Mount Doom

'Well, the good news is that you don't have leukaemia or anything seriously nasty, but we're still awaiting further bone marrow results before we can determine why your neutrophils are so low'. Well that was a bloody relief to hear! At the time I didn't really consider how serious the low white blood count was, because I had some much going on with the GBS that I couldn't comprehend there was something even nastier going on. I was more concerned about getting home. Now I was physically improving, I was fit to fly, but because I was neutropenic they didn't want me to risk getting infected at the airport, the land of germs, and so it was a whole waiting game.

It was seven weeks that I had been in hospital and my parents and I were desperate to get home. For my parents, the stress of staying in a crappy motel, living off ham rolls and worrying about me was understandably frustrating and they were desperate to get back to their supportive friends and the rest of our family. For me, it was a real mix of emotions.

I wanted to be home, to see my brother and sister and my family and friends and for my parents to be more comfortable in their home environment. But also I was sad about going back. Here I was in Australia, the year of my big adventure. I was supposed to be travelling for four months, and as i write this now I should be in India, not sat alone in a silent house watching Louis Theroux documentaries by the dozen and eating disgraceful amounts of cheese. Some days it's really hard to think about the things I should be doing.

But look how far I've come! I remember at week seven I did my first walk along the parallel bars without holding on, nine consecutive steps without wobbling and grabbing the bars for support. By mid week I could do 64 side steps on each leg and I did my first walk along the middle of the room. I cannot explain how terrifying it is to walk unaided when you are so physically weakened. It's like being a tight rope walker over the fires of Mount Doom and someone has given you 50 shots of tequila and said merrily 'Off you go then...'

I started foot tapping on a 6cm high wooden block and the best thing of all? I was independent going to the loo. Using my rollator I could use the toilet in my room without anyone's help which was a great feeling. I remember seeing myself stand up for the first time in the mirror and it was a shock. I'd lost two stone that year, and in hospital I wasn't exactly chowing down the culinary delights. The muscle wastage in my arms and legs gave them an elongated feel, whilst my stomach looked bloated and bruised from all the injections. My pert rump of a bottom had sagged and I remember thinking 'People want to be skinny?! Where are my boobs and my hips?!' Since I've been home and off all meds and cooking lots of food for 'Occupational Therapy', it's all coming back with a vengeance but I love it. Hazaar for red wine and pasta!

Another plus of that week was that I could finally take off my TED socks. Oh the sweet relief! To not have the feeling of holes in my socks, to let my legs and leg hair fly free! And no more tummy injections! No more bowel medication! No more pain relief!

I'd moved up to 'medium' putty in OT and could get pegs in the wooden board with much more ease. I could Skype my best friend every night without falling asleep on him mid conversation and he would listen to every achievement ('Today I turned off the light switch!') with pride and encouragement. I was getting better every day.

But I still wasn't home.