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