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?