My way back

Diagnosed with an aggressive cancer, poet MICHELE LEGGOTT was on her last hope when she qualified for a clinical trial.

- MICHELE LEGGOTT

Robbie: What year is it?

Me: It's 2022.

Robbie: What month?

Me: December.

Robbie: Which city are you R in?

Me: Wellington.

Robbie: Which hospital?

Me: Wellington Hospital.

Robbie: Can you hold up two fingers on your left hand?

Me: Like this?

Robbie: Can you count backwards from 100 to zero in 10s?

Me: 100, 90, 80, 70, 60, 50, 40, 30, 20, 10, 0.

Robbie: Can you tell me what is in this pottle?

Me: This is a 50 cent coin, this is a die (or dice), this is a key from a small lock.

Robbie: Can you type your name?

Me: My name is Michele Leggott.

Counting backwards is hard enough for the numerically challenged, but typing while everyone watches makes clumsy thumbs of my fingers. Dr Robert Fyfe, clinical research fellow for the Malaghan Institute's CAR T-cell trial, has been asking these questions twice a day since my T-cells were returned to me as cancer-killing cells 18 days ago. The team at Wellington Hospital has allowed me to be an outpatient for all of this time as long as there are no problems with the reinfused cells, which are now hunting down and destroying the lymphoma that has beset me for almost three years.

The questions, the same every day, along with standard blood pressure, oxygen saturation and temperature checks, are designed to look for the leading edge of any neural confusion, or an overreaction of my immune system, that could produce a dangerous fever. So far, so good, and just 10 days to go before discharge and return to Auckland. A few days later, I come down with Covid and have to be admitted to the isolation ward. By the time I'm discharged, my husband Mark has the virus, too. The hospital team supplies him with antivirals and we do an epic drive next day straight through to Tamaki Makaurau, stopping only to pee and staying clear of all other human life on SH1. Home never looked so good.