By 7:18pm, I couldn’t take any more.

 

My body felt done.

My bones hurt so deep it felt like the ache was coming from the marrow itself —

a cold, sharp pain that no blanket, no dressing gown, no hot water bottle could touch.

 

Mum helped me into bed,

tucked the covers around me like she used to when I was little,

and for a moment I just lay there, shaking,

feeling every pulse of pain like a reminder that chemo is in charge right now, not me.

 

And then the tears came.

 

Not loud crying —

the quiet kind.

The kind that slips out when you’re too tired to fight it.

The kind that hurts your face, your head, your chest.

 

Even crying hurts.

Everything hurts.

 

I could hear Mum running a bath for me,

the water thundering into the tub,

steam starting to drift through the hallway.

 

She kept calling out every few minutes:

 

“Nearly ready, love… I’ve put extra bubbles in.”

 

Because that’s what mums do.

They can’t take the pain away,

but they’ll try to soften the edges of it.

 

I lay there for a minute,

listening to the water,

feeling the coldness in my bones like winter had moved inside me,

and I whispered to myself:

 

“Just get up.

One step at a time.

You can do this.”

 

Not because I felt strong.

Not because I had hope.

But because sometimes surviving the day is all you can manage.

 

And right now?

That’s enough.

 

When Mum came in and helped me out of bed,

she put her arm around me like I was fragile glass,

guiding me slowly toward the bathroom.

 

I must’ve looked a state —

puffy eyes, dressing gown hanging off one shoulder,

shivering like I’d been dragged out of a frozen lake.

 

But she didn’t mention any of that.

She just said:

 

So Mum finally helped me waddle into the bathroom,

and honestly — the state of me.

 

I looked like a leftover Christmas turkey someone had forgotten to baste:

dry, pale, shivering, and absolutely done with life.

 

She’d run this gorgeous warm bath — bubbles everywhere, steam rising —

it looked like heaven.

 

Meanwhile I’m stood there looking like a gremlin that’s been left in the rain.

 

I lowered myself in and HOLY JESUS CHRIST ON A BIKE —

 

THE HEAT HIT EVERY SINGLE BONE I HAVE.

 

It was like the pain and the warmth had a fist fight under my skin.

 

I gasped so loud Mum nearly came running in like:

 

“you ok, you burn your arse?"

 

I shouted back,

 

“NO I’M OKAY, JUST REMEMBERED I HAVE NERVES.”

 

Once the initial pain settled, though…

it was bliss.

Warmth.

Finally.

My bones stopped arguing with each other.

 

For ten minutes, I felt almost human again.

 

Then of course — because it’s me —

I tried to shift positions.

 

BIG mistake.

 

The tiniest movement and my back cracked like a glow stick.

My knee made a noise like an old man getting off the sofa.

My hip?

Sounded like someone stepping on a packet of crisps.

 

I swear my skeleton was doing ASMR in that bath.

 

And there I was,

trying to adjust myself with dignity,

but instead I looked like a drowned rat trying to perform yoga.

 

Then Mum calls through the door:

 

“Do you want any candles on, love?”

 

NO, MUM.

I DON’T NEED AMBIANCE.

I NEED A NEW BODY.

 

But bless her — she’s trying.

 

When I finally got out, I slipped slightly and let out a noise I can only describe as:

 

“AAARGH—oh crap—SWEET JESUS—OW—help me.”

 

Very sexy.

10/10 would scare a burglar away.

 

Mum comes in holding a towel like a midwife ready to catch a baby.

 

She goes,

“Careful, love, don’t rush.”

 

RUSH??

I’m moving slower than a sloth on diazepam.

There is NO RUSH happening here.

 

But she wrapped me up, rubbed my arms, kissed my forehead, and said:

 

“We’ll get through this, duck.”

 

And I cried again —

partly from pain,

partly from exhaustion,

and partly because I suddenly realised how bloody ridiculous I must look half naked, wrapped in bubbles and tears.

 

Pain + Humour = Survival

 

One minute you’re sobbing in agony,

the next minute you’re laughing because you nearly drowned yourself trying to adjust your arse in a bath.

 

It’s awful.

It’s ridiculous.

It’s heartbreaking.

It’s funny in the most tragic way.

 

And honestly?

 

It’s the only way I’m getting through this.

 

“Come on, sweetheart… let’s get you warm.”

 

And I cried again —

not from pain this time,

but because in moments like this,

love is the only thing holding me together.