Getting the treatment with fantastic hospital yellows.
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
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.
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.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
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
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
Saturday, June 26, 2010
(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.
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.
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.
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