Up with the Owls

Sleepless in Suomi. One week after chemo, I always have trouble sleeping. It's comforting to know that I'm not the only one. http://journals.lww.com/oncology-times/Fulltext/2010/01250/Insomnia_More_Common_in_Patients_Receiving.2.aspx

Top Ten Ways to Get a Taste of the Chemo Experience

the standard dripping speed, 500

Wanna play aswell? Now's your chance!

(This is from a website, posted by a 22-year old Hodgkin's lymphoma survivor.) 

10. Set down a delicious array of food before you, then eat only wood pulp for several days
9.  Throw up on your lawn
8.  Each week at a pre-determined time, wake up, collect some bees and let them sting you, (for that "I can't seem to get a vein" feeling, apply one of the little brutes to your arm with scotch tape)

                                                         7.  Throw up on your neighbor's lawn

yep, there it goes

6.  Shave off your eyebrows, take out your eyelashes (except maybe 3) then Nair the rest of your body. Don't worry, the burning is normal.
5.  For that fun Ativan feeling, wander into a room and ponder all possible means of the word Amazing. Walk out of the room, repeat.
4.  Hang upside down from a tree until your face is cherry red, this will help with the dizzy/flushed, red faced feeling of Adriamycin
3.  Lay around feeling like you got hit by a truck
2.  Attempt to drink Ensure while you are nauseated. To become nauseated, drink an Ensure.

1. Congratulations, you've finished one chemo treatment, how many more do you get to do?

The Final Countdown

Dear December,
Here's my timetable for you:

                                      
2nd December: Chemo 12/12 (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!)

7th December: Final PET-scan

13th December (Saint Lucia's day) : The decisive doctor's appointment. Depending on the PET-scan results, the options are the following:

1. I'm in remission i.e. cancer-free OR
2. Four more chemotherapy sessions are needed.

It goes without saying that I'm hoping and praying for the first option to come true. Keep your fingers crossed on Saint Lucia's day. It'd be nice to feel all that positive energy hovering over me that day.  

Hugs!

Having Hair is So Last Year, Totally.

Hey! As you can see, I was joking around with the webcam and sticking my tongue out to cancer: "BOO! You suck!"

Also, this is Laura's World Premiere without hair. Please be kind and judge it accordingly. Chemo is a destructive friend.

Shave for the Brave!

Oh yes. I've  finally managed to shave off my hair! It was looking so horrible and dry so I decided it was time to let bygones be bygones and get rid of what was left.

Baby, I'll Be Fine!

A few quiet weeks on the blogging front. Everything is running smoothly. I remember the nurse's words right at the beginning of this madness. She said: I know it seems like a long process, and it is, it is, but once you hop on this train, you'll find out that in no time you'll have reached your final destination. She was right, and surprisingly metaphorical for a healthcare worker.

If everything goes well - and here I have to curb my enthusiasm a tad since it's not hundred percent sure – I'll have only three more chemos to get through. THREE! Can you believe it?! I can't. 2nd December would officially be the V-day. That's in one month's time!

Hugs and kisses! Thank you for all your support. You're wonderful.

Lau.

Happiness Is:

when your doctor FINALLY prescribes you some anti-nausea tablets that ACTUALLY work.Good morning Granisetron and Temesta!

To be perfectly honest, Temesta isn't actually for nauseas. It's an anxiety drug like Prozac (and you wouldn't believe how much its street price is. Not that I'm selling.). It tranquilizes the brain. It cuts the vicious cycle of various mental images and associations to the unconfortable chemoroom that leads some people to feeling physically sick. According to the nurse, it's a drug that is prescribed mainly to young women. It would be curious to know why. All your theories and suggestions will be kindly received. 

Enough Is Enough

So, this is what happened. On Friday morning at 7.30 my brother drove me to the hospital for another blood test and chemo session. I'd been eating shiitake mushrooms like it was going out of fashion all through Thursday evening (I had read somewhere that they raise leukocytes – hey, whatever works, I'm willing to give it a shot!), in the hope for better blood results.

The hard work paid off. I was seated as usual on the hospital bed and hooked on the machine. This time the nurse had great difficulties in finding a vein that would work and had to pinch me several times. It really hurt. She said my veins were becoming hard and cloggy. No shit, Sherlock!

The smell of the plastic got the better of me this time. Halfway through the treatment, I started to feel sick. I hurried to the toilet, dragging the intravenous machine behind me with the plastic tube hanging from my arm. While sitting on the bathroom floor - the tubes entangled, the fucking machine going crazy and beeping, me vomiting my guts out, tears and snot falling all over my face - only one thought came to my mind:

”Laura, if you were to think about your life and the worst thing that has ever happened to you, THIS would be it. It can't get any worse than this. Now, you've really hit rock bottom.”

And however silly it may sound, thinking that gave me comfort. There I was, alone, locked inside of a hospital toilet, laughing and looking at myself, contemplating the sorry state I was in, and repeating, "if I can get through this, I can get through anything".

F is for Failure

Bad News

My bone marrow has stopped collaborating. The nurse from the cancer clinic called and told me that due to my extremely low white blood cell count, it would impossible for them to give me the treatment tomorrow. Doctor's orders. In addition, she kindly explained that from now on, I'd have to start taking Neupogen, a medicine (needle in the stomach) which helps raise the leucocytes. Nice. Now I have two syringes per day. I also asked about the lump that had reappeared above my clavicle and was told that it was most likely swollen because of the cold I had last week, but that it needed to be looked into anyway. On 11th October, hence, they're going to carry out a CT scan.

I can't believe this is happening. Everything was going so great so far.

Worries

Remember that little lump that started all of this craziness? Well, it's back. Yes, you read correctly. It reappeared above my clavicle again a couple of days ago, and stares at me defiantly every time I look into the mirror. Why why why?! What does this mean? I'm tempted to look at Wikipedia, but at the same time too scared to do so.

What If...

I'm half way through! On Thursday 23^rd September - they've changed my chemo day from Tuesday to Thursday - I'll be having my seventh session out of twelve. Seventh!

I wonder what would happen if I decided to stop my treatment after that and not continue all the way. If I just walked out while I still have eyebrows. Who knows, I might be fine. I mean, after all, all the cancer cells have vanished. I'm so impatient to get my life back that I keep toying with the idea.

But it would be foolish to take the risk and I'm no quitter anyway. Besides, freedom wiIl taste sweeter and all the more worthwhile after having completed (with honours!) all the sessions. At the moment, I realize, this is something I can't escape any more than I can lose my shadow.

Top Ten Reasons to Date a Cancer Chick

I found this on a website while surfing for info on Hodgkin's and thought it was funny.

10. I’m a cheap date - probably won't be eating much.

9. No need to take me to expensive restaurants because, if I do eat, it will probably come right back up.

8. I can be ready in a jiffy - only have to wash crevices.

7. Recreational drugs are paid for by insurance.

6. Commitment-phobic? I'm your dream girl.

5. Great in the sack. (That one would have made the list either way, but really more so now because I'll often already BE in the sack!)

4. You'll always be the pretty one.

3. Strangers will think you're really special and extra compassionate.

2. You will get first dibs on all my possessions, and since I'm shopping to cover my fear, you'll come out waaay ahead.

1. With all my wigs, I'll be a different girl every night.

The PET Results

All the activity of the cancer cells has stopped i.e. the treatment is working! What a relief!!

Scanning Time

”They injected all sorts of isotopes into me and I found myself part of a literal body/machine system – being bodily radioactive – and inserted like a fuel rod into a body-scanning machine. I remember saying, to myself, 'So, this is the feeling of being a machine.' I felt more curious about death than I felt afraid; I felt glad to be no longer human for a few brief minutes.”
- Douglas Coupland (Microserfs)

Tomorrow I have the PET scan. Well, to be perfectly technical, they're two scans in one: the PET and the CAT (I feel tempted to pun, but won't). Don't ask me to explain you the difference, I have no clue. What I do know, though, is that the outcome of the test determines what the following months are going to be like. It tells whether the treatment is working, and how many times I am likely to be put through chemo. Like a nerd going on a scientific field trip or a whiz kid resolving a complicated maths assignment, I feel excited, full of anticipation. I can't wait! Finally some progress! This is the one exam I want to ace.

My Fellow Fighters Across the Pond

My blogspot account was coughing too much about the size of the videos I uploaded here, so I decided to remove them. If you're still interested in seeing them, you can check them out at the following address http://www.youngadultcancer.ca under the headline "We Get It". The whole site is pretty neat and very informative. I wish Finland had something similar.

Hospital Dialogues

Laura: There should be a ”How-to-Build-Up-Your-Self-Esteem” course before getting cancer. That way you could be prepared.
Marja: Yes, indeed. It's hard to be confident in this state.
L: Yeah. I look in the mirror and see all these changes.
M: But in your case they're temporary. Besides, that hat really suits you.
L: Thanks. What I mean is, it's like I've lost my identity. I find it hard to like myself. The hair loss, the puffiness, the bruises in my stomach. Is that vanity?
M: Just because we have cancer, doesn't mean we can't be vain. Of course fighting the illness is the most important thing, but you are allowed to feel more superficial things. I think it's perfectly normal what you're thinking. I feel like I've lost my identity aswell.
L: Well, aren't we a pair.
M: I used to be a very active person. Now I just lie on my bed like a herring.
L: Well, I'm turning into Emily Dickinson: so much life inside the brain, but no social life to speak of.
M: I'm sure that's not the case. You seem so full of life...
L: No, but it's true. I know they advise you to live your life as normally as you can. And I really try, but sometimes it gets too unbearable. For example, I have this class reunion in October, and I'm thinking whether to go or not. I can just imagine the conversation:
-”So, Laura, what's up? How have you been?”
-” Fine, well, I have cancer.”
-”Oh....”.
It's like being the biggest loser there. I don't know.
M: How dreadful!
L: I know...
M: I missed my grandson's birthday last week because I wasn't feeling too well. One of my biggest sorrows in life is that I know I don't get to see him grow up.
L: Oh...

Some Random Thoughts

The chemo fills the body with liquids. It is hence inevitable that at some point of the treatment during those three hours, one has to go to the toilet. It takes time getting used to walking with the intravenous machine. The tubes move out of place easily, and if they do, the drug can get into the tissue instead of the bloodstream, and that would be bad news. Passing along the corridor, you realize that the people you see are from all walks of life, no different from the people you'd meet waiting in a queue in a bank: A young businessman in a suit, with patches of hair missing, an elegant elderly lady with a wig, a young girl with a scarf tied around her head. We're the same as all the rest, but yet here we are, a bit like robots, hovering around the hospital, hooked on our machines which provide us the cure, the stuff of life.

4th Time Around

I'm awoken by the sound of my cell phone at 7.00 a.m. Today is one of those days again. I arrive at the hospital quarter to nine, this time unaccompanied. The sessions have become routine-like. I'm a pro. When I walk into the room, the nurse is busy with two other patients. They're both elderly women. I greet them, and they smile at me sympathetically.

The chemotherapy room is filled with myriad variations of hope: optimistic hope, false hope, lost hope. It is also a place where questions keep dripping in synch with the chemo tubes like faulty faucets. Everybody asks about their bloodwork results. Somehow, numbers and figures bring piece of mind.

I start conversation with one of the ladies. She must be in her late sixties. She tells me she used to be a dancer. Now, she's been diagnosed with incurable brain tumor and doesn't know whether she's willing to fight the disease. What can I say? I wouldn't know what to do either.

I talk to her for three hours. It is incredible what kind of life stories you get to hear. If I have to find something positive about me getting ill, it must be this. You meet people whom you otherwise would have never had the chance to encounter. Having conversations with people going through similar things or worse, makes me more mature, and infinitely a better person than I was before.

Keeping Busy

Dear August. This is my timetable for you.

9th: Bloodwork

10th: Chemo 4

18th: PET scan

23rd: Bloodwork and Doctor's appointment (results of PET)

24th: Chemo 5

I Need a Personal Trainer

Greetings from my bed! The ABVD is working inside my body again and kicking the cancer cells goodbye. To tell you the truth, I feel quite kicked and beaten. How on earth can I handle NINE more sessions?!? Just thinking about going back to the hospital room on 10th August and listening to the dripping of the medicine makes me want to throw up. The smell of the plastic tubes is the worst.

Two pieces of news:

1.My hair has stopped falling. I'm stuck with the ”petit prince”-look. Most of the time I wear scarves and hats, just because the hair I have left is thin (and makes me look like a scarecrow) but there aren't any bald spots in sight yet. I'm not quite sure if this is a good sign. I mean, I hope the chemo is still working and has just decided to leave my hair alone.

2.I can't feel the swollen lymph node above the clavicle any more. It has disappeared in one week. This is definitely good news.

By the way, who ever said that cancer patients get thinner? I just seem to get fatter. I'll be the only one beating cancer 20 kilos overweight. Pretty soon the resemblance between Gilbert Grape's mother and I will be more than striking. The nurse told me it is the cortisone they give as anti-nausea. It tends to make the body puffy. However it may be, I've decided to take some action: I went for a walk yesterday. I took my iPod (Pixies make the best walking music) and managed three kilometers. I'm so out of shape, it's ridiculous. Who wants to join the gym with me in Barcelona, once I'm well?

True Blood

I've just cycled to hospital to get my bloodwork done (note: to hospital here in my town, not to Helsinki which is 50km away. I'm no Lance Armstrong). These two weeks have passed amazingly fast, which gives me hope. Tomorrow is the 3rd session out of 12. Not too bad. Only 9 to go.

Here's a photo of the previous blood results from 7th July and 12th July, a curios fact which might be interesting only to me and others suffering from the same thing but oh well. If you take a look, you can see how the haemoglobin is slowly rising (which is a good thing) and how the CRP has settled to normal values. According to the doctors these are all signs that the treatment is working. Careful attention is paid to the white cells (leuk and neut) which tend to sink because of the chemo. My values, so far, are quite decent, they say.

Have a good one!

Padded Walls, Princes etc.

It's amazing how things can change in a day. I'm so relieved. It's as though a heavy wet blanket has been lifted off my chest. I know now for sure I'm going to win this fight. Not that I didn't think that before, don't get me wrong, but I was worried whether I would end up in a mental institution in the process (and have my chemo sessions done inside padded walls). The physical pain, you see, is nothing compared to the constant battle that's going on in your brain. It's hard to keep your shit together when practically all aspects of your life have changed radically in so little time. Pain, after all, is temporary, but depression can last for a lifetime (if you let it last).

That is why, after yesterday's news, I've stopped wallowing in the self-pity pool. I'm going to make the most out of my time here (the doctors are talking about six months of treatment). Maybe I could start taking up guitar lessons, learn a new language (korean?), and join a cancer organization. What else could I do? Suggestions are welcomed as always.

Hugs!

P.S. When I look in the mirror, I see le petit prince.

Good News

The bone marrow test came back clean! No cancer there! I'm so happy!

Hair Is My Mind?

”Cada pelo que pierdo, cada uno de los últimos cabellos, es un compañero que cae, y que antes de caer ha tenido nombre, o por lo menos número.
Me consuelo recordando la frase de un amigo piadoso:
-"Si el pelo fuera importante, estaría dentro de la cabeza, y no afuera."
También me consuelo comprobando que en todos estos años se me ha caído mucho pelo pero ninguna ídea, lo que es una alegría si se compara con tanto arrepentido que anda por ahí.”
- Eduardo Galeano (El libro de los abrazos)

I'm finally losing it. Hair, I mean. Not my mind, although that wouldn't be so strange either (after all, I'm living with my parents again). I'm currently in the process of convincing myself that this isn't a big deal, and that hair loss really should be the least of my worries, and how superficial it is of me to ponder upon these things, since it'll grow back. I know, but it's still quite a bit impressive to see a fistful of hair falling on the floor every time I comb my hair, not to mention the fact that somehow without hair, I'll look marked, even more like a typical cancer patient. So far that fact has been easy to hide.

Maybe I'll convert to Islam...that would explain the use of scarves and hats, wouldn't it?

Intravenous Jungle

I'm back home! And feeling fine. For now. I just ordered Chinese food. I'll tell you later whether it was a smart move.

Here's a quick photo from the intravenous jungle.

ABVD

These last couple of days have been wonderful. No cough, no fever, no tiredness, no nausea, no nothing.

All good must come to an end though - the second round of chemo is tomorrow. Shit. It's really hard to convince your brain that something that makes you feel so bad actually cures you.

By the way, did you know that each chemo treatment is personal and designed just for you? I didn't, until now. How special. They take everything into account: your weight, your age, how far the disease has spread, and then measure the exact amount of liquid you should be given. Mine's called the ABVD-treatment. It consists of four different kinds of drugs which are given intravenously.

Let me introduce them to you. They are all pretty feisty and unafraid to make their presence known inside the body.

A= Adriamycin (doxorubicin)
B= Bleomycin
V= Vinblastine
D= Dacarbazine

I'm sure that more specific information about their origin, function, and possible side effects can be found on Wikipedia. I prefer not to look. Sometimes it's best not to know.

Well, I'm off to do the necessary blood tests they take the day before chemo.

Have a good one!

P.S. My neighbours must think that I've lost my mind. I was swearing and shouting in Spanish the whole yesterday evening. Congratulations Spain. Xavi and Iniesta are out of this world.

Haemoglobin Is the Key to a Healthy Heart Beat

"Sometimes I can hear my bones straining under the weight of all the lives I'm not living"
— Jonathan Safran Foer (Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close)

The life of a cancer patient. What can I say? Nothing much really happens. Everything revolves around a red calendar with different hospital dates written on them. No action packed weekends of going to bars and restaurants for me anymore (I know, there's more to life than beer, but still). I'm not saying that I'm completely locked inside my house either, but restricted yes. This morning I walked down the driveway and fetched the post, and already felt quite tired. Life is different.

I wonder why this is happening to me, and if there's any rhyme or reason to any of this. I guess not. From time to time, I catch myself feeling envious of healthy people who are doing things, not feeling any pain, and how wonderful that is. But, then I realize I have to cut that string of thought because it's getting me nowhere. Worse things happen to people every day. This is peanuts compared to some of life's catastrophies.

Well, I'm getting too transcendental here. It must be the paracetamol I'm taking. What I really wanted to post about was the bone marrow test they performed yesterday. It went GREAT! In five minutes it was over and most importantly, it didn't hurt one bit! Besides, my blood test results showed some improvement: My haemoglobin has gone from 98 to 102 - still far from the normal values of 120-140 - but hey, it could be worse.

Laters!

The Phone Call

The piece of information that I'm about to reveal was delivered to me already last week, but I didn't want to post about it earlier, because once you write something down, it makes it real, and this is something that I don't want to be real. Make sense? No? Let me explain.

Last Friday, while I was in my post-chemo zombie mode, I got a call from one of the doctors of the Hospital of Helsinki. I knew immediately that this meant bad news.

This is the phone call:

Doctor: Hey, This is Emma, your doctor from HYKS (the hospital)
Laura: Yes?
D: Yeah, I'm just calling to tell you about the bone marrow biopsy that we took last Tuesday, remember?
L: How could I forget. What's up?
D: Well, the sample we took is too small for the pathologist to analyze, so we'd need to repeat the test.
L: WHAT? But it hurt so much.
D: I know, but this time we're going to give you harder drugs, and the biopsy will be carried out by our top lymphoma doctor. I'm sure you'll be fine.
L: Uh huh. And when would it be carried out?
D: Next Wednesday about 12.30, ok?
L: Ok, but really, I was in so much pain, I'd really like to be knocked out for the operation if you know what I mean...
D: We'll do our best, ok?
L: Ok. See you on Wednesday then.
D: See you, Bye.

So, as you can see, another trip to the hospital awaits me. I can't believe I have to go through that test again. I wouldn't wish it for my worst enemies even. But, what can you do? It's for my own best. I know that it's important to find out if the cancer has spread to the bones, but really, why couldn't the "top lymphoma doctor" carry out my operation the first time? Frustrating.

I don't want to end this post in a negative way, though, so let me just tell you that I feel GREAT today. No pain! Reborn! Yay!

Loomings

I'm borrowing the title of the post from Mr. Melville. His first chapter of Moby Dick starts with the same words. According to Merriam Webster, "to loom" is "to appear to the mind in a magnified and threatening form". It's such a great word, probably my favourite in English and somehow fitting to my state of mind of not knowing what to expect from the months to come.

Anyway, I'm rambling...

Today was a bad day. It all started at breakfast table when I suddenly blacked out and both my parents had to carry me to the bedroom, lift my legs and sprinkle some water all over my face. I recovered quickly though, and was able to have some tea and toast (coffee is still my nr.1 enemy). I had to soak the toast in the teacup, since my mouth hurts like HELL. The chemo drugs seem to be so strong that they tear open the gums. I was sucking ice cubes and eating popsicles all day, and couldn't move from the bed. I considered it an achievement when I finally at 2 pm managed to get myself to the shower, and change from pajamas to normal clothes.

I really hope that tomorrow will be better and I can finally post something positive. I mean, c'mon, how long can this feeling "like a tractor has driven over you" last?

P.S. Talking about the big white whale, here's a fine poem about it. http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/15516

Anti-Caffeine

My friendship with coffee has ended on bad terms. I don't want to see it, smell it, let alone taste it. It makes me nauseous and turns my stomach upside down. Buah buah.

Also, opening the fridge door or going to the kitchen when someone's cooking seems impossible today.

Hence I eat in my room and my menu consists of:

Sparkling water
Orange Juice
Crackers
Toast
Berries
and Coca-cola.

Delicious, huh?

Chemo and I

Getting the treatment with fantastic hospital yellows.

6 am blues

I look suicidal, but don't worry, I'm not planning on slitting my wrists. I just wanted to take a quick picture with the webcam before going to hospital. It was 5.45 a.m. You'd look suicidal too. P.s. I've had my hair cut.

Step 1

I first thought I was writing this blog in order never to forget these insane days. I needn't have worried. The body remembers. The memory of the pain stays (or should I say ”stains”?). It's like a letter inside of me which I carry from now on, and when opened, it tells this story:

The alarm clock rings at 6 a.m on Tuesday 29th. I have to be at the hospital at 7.30 for the blood tests and chemo. My whole family is downstairs in the kitchen, sipping coffee, even my brother who's usually such a sleepyhead that acid rain or torrential downpour couldn't wake him up at these hours.

My father and I leave for the hospital. I feel calm. After the blood tests, we are asked to go upstairs. Floor 8 is where all the action happens.

The morning starts with some bad news. The doctor tells me the PET scan reveals that the cancer has spread below the diaphragm. This means that one more test needs to be taken to see if it has gone any further. Oh, and what a test it is! The queen of the tests! The real deal! The bone marrow biopsy! Fuck.

They give me a tranquilizer which obviously doesn't have the desirable effect. Bone marrow biopsy has such a horrible ring to it, that only knocking me in the head with a baseball bat could make me calm. The whole medical team keep marching in by twos (and twos), and in the end I find myself surrounded by eight different doctors and nurses. Some of them are there for the mere psychological support, in other words, to hold my hand (and my legs) and to wipe my eyes. It takes such a long time for the operation to be carried out, that in the end, I don't know if I'm crying for the pain or for the frustration.

When it's over, the nurse brings me cookies and asks if we can still be friends.

The chemo starts at 3 p.m. I'm ready. After the experience I've had in the morning, nothing, and I mean, NOTHING, could be worse.

I'm given seven different pills for the nausea, and four bags of chemo IV. The treatment takes three hours and is painless, apart from the last bag, which causes some swelling and tingling in my left hand and arm.

The evening goes smoothly. I'm waiting for the chemo to kick in, but all I get is some slight stomach pain. They give me more tablets for the nausea and I feel great. I tell this to the nurse and she warns me not to congratulate myself too soon since the effects of chemo could start the next day or even couple of days later. Bah, nurses, working for Job's mail delivery service.

I'm home now, finishing this entry. I'll try and add a couple of pictures later.

Oh Bob!

My recent obsession with Mr. Dylan is getting to unhealthy proportions. I listen to him non-stop.

Anyway, my question is, do you think the Finnish government will provide me with some "Mary Johanna" for the pain? Just curious.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Us9BsELUKMM&feature=related

(2)

3rd June 2010: I'm on a plane to Finland. My fear of flying has suddenly disappeared and I'm taking pictures of the landing. Unheard of.

4th June 2010: My first visit to the Hospital in Helsinki (www.hus.fi). I get a lump in my throat (no pun intended) just by seeing a sign "CANCER PATIENTS". Is that me? Do I have to go through that door? The nurse hands me a paper and says: "this is the only thing that matters now. The rest is unimportant". It's a sort of calendar with all the tests that have to be run the following days.

7th June 2010: CAT scan. I have to drink about 4 litres iodine water which tastes disgusting. In the exam room they also introduce iodine intravenously. The nurse kindly explains that first I'll feel an iron taste in my mouth, then a strange feeling as though my organs were on fire, and last but not least, a sensation as if I had peed in my pants. Fun, huh? All through the procedure, I feel completely separated from my body, like this were something they were doing to a doll. My personality is not present.

The following days two more tests are being carried out. A biopsy (an experience I'd rather not remember, since the anaesthesia lost its effect when the needle was still inside my neck) and a PET scan. The PET scan is harmless (despite the fact that the liquid they put in your body is radioactive, what the fuck?). It's time consuming, though. They tell you to lie down for about an hour, but you can't move. It's forbidden to even read since it would mean that you'd have to raise your arms.

Anyway, I'm done with the pinching and probing for now. The real battle is ready to begin. Tuesday 29th June. First session of chemotherapy. Oh dear.

The Story So Far (1)

Let's recap.

27th-28th May 2010: I find a little lump on the right side of my neck, just above the clavicle. My flatmates advise me to go to the doctor, just to be on the safe side. The next day, before going to work, I spend the morning at the waiting room of Barcelona's Sagrat Cor Hospital where eventually at one o'clock the doctor sees me. She starts feeling my neck and informs me I have various lymphnodes swollen and that this needs to be looked into. She orders a blood test, an x-ray, and an ultrasound. At this point, she's talking about the possibility of having an infection or even tuberculosis and tells me not to worry.

1st June 2010: I find myself underground. It's the part of the hospital where the x-ray and ultrasound machines live. I've come alone for the tests since after all, this is no biggie, nothing, just a simple flu I'm having, right? After the tests, the doctor tells me to get an appointment urgently with my general physician. She says that in the lung x-rays one can see that this is a classic case of a lymphoma. The door of her office is wide open. The people outside in the waiting area can hear her. Their pity is burning on my back when I leave the place.

2nd June 2010: After a chaotic start and some lift-travelling from floor 1 to floor 5 and then back to 1 (bureaucracy kills), I finally get to see the doctor. She tells me the final results of the tests and strongly recommends me to leave everything: my job and my studies, and take the first plane to Finland. She says it with such a grave tone that it is the first time the information sinks in. I'm seriously ill. I'm 28 and I have cancer. I find it hard to see myself out of the room: my legs feel heavy, my eyes are red and hazy, and I feel like throwing up.