They’re the words no one wants to hear.
“You have a problem with your white blood cell count.”
The setting is somewhat incongruous. I’m not in a medical clinic. It’s an airport lounge.
Ironically, I’m with columnists Jane Caro and Catherine Fox, drinking a glass of wine to celebrate strong women, after speaking on a panel at a leadership lunch in Adelaide.
Feeling weak, I ask the nurse for an appointment with the doctor. All I want to do is go home and hug my children. As we board the plane, I begin to catastrophise.
Clearly, it’s terminal: my uncle died from leukaemia at the age of 14; my grandmother from lymphoma at 35.
I’ve felt like shit for months. This is my destiny.
At home, I check my insurance, plan a funeral and write the eulogy (yes, I am a control freak).