Alustuseks tahan hoopis rääkida ühest oma onkosemust. Helest, kes vajab abi selleks, et jääda elama. Ja mina väga tahan, et Hele jääks elama, sest meil on kokku leiptud kokteilitamine ükspuha millises maailmanurgas. Palun aidake Hele. Tema looga saab tutvuda tema Facebookis.

Lisaks, palun aidake ka Terje Põvvatit! Palun aidake. Ma ei tunne Terjet ega ole temaga suhelnud, aga tema teekond puudutab mind väga.

Hele asemel võiksin väga vabalt olla mina. Miks just Hele? Sest Helel algas ühine teekond vähiga sama diagnoosiga nagu minul. Meie kahekesi oleme osa sellest närusest ühest protsendist, kes on rinnavähilotos saanud “jackpoti” – selle kõige halvema variandi kõigist mõeldavatest kooslustest. Palju õnne meile, eks! Tõsiselt, meil on vaja palju õnne ja kahjuks ka palju raha, et terveks saada ja elama jääda.

Ja ma tunnistan, et ka mina, nii nagu Hele, ei taha surra. Kaugel sellest, ma tahan elada! Tahan olla jälle olemas. Tahan olla olemas oma pere jaoks, oma abikaasa jaoks, oma laste jaoks, ema jaoks, sõprade jaoks, töökaaslaste jaoks. Tahan olla siin veel kaua! Mul on veel palju, mida maailmale anda. Äkki kasvõi raamat või kaks kirjutada, kui keegi viitsiks ja tahaks neid lugeda.

Kui kellelgi on selles osas tarka nõu anda, siis võite mu poole privaatselt pöörduda, sest mul on tõesti mõttes kirjutada raamat, mis on mõeldud vähihaigetele lastele ja nende sõpradele ja kirjutada raamat enda läbielatust, et seda saaksid lugeda selle teekonna alguses olevad saatusekaaslased ja nende lähedased, et mõtestada kogu see vaev ja valu kuidagi selgemaks. Võib-olla ongi see minu missioon siin maailmas. Ma ei tea, aga sellised plaanid mul on. Võite ka öelda, kui see tundub teie arvates maailma kõike lollakama ideena.

Aga, minnes tagasi selle tundmise tunde juurse, siis tundsin seda andmise tunnet eriti tugevalt, kui olime täna keemiaravil. Minuga oli kaasas Cleelia, kes on mu kunagine klassiõde ja on ka Portugalis juba kaua elanud. Cleelias on mingi seletamatu rahu ja temaga rääkimine annab mulle iga kord mingi kindluse. Ma ei taipa alati kohe, mis suunas kindluse, aga mingi hea sisetunde ja kindluse minu enda suhtes. Juba selles suhtes, et ma tean siis alati, et ma suudan ja saan.

Muidugi teeb selle “suudan ja saan” tunde praegu veel tugevamaks ka hea uudis, mille eile oma onkoloogilt sain. Paberite ja algse skeemi järgi peaks mul seda retsi keemiat olema veel neli korda, aga kuna kõik mu näitajad on nii head, siis otsustasid targad arstid, et piisab ka kahest punasest kuradist koos selle teise keemiaravimiga.

Ehk siis – mul on jäänud keemiat veel kaks korda! Kaks korda! Ainult kaks korda! Te ei kujuta ette seda õnnetunnet, mis mind valdas sel hetkel, kui ma sain aru, et keemia on oma tööd hästi teinud ja ma saan keemiaravi kaks korda vähem. Mul hakkasid pisarad voolama juba arsti kabinetis ja voolasid veel pikalt pärast seda. Õnnest, loomulikult. Ja siiamaani, mu hing lihtsalt laulab sellele mõeldes.

Neli nädalat vähem piina. Ma olen täiesti aus ja ütlen, et ma kardan seda nädalat, kardan järgmist nädalat. Kardan neid hirmsaid kõrvaltoimeid. Kardan seda meeletut iiveldust, väsimust, mida ei ole võimalik kirjeldada. Kardan seda valu, mis võtab põlvili ka kõige tugevama inimese. Kardan seda nõrkust ja jõuetust, mis lubab ainult vetsu ja voodisse tagasi liikuda. Kardan seda kõike väga.

Kardan, sest täna iiveldab juba praegu. Eelmisel korral oli esimene päev nagu steroididel Duracelli jänes. Olin vahepeal suutnud endale pähe kasvatada väikese heleda siilisoengu, aga need juuksed langevad nüüd kõik peast. Käega üle pea silitades (teen seda miskipärast koguaeg), jääb ikka mõni juuksekarv kätte.

Olen mõelnud, et see enda pea silitamine on mulle pooleldi ka teraapia eest. Teen endale justkui pai. Pai selle eest, et jaksan. Pai selle eest, et olen üldiselt tubli. Olen ju? Pai selle eest, et pean vastu, isegi siis kui n väga halb ja tundub, et enam ei jaksa. Teen endale pai selle eest, et olen olemas. Teen pai selle eest, et ma ei ole andnud alla. Pai selle eest, et usun, et saan terveks. Jah, ma usun sellesse, et ma saan terveks.

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To begin with, I actually want to talk about one of my fellow “onco-sisters.” Hele, who needs help in order to stay alive. And I really, really want Hele to live, because we’ve already agreed that someday we’ll have cocktails together, no matter which corner of the world it might be. Please, help Hele. You can read her story on her Facebook page.

In addition, please help Terje Põvvat too! Please, help her. I don’t know Terje personally and I haven’t spoken to her, but her journey touches me deeply.

Hele could very easily have been me. Why Hele? Because her cancer journey started with the same diagnosis as mine. The two of us belong to that miserable one percent who “won the jackpot” in the breast cancer lottery – the very worst combination imaginable. Congratulations to us, right? Seriously though, we need a lot of luck, and unfortunately also a lot of money, to get well and to stay alive.

And I admit, just like Hele, I don’t want to die. Far from it. I want to live! I want to truly be here again. I want to be here for my family, for my husband, for my children, for my mother, for my friends, for my colleagues. I want to stay here for a long time! I still have so much to give to the world. Maybe even write a book or two – if anyone would want to read them.

If anyone has advice on this, please reach out to me privately, because I really have been thinking about writing a book – one meant for children with cancer and their friends, and another about my own experiences, so that others at the beginning of this journey, and their loved ones, could find some meaning in all this pain and struggle. Maybe that’s my mission in this world. I don’t know. But that’s where my thoughts are heading. And of course, you can also tell me if you think that’s the silliest idea ever.

But coming back to this feeling of “giving,” I felt it especially strongly today when we were at chemotherapy. With me was Cleelia, my old classmate, who has also lived in Portugal for quite a long time. There’s an inexplicable calmness about Cleelia, and talking to her always gives me a sense of reassurance. I don’t always immediately realize in which direction that reassurance points, but it always leaves me with a good inner feeling and confidence in myself. Simply the confidence that I can and I will.

Of course, that feeling of “I can and I will” was made even stronger by the good news I received from my oncologist yesterday. On paper, and according to the original plan, I should have four more rounds of this brutal chemo. But because all my markers look so good, the doctors decided that two more rounds of the Red Devil combined with the other chemo drug would be enough.

Which means that I only have two more chemo sessions left! Two more! Just two! You can’t imagine the joy I felt in that moment when I realized that the chemo had done its job so well that I would have to endure two rounds less. Tears were already streaming down my face in the doctor’s office, and they kept flowing long afterwards. Tears of happiness, of course. And even now, my soul just sings when I think about it.

Four weeks less of suffering. To be completely honest, I admit that I’m afraid of this week and afraid of next week too. Afraid of those terrible side effects. Afraid of the relentless nausea, of the exhaustion that cannot be described. Afraid of the pain that could bring even the strongest person to their knees. Afraid of the weakness and helplessness that leaves you able only to go from the bathroom back to bed. I’m very afraid of all of that.

I’m afraid, because I already feel nauseous today. Last time, on the first day, I was like a Duracell bunny on steroids. In the meantime, I had even managed to grow a little blond fuzz on my head, but now all that hair is falling out again. Every time I run my hand over my head (for some reason I keep doing that), a few hairs come away in my fingers.

I’ve realized that stroking my own head has become a kind of therapy for me. It’s like I’m giving myself a pat. A pat for enduring. A pat for being strong overall. I am strong, right? A pat for holding on, even when it’s so bad that it feels like I can’t go on. A pat for still being here. A pat for not giving up. A pat for believing that I will get well. Yes, I believe it – I believe I will get well.