Its an oxymoron in reality,
Low counts with hyperactivity,
Low numbers but massive self-damage,
Weakening me to all sorts of infection.
White cell count constantly on the floor,
Count of .8 rarely more,
Prophylaxis administered to keep me safe,
Every runny nose or sore throat, a terror in my soul,
Every coughing person a threat to my life.
Reclusive I became as safety was my aim,
But mental health can't survive when left alone,
So, balance the risk of socialising I must,
Hand gel and hand wash my soldier in defence,
Reducing contact, another field of the fight,
Choosing carefully where and when I commit my life.
For 2 years I was asked what chemo I was on,
As that was the logical explanation for my plight,
For the risk infection posses to my life,
Why I can't have live vaccines ever in my life,
It is easy to laugh and easy to joke,
But the simplest of infections can land me in hospital,
If even a day I delay, In ICU I might end up laid.
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