Apologies for not updating this blog sooner.
I felt for a while that I should have written something but I was never quite sure what to say. The amazing comments that have come from the hundreds of people regularly taking an interest in my story have been unexpected and inspirational for me.
It's also been helpful knowing that the posts have provided a useful insight to people who will have to undergo a bone marrow transplant in the future.
I suppose it's with this group of people in mind that I've been most reluctant to write anything else. Much of my time post-transplant hasn't been much fun and I'm still nowhere near full-fitness.
I finally decided to write this post after talking to my grandma in Nottingham. Basically she's bullied me into writing it arguing that people respect honesty and the truth- even though it doesn't always make for pleasant reading. I think she's right, so here we go.
The first thing to say is I am waiting for the results of my final bone marrow sample. It's been sent away for analysis and the results will show that the leukaemia is either still here or gone completely.
I suppose the best of all outcomes would be the all-clear - of course it would. But people are already saying to me the champagne corks will be popping as if that's it - it's all over, life can resume as normal. But of course it can't; it will never be the same for me. I can never have children naturally, I will be dead probably by the time I'm 50.
No one seems to understand that it can never just stop there. There will be tests, getting ill, I still feel sick most days now, and there will always be that nagging worry over whether the disease will come back.
I am struggling to accept the cost at which this treatment has come and often flash-forward to my attempts to sound positive when friends and family call regarding the 'good-news'.
And that's the best outcome.
The other alternative is the cancer, somehow, has managed to survive. A significant part of me has come to the conclusion that if those cells can withstand that level of radiotherapy and high-dose chemotherapy then maybe they have earned their right to flourish and to take me down with them.
Further treatment is something I am incredibly reluctant to have. I certainly don't want to have a bone marrow transplant again. In some ways I wish the doctors would just say: "Sorry, there's nothing more we can do," at least that would rid me of the constant anxiety, the restless nights, the long days on my own not feeling well enough to do anything but well enough to be bored.
At least a clear six months to live would mean I could plan for some incredible trips and parties. If you're going to pop your clogs you may as well do it in style!
On the outside I think I have kept good control over my emotions but on the inside I'm really struggling. I've never been a good sleeper so night times are always the worst.
Talking about God seems almost taboo in this country and in this time. No one outside of religious groups seems comfortable speaking openly about him - unless to blame him for all the ills of the world - but I feel it's important I share this experience.
My last week and a half in isolation was an awful period for me. I'd not eaten in that time, my stomach was constantly sore, I felt so alone and cold. During my entire illness I had never prayed to be made better - only to avoid the bone marrow transplant.
Inside that room, on those eight days or so, all I prayed for was to feel that there was something else that cared and loved for me; but nothing happened. I was unquestionably alone. I didn't expect a flash of lightning, or the appearance of some biblical apparition, I only hoped for a kind of intrinsic sense that there was more to all this than just me, lying there curled up, tears running gently from my eyes.
I have always tried to pray for other people and had a burgeoning faith. So, for me, this experience, when I was at my absolute lowest, will stay with me for however long I have left to live.
Yet interestingly it was a hospital chaplain who was one of the greatest helps to me through these difficult times. He would pop in at least once a week and chat with me about anything and everything. We would have a laugh together and I can't tell you how wonderful it was to converse with someone who wasn't medically or emotionally connected to me or make inquiries as to how many times I had "opened my bowels" that day.
You see the problem is being cooped up in that box for so long affects different people in different ways. For me, I found being 'attacked' psychologically, as well as having your insides reduced to pulp, very difficult to bear. Some of my treatment took place at 2am with observations around 6am. This meant on top of everything my sleep was always broken. I did joke with the nurses that they may as well have gone the whole hog and stuck me in an orange boiler suit while playing white noise through the radio.
I'm not an angry and bitter person but I hated how my 'treatment' was turning me into one. I was only allowed to have three visitors for the five weeks so obviously chose Poppy and my parents. I love my mum and dad - and hate snapping at them- but the situation just made me so irritable.
I still don't think I fear dying; it's anger and sadness that I feel most now. I torture myself with daily viewings of the Jeremy Kyle chat show where horrible ex-partners, whose sense of self-importance seems to have replaced their brains, scream at each other for twenty minutes about the custody of their neglected and un-loved children.
There are people throughout our society who are having children who simply should not have the right to. They are bought up in loveless and broken homes so it's little wonder that youngsters emerge from this moral vacuum to make the lives of their neighbours, teachers and everyone else a misery. It's also no surprise they join gangs and have no compunction about stabbing or shooting their peers.
I get angry that my natural right to have children has been ripped away from me.
Sometimes I want to punch one of the walls in my flat, but then I glance down at my scrawny arms, which bear more resemblance to pipe-cleaners, and think better of it.
The sadness I feel is for the time I have lost, and if this leukaemia can't be beaten, then for all the happy times that I know could have been.
The results are coming and I can't help feel that all this sitting at home, my mind being gently eroded by the banality of daytime television, is like being in the strangest, and cruellest, of waiting rooms.