We’ve been down this path ourselves a few years ago, and this is more eloquent, articulate, funny and wise than I was capable of being when it was my husband diagnosed with blood cancer 15 years ago. John and Ella, thoughts with you, and will follow your story and your progress. And you should know that Iain is still here, fully healthy, after a bone marrow transplant organised through the fabulous Anthony Nolan Trust.
***In which our hero doesn’t, and then maybe does, and then definitely does have cancer. Just so we’re clear.***
“John, I think you’ve got blood cancer.”
“I just really think you should go to the GP. There’s that rash on your leg, and you keep having nosebleeds, and you’re always tired and-”
“Fuck off. You’re a hypochondriac. What’s worse, you’re being a hypochondriac at me. This is basically Munchausen’s Syndrome by proxy. Fuck off.”
The awkward thing about spending two months telling your girlfriend that she’s an idiot for Google-diagnosing you with leukaemia, of course, is when she turns out to be very nearly correct. Ought I to regret, to recant the conversation above and the dozens like it, or is it just inevitable that one nervy partner in a million will accurately call a cancer diagnosis eight weeks before a doctor appears on the…
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