On the 26th of November 2025, I was diagnosed with Myelodysplastic syndrome ('MDS') with 12% blasts.
At 36 years old, and a mum to a beautiful almost two-year-old daughter, my world changed overnight.
Treatment started quickly. By mid-December, I began Azacitidine injections, followed by a second round in January alongside Venetoclax. I went through multiple bone marrow biopsies, hoping each time for better news — but the treatment wasn’t working.
In February, everything shifted. I started a more intensive chemotherapy combination of daunorubicin and cytarabine. I spent a month in hospital during that round. It was tough, physically and emotionally, but for the first time, we saw progress — my blasts dropped from 12% to 5%.
Now I’m back in hospital for another round, with the goal of getting my blasts down to 0% so I can move forward to a stem cell transplant planned for mid-May.
But behind all of the medical words and treatment plans, there is something much harder to explain.
I am a mum.
My daughter is almost two. She’s full of life, full of energy, and completely unaware of how much everything has changed. She’s been staying with my mum and dad while I’ve been in hospital, and I am so grateful for them. When I’ve been home in between treatments, they’ve come to stay with me so I can have that time with her.
In some ways, I feel “lucky” that she’s so young — she won’t remember this time, and she’s not yet in nursery or school. But that doesn’t make being away from her any easier. It’s a kind of ache that’s constant, quiet, and impossible to fully put into words.
Now, I’m facing another difficult decision.
After my stem cell transplant, I’ll need to isolate for around three months. My mum has offered to come and stay with me, bringing my daughter with her to help care for me. But that would mean they would both have to limit going out — and that feels so unfair, especially for my daughter who loves being outside, playing, exploring, just being a toddler.
Another option is for them to stay at home, where my mum can continue looking after her properly, and then my daughter can come back to me once I’m strong enough.
There’s even the possibility of her going to stay with my brother in South Africa for a few months, where she could go to nursery and have a full routine — but that feels like a world away.
Every option feels heavy in its own way.
I just want to do the best thing for her.
And the hardest part is that doing the best thing right now means being apart from her.
Everything I’m going through — every treatment , every hospital stay, every difficult day — is so that I can be here for her in the future. To watch her grow up. To be her mum for as long as possible.
But being away from her now is something I can’t even begin to explain.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that blood cancer doesn’t just affect one person — it affects families, decisions, and moments you never imagined having to face.
And sometimes, the strongest thing you can do as a parent is the hardest thing: choosing long-term love over short-term closeness
