My Diary. Part 1. Bells. Relatives. About luck ...

Hello everyone!

I continue to publish my diary and the history of my illness. My thoughts, feelings and actions. I really hope that these lines will help someone.

The protocol and medications for chemotherapy I brought from Israel. Moscow oncologists did not expect me with all this ("first they pay crazy money in Israel, and then they come here to die ..."), so my "red" passes as 90% of any more or less significant events at different levels of Russian society. That is, by acquaintance. With the help of friends, a doctor was found (not a chemotherapist), who agreed to make a dropper of my medicine. The inconvenient start of my onco-epic taught me not to rely on one source of information, so I also found an external consultant - a former chemotherapist from a remote Russian city, judging by the responses, very literate, but left medicine for some vague trading activity in Moscow. The reviews turned out to be correct, and I felt sad from our inverted reality once again, in which knowledgeable and human experts are forced to leave medicine in order to survive.

image source

The first dropper went smoothly. I watched a stupid TV series, gnawed an apple and even drove the doctor to the house, because I came to the doctor by myself by car. The rest of the day I listened to myself, waiting for the beginning of the nightmare promised by Internet forums. The nightmare (I wish the Lord to save all the Jews for good premedication) did not come, so I went to sleep in some perplexity. As it turned out, not for long. At four in the morning, I crawled to the kitchen on my half-bent legs, where the cherished Emend was lying. My hands trembled, and I had to get a pill with a knife. I felt sick, there was a nasty taste in my mouth, but there was no vomiting. I got a salty cottage cheese, I ate it a bit, and fell asleep on the couch - sitting and holding a jar of cottage cheese in my hands.

image source

In the morning the mirror was waiting for me with a surprise: my face was swollen, almost round. Childish puffy cheeks, eyes-lumps. Not a single wrinkle - at another time I would be happy. Besides this, strong weakness and constant nausea, nothing. Now, after the second dropper, I can say that the first was the heaviest. Still I can tell or say, that a premedication and qualitative antiemetic - is our everything. And be careful with the new diet: because of the nausea, I got carried away by the salty things and forgot about my chronic pancreatitis. But it remembered me well - 8 days after the first dropper I was twisted by pain so that it darkened in my eyes. After lying on the bathroom floor a little, I somehow crawled out and lay down on the floor in the corridor. I lay absolutely not artistically, not like ladies in novels - elegantly stretched out, but in a plebeian way - like a ball, and quietly whimpering. There was a puzzled dachshund around me, trying to lick me from time to time. The picture, I think, was strange. The only thing that pleased me on the floor was that my mother did not see me. I'm afraid she would lie down next to me, and I would have to save her already.

image source

I must live with this somehow. An unforgettable year awaits me, most of which depends on me very little. In the meantime, "red" chemotherapy. A dropper, a difficult week, then I can live for two weeks, a dropper, a difficult week, then I can live for two weeks ... A giant metronome that cuts almost three months of my life into even slices. Cautious plans that constantly break. Humility and obedience are something that I have never had. And hospitals, hospitals ...
Is this the beginning of the end or the chance to change life? A bell that has to convey something to me? With what and what will I get out of this? I'm waiting for some kind of insight or clue. As one girl wrote on the Internet, "until God lights the path with a flashlight." And now I'm waiting, waiting, and he does not shine and does not shine.....

image source

Trrrrrr. Jin-jin-jin. Unclear…

My family was ready for my illness even less than me. As the first shock of the bad news passed, there was a hope that someone would share responsibility with me and take care of me as actively as I would have done. The relatives stamped around like a bear cub beside a wounded bear. They were confused and depressed. The last 20 years, my main purpose was to bring security and comfort to their lives. It seems that my illness was not just not fitting into their world order - it was directly threatening their world. And they defended themselves. Someone has gone into denial, refusing to delve into the details of the diagnosis and treatment or to deviate greatly from the plans for the year. Someone directly stated that, of course, he will help, but, as a thin-skinned and non-stress-resistant creature, believes that in a difficult situation the family is not a needed support. Paid specialists help me.
Of course, they did not leave me alone. The relatives were near, ready to come to the rescue and follow the instructions. And yet I was lonely. The army, the General Staff and the commander and that's all me - by myself.
A cyborg-woman, an iron daughter of the harsh 90s, the mother of her parents, brothers and sisters, what else could you expect?

image source

Two "reds" behind. I return from Tel Aviv to Moscow after placing the label in a tumor that almost three times smaller. A stern security officer with oil-black hair and a crumpled uniform shirt looks at me and my documents for a long time. God knows why, but they are often in crumpled clothes - the great story of the chosen people allows one to tolerate such trifles as neatness?
The anxiety of the border guard can be understood: I'm not very similar to my photo in the passport now. Perhaps, I even succeeded in the impossible - I look much worse than this photo. The wig, pulled over the forehead, to hide the eyes of the hair, aggravates my passport and the disparity and suspicions of the border guard.
"Medical tourism" - I explained wearily, and showed my face. It seems that my laconic explanation was considered satisfactory - we have a lot of such tourists here, unlike the passport, with gray faces. The crumpled lady was still studying me, but rather for the sake of order. I did not have time to get scared that she would ask to remove the wig, as I saw the documents that she had handed to me: "Good luck!". In the last two months, I have heard this wish too often. An unpleasant reminder of how little in my situation depends directly on me. "And to you too!" - I returned to a crumpled lady part of the feeling of helplessness before life and went to the turnstile.

image source

On the plane, I suddenly became cheerful. The breast, in which was installed a tiny marker four hours ago, ached a bit. But it was not just a marker. It was a needle - the death of Koschey. The needle in the crystal egg (in the tumor). Egg in the duck (your humble servant). Duck in the trunk (on the plane). And the chest is constantly moving, but it moves exactly according to the schedule and sits down when it's necessary and where it's necessary.

image source

The egg will be quickly removed, the needle will be broken, Koschey will die, and I, on the contrary, will live, live and make good. Will live long, happy and, if possible, not alone. I'm lucky. And a wound from a nyxis was sealed today not as usual, but almost like snowflake. Good sign!

I apologize for the possible mistakes that arose in the translation. There are idioms that are difficult to translate into another language.

You can read all parts of the diary here:

1. https://steemit.com/life/@obrenia/my-diary-part-1-farewell-to-my-hair
2. https://steemit.com/life/@obrenia/my-diary-part-1-friends-mama-it-started
3. https://steemit.com/life/@obrenia/my-diary-part-1-israel-hospital