long and short of it.

Fortunately for me, I prepared for such moments of self doubt. There is the obvious response to my questions of coping and getting through it all, stolen from a sports brand, along the lines of just doing it.

However, when I feel like my ego needs a bit of stroking, I take my mind back to February 2015. “Hello a birthday weekend away with friends in February 2015”, I say. A weekend when, in spite of being at the end of a  very long course of debilitating treatment, and thus, worrying of nothing but my ability to stay awake, I defied all my expectations and stayed awake. I saw 05:00hrs for reasons other than my back hurting and steroids . It was hard work and required some preparation, but I did it.  I was so pleased and surprised with my three day performance, that I, rather delicately declared that I had “pulled some energy out of my arse”.

A few days after that, I was asked how I thought I was going to get through my transplant, and I responded with “I will just have to pull something out of my arse, that is what I have done so far and it has worked.”

So, can I pull something out of my arse yet?


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I have been back in London Town for seven whole days. An outsider, or in fact, anybody who does not live inside my brain, may think that I have been overjoyed by this development in my recovery. Progress. Progress and independence. “Yes”, I have heard people say.

If I am honest, I am ambivalent to it. I see the progress, especially physically and I love being in my flat, but most things just feel flat or a pretence. Any fanfare I imagined did not happen, and the whole thing just feels like one big, fat, tormented, anticlimax. Nothing changed. I do not know why I imagined or hoped my return to be a miraculous return to form, but it is not. I feel exactly the same.

Prior to me having a date of return, I was desperate to return to my life in London. Absolutely desperate. As the date approached however, anxiety appeared in my life. And I mean real anxiety. Could I look after myself? Who would look after me if I couldn’t? How was I going to fill my days? Would anybody even notice? Would Bruce remember me? And so my internal monologue went on. Life before transplant seems quite different to the one before, and in the weeks after my transplant, I felt more and more like a forgotten treasure. The metaphor does not quite work however, because I am not sure if a treasure can have social anxiety and feel anger, fear and loneliness. That is what my transplant did for me. Do not get me wrong, I felt and feel absolute unconditional love in the lands they call the Fens, but I felt and feel disconnected from my life in London. That disconnection has only mended slightly within my current geographic proximity. I have no idea how much of this feeling is real or perceived. On Monday, my return day, my feelings were in a word, overt. Overt indeed. I had a long, and when I say long, I am talking more than two hours worth of crying. It might have been four. Four hours of snot, tears and doubt.

I opted to come back of course, in spite of the tears. I reasoned that the reality could not be as bad as my fiction. I have been saying and thinking a lot this week that I need to rip off the plaster. I need to put myself in ‘difficult’ situations to prove to myself that they are not difficult at all. Every single time I have done this, I have seen that it is not as difficult as I thought, but I do not feel like I have garnered the satisfaction I should have done from doing it.

I was very kindly reassured on my first day back that I could take care of myself. This was a correct assessment. I may have forgotten what buttons to press on my remote control in the dark and had to remind myself just how many steps it takes to get to the toilet in the dark without hitting a wall or a bike wheel, but the rest of it? I can just about do the basics.

Physically, London is doable. I have had a few close calls. Yesterday, I was in a Tesco a bus ride away from home and I genuinely thought I would not make it back. I told myself off and hopped on the 38 and then lay down for 15 minutes, in anger and with pleasure in equal measure. On Thursday, I had to get a taxi because I thought that I would not make it to the end of my street on foot, let a lone to the hospital. On Wednesday, I fell whilst asleep making soup. But then, on Tuesday, I walked for fifteen minutes by myself and did not get tired (right away). Last night, I had a bake-athon punctuated with regular rests of course, but I did it by myself.

Outside my front door is scary, I cannot escape that yet. Outside, people cough on the bus and think they are more entitled to a priority seat than I because they have grey hair. Outside, people expect me to put my smiley, happy, coping face on. Outside, I have to do the roadshow. Outside my head, people do not understand, no matter where I am. It’s just harder to hide it here.

I do not wish to mislead you. I can still laugh and converse, it just feels subdued. I am subdued. The EJJ is subdued and that continues to be an infected mosquito bite.

Now, if you excuse me, I need to go rip off another plaster.


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The Harvest Festival

Today was Harvest Day. Or when I woke this morning, Day One of the Harvest.

If I were to have taken the time to have written a blog yesterday, it would have been full of apprehension and fear. I have felt unwell all week, I haven’t slept properly for two, and the prospect of having a line put in my leg, staying overnight at the hospital and general failure did not appeal to me. A whole lot of frustration over something that was completely out of my hands.

This morning I woke up nice and early, after two and a half hours sleep, got dressed and checked my overnight bag. I was prepared. I had slippers, an eye mask and herbal tea. Every part of me had prepared myself for the fact that something would go wrong today. I think being out of treatment for so long, and then the illness last week knocked my confidence. Plus, I suppose I had to be told about all the bad things that could happen in case they did happen, and up to today, all the bad stuff I was told would happen, apart from the ruptured spleen, had happened.

To the Macmillan Centre I went, arriving ten minutes late at 08:40hrs to be greeted by Mamma Jones, who had made the early journey from Peterborough to be my servant for the day. I made my way up to the fourth floor and set up base on my bed for the day. My bloods were taken, and I was told that I had to wait for the results before they went ahead with my stem cell harvest. There is a more technical term for today’s procedure, but I cannot be bothered to locate the paperwork under my bed. So, we waited, and waited a little bit more and then we were informed that it was a Go. I repeat, a go.

From this point onwards, everything was easy. Having anticipated the worst, everything that came today was a pleasant surprise and a nice warm reminder that I can take anything the Medically Trained People and My Myeloma throw at me. I have been doing it thus far, I do not know why I doubted myself. I certainly do not know why I cried in the shower this morning.

The needles went in my arms with the greatest of ease, after a little assistance from a bucket of hot water, a heated blanket and local anaesthetic. The fives hours I was hooked up to the machine flew by, partly because we had Scrabble, and partly because I was inundated with messages. I even managed to swallow my pride and use the commode at 13:15hrs, despite my utter hatred of the wretched things. Seriously, how am I expected to look somebody in the eye who has to handle my urine. My waste. On the latter point, nature was helped by the loose fitting trousers I purchased and the technical sounds coming from the machine. It prevented stage fright. Oh, and I really shouldn’t forget the nursing staff. They made my day much, much easier. No, they made my day better.

I was as comfortable as I could be, thanks to Mum and EMan. The machine works in such a way that I was unable to move my right arm for over five hours, and my left arm was not free either, for that too was connected to a cannula. Right arm out. Left arm in.



So, my blood was departing my body from the big fat needle in my right arm, going through several tubes attached to the machine, that extracted the stem cell and then return most of what was left back to my body via the cannula in my left arm. The machine itself was fascinating. One of my nurses said that it reminded her of E.T, Mamma Jones said it reminded her of Short Circuit and I just spent the day thinking of Innerspace featuring Dennis Quaid. Hollywood was omnipresent today, it would seem.

Technology is bloody brilliant, the machine costs I am told, upwards of £50k, and it seemed to know what it was doing. At least I hope it did.




The procedure was not without side effects, of course it wasn’t. We are talking about me after all. For the harvest, the patient, that would be me by the way, is given a drug to prevent blood clotting. Somehow, I am told, this causes one’s calcium levels to reduce, which I was warned causes buzzing in strange places. My buzzing, and buzzing really is the only word to describe it, was in my lips. Maybe a vibrating buzz would be more appropriate. I also had some buzzing in my right hand and feet, but with hindsight, that was probably just pins and needles from lying still for so long. The calcium deficiency was treated initially by pills that tasted just like the dipper from a sherbet Double Dip. They didn’t work, so the big guns had to be used and I was put on a drip. Afterwards, I decided to self medicate with a strawberry milkshake, a smoothie and a yogurt. It’s basically the same thing. If I were a vegan, I would have had to turn to Ribena.

Fast forward to 15:45hrs, and I was told that my body had decided to behave. I did not need to come back to the hospital for further harvesting, because E.T. had managed to collect 4.2 million stem cells. This pleased me.

And that was my day… I have crawled just that little bit closer to my transplant. The provisionally start date for which is the 27 March, but more on that tomorrow. Right now, I want sleep and oh boy, do I need it.


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4.2 Million

Have you ever wondered what 4.2 million stem cells looks like? Of course you have. We all have. Well, wonder no more. Today, is a lucky day. It is your lucky day, for below is a bag of 4.2 million stem cells. To be clear, I am talking about my stem cells.


Good one, Body. We get to go home now.

In case you are wondering what the hell I am on about, I needed 4.0 million.

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