My Diary. Part 1. Israel. Hospital...

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.

Everything unfolded quickly then. I did not have a valid Schengen visa, so I decided to fly to Israel. My old friend in Tel Aviv hurriedly interviewed his acquaintances and several respondents (including doctors and former patients) mentioned the same surgeon. The surgeon worked with patients, including, Assuta clinic that I knew, so there was no problem in choosing a hospital.

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A friend sent me the correct address of the hospital's website (it turns out there are still false sites created by the mediators). My English did not come in handy, because there are Russian-speaking employees in the Department of Medical Tourism of the hospital. I wrote, I was promptly told to collect papers and glasses with biopsy specimens and to fly to Israel. The program of consultations and surveys was prepared by the employees of the department. They also reminded of visits and saw off to the doctors. There are many doctors in the hospital that also spoke Russian, and to those who did not speak Russian, I went along with a staff member of the Department of Medical Tourism, which translated. Those who want to, but are afraid of flying to Israel on their own, I would say that you should not be afraid - you will not remain without help.

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I stayed a week in Tel Aviv. I underwent ultrasound and mammography again, I met with a surgeon and an oncologist, made a PET-CT scan, checked my heart and donated my blood for analysis. I did it all for a couple of days, but I decided to stay for a weekend to wait for the results of the re-examination of immunohistochemistry and receive a protocol of treatment.
A re-examination of the biopsy specimens confirmed the Moscow diagnosis - breast cancer, 2b stage, with lymph nodes (only Ki-67 was reduced to 30%), and PET-CT calmed down a little - nothing spiteful, except for the above, does not live in me. And then all right.

I flew back home as already full-fledged oncology patient - with a protocol of treatment, with a bag of drugs for neoadjuvant chemotherapy and with a hope for a brighter future. The vigilant Israeli border guards studied my hospital reports, and they had such an expression on their face... My fellow sick people will probably understand what I'm talking about. Since October, I often see this fleeting grimace in people faced who have just learned about my diagnosis. It has pity, fright, confusion and a desire to finish the conversation as soon as possible. My interlocutors immediately become ashamed of this desire, and I also see this shame on their faces. And they see that I see it too... And it makes all situation more confusing. Everyone are embarrassed, I'm getting angry... And if they also start talking to me with such a special "nice" voice, carefully choosing the words... So I want to pull on their sleeve: "Hey, I have not died yet and I do not even plan! And my head is all right, so leave this tone for your children and the mentally ill !" In short, I do not tell anyone about my illness without extreme need.

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The border guards briefly conferred and allowed me to take a bag of drugs on the plane, like hand luggage. They were very kind, they spoke to me softly and with kindness, which, incidentally, did not prevent them from knocking where they needed, so that competent comrades fished my modest suitcase out of the baggage and carefully examined everything in it. Comrades even left a note in my suitcase - "here was Vasya Aaronchik, looking for drugs-explosives, but he found only an unconnected pair of woolen socks (yes, yes, nervously, the Iron Button began to knit), was disappointed and left." I should wait a little, and remember the suitcase. I'll fix myself, and then no socks. Only silk shirts and lace underwear. I promise...

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"I am what I eat." That's right, but for me more relevant is : "I'm what I do. For others".
I almost do not work. I do not go to the office, I do not prepare presentations, I do not participate in meetings. I sit at home with a laptop on my lap and only occasionally do something socially useful. The public, at the same time, feels uneasy and continuously apologizing.
For the first time in twenty years I have had time for myself, and I absolutely do not know what to do with it. I feel like a horse that has been spinning a mill wheel all life, and when it grew old and weak, the owner decided to give it a gift - he took off the harness and led it to the fields.

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He is close by, he pleased, worried, grimaces, his hand invitingly expands the scope. And the horse is in a panic. The horse is compressed, slouched, looking at the ground and not hurry. The owner screams - "GO!". Cheerfully, in a pioneer way - "GO-GO!". And the horse looks at his feet and wants to be back to the wheel buckled. There is both the status and meaning of life at the wheel, and what's on the field? You will meet someone on the field and do not even know how to introduce yourself. "I'm a horse ... Just a horse."
Here and so. For freedom, as it turned out, a habit is needed. Immunity...

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