Sara’s Diary: A Journey with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia (ALL)

In February 2025, Sara was diagnosed with Acute Lymphoblastic Leukaemia (ALL). Facing a challenging journey ahead, she has chosen to document her experiences—both for herself and to support other patients and families navigating the same diagnosis. Her previous diary extract can be found here.

These past weeks have been hard—waiting, setbacks, small wins, and moments of uncertainty.

“Waiting is the worst.”
After finishing my first round of chemo, I thought I’d be home within days. “I blithely assume my neutrophils will bounce back.” But they don’t. They drop—and stay low. They take a big dive and then they take their sweet time to rise above 0.18.
This week, I resign from the job I love. “Not the way I hoped or intended to end my teaching career.” I feel a wave of sadness.
Then comes a stress headache. Panic sets in—what if it’s an infection? “I curl up on the bed and pray for nightfall.” Even Duncan is scared. This felt like the longest day yet.
Trying to exercise just makes me sick. “I’m not coping too well at the moment.”
And Chen reminds me: “Even when the path feels slow or heavy I know that each moment brings me closer to the light. When this chapter ends, I’ll hopefully inspire others with the strength I’ve found in the storm.” I hold onto that.

Biopsy Round 3
Visitors come and go, and then the biopsy finally happens—delayed, but handled with kindness and clarity by Dr Rebecca. Then more waiting. I try not to dwell, but the fear creeps in: What if the chemo hasn’t worked?
Dr Kate comes by. “Whatever the results, we’ll start Blincyto next week,” she says which is an immunotherapy regime, rather than chemo. And, unexpected joy, “You can go home tomorrow.” Tomorrow! The same day my daughter lands from Canada. Four days with my family. I’m overwhelmed with relief.
Later that evening, Kate calls from her daughter’s orchestra concert. She’s stepped outside to share my results.
“It isn’t the best news, but neither is it the worst.” I’m not in remission—10% of the cancer remains—but most of it’s gone. For now, I’m going home.

Outpatient Consultation
We step off the hospital lift and realise – we’ve changed. The terror we once felt is gone. Now, staff call out greetings. “Hi Sara, 4:30 appointment?” “You look great with short hair.”
We feel known. Familiar. Cared for. Even the blood nurse prints my results without asking. “Feels like being amongst friends and family,” I tell Duncan.
Twelve weeks ago, we were drowning in fear. Now, we’re in the system and one that works.
“They absolutely know what they’re doing,” Duncan says. “And now we know that they know.” Trust is a powerful thing.

Sara is documenting her journey daily, sharing her thoughts and experiences as she navigates her diagnosis and what lies ahead. Over the next four weeks, she will continue writing, with the next diary entry set to be released on Sunday 27th July.

Across the globe, someone is diagnosed with blood cancer every 27 seconds. In recognition of this, a new diary entry from Sara’s journey will be released on the 27th of every month, offering insight, hope, and solidarity to those facing similar battles.