Mõnikord on mul tunne, et mina olengi sissevaade idioodiks olemisele. Justkui kobaks pidevalt mingis kehva valgustusega keldris, kus kõik hoolikalt valmistatud hoidised peaks kenasti aastajärkude kaupa reas olema. Aga, no sittagi pole aru saada. 

Selles pimeduses kobades tõmbad kogemata neid moosi- ja kurgipurke maha. Lärts ja plärts. Vahepeal koperdad kartulihunniku otsa ja siis lööd pea madala laetala pihta ära. 

See viib mu mõtetes ja mälestustes vanavanaema keldrisse. Issand, kuidas tahaks seal ühte tikri- või õunakompotti. Issand, kuidas ma igatsen vanavanaema. Minu vanavanaema Elsa. Tema surmast saab sel aastal 26 aastat. Need 26 aastat olen ma teda igatsenud. Kui juhtub isegi, et ma ei mõtle temale iga päev, siis vähemalt nädalas korra tuleb ta mulle meelde. Tema on minu elus nii paljude alusmälestuste juures. Ma ei tea üldse, kas alusmälestus on see õige sõna, aga, ta on nende baasmälestuste pidepunkt minu lapsepõlvest.

Ta on osa peaaegu igast asjast, mida ma armastan. Ma armastan maasikaid ja just vanavanaema oli see, kes lubas mul alati peenralt küpseid maasikaid noppida ja süüa. Mulle maitsevad väga mustsõstrad ja ikka meenub mulle nende marjadega vanavanaema, kellega koos kuulasime alati raadiost lõunast kuuldemängu – sealt ka minu armastus krimkade vastu, sest mäletan, kuidas raadios kanti ikka ette Agathe Christie või mõne teise kuulsa autori kriminulle.

Mustsõstarde ja keskpäevase raadiokuuldemänguga ongi mul oma mälestus – istusime vanaemaga aiaäärse mustsõstrapõõsa juures, korjasime marju ja kuulasime Sherlock Holmes’i tegemistest pajatavat kuuldemängu.

Tema on põhjus, miks ma armastan küüslauku. Maja teeäärsel poolel asunud peenras kasvas küüslauk ja mäletan, kuidas istusin kord peenra ääres, puhastasin küüslauku mullast ja mugisin seda järjest hammustades leiba peale.

Temalt on pärit minu armastus vaarikavarre ja piparmündi tee vastu. Mäletan, kui olin väike tüdruk ja ema oli haige minu vanavanaema juurde tervist parandama viinud. See oli ilmselt mingisugune taliolümpia aeg, sest telekast näidati iluuisutamist ja keegi võitis. Istusime koos vanavanaema ja tema õega teleka ees, jõime vaarikavarre ja piparmündi teed, sõime kaneelisaiu ja vaatasime iluuisutamist.

Tema on põhjus, miks ma armastan talve, lund, külma, jõule. Tema kodu on minu jaoks olnud alati juskui osa muinasjutust. See oli minu muinasjutumaa. Lihtne maakodu aia, põllu, loomade ja kogu maaelu oluga.

Neid temaga seotud mälestusi on mul tohutult palju. Kuidas ma teda armastasin. Kui raske see oli minu jaoks, kui ta suri.

Eelmisel nädalal ütlesin vihast, pettumusest ja väsimusest korduvalt, et äkki siis oleks kõigil olnud parem, kui ma oleksin eelmisel aastal lihtsalt ära surnud. Ma olin nii solvunud, ma olin nii katki. Nii katki, et ei suutnud end arsti kabinetis kokku võtta ja tormasin pisarate saatel kabinetist ja tervest osakonnast lihtsalt välja. Süü ei olnud arstil, süü ei olnud mu haigusel, süü oli lähedasel, kes tegi mulle väga haiget.

Aga nüüd mõtlen, et tegelikult ma ju ei taha surra. Ma kardan surra. Siis on ju lõpp. Siis on ju kõik. Ja ehk jääb minustki siia maha mõni inimene, kes leinaks mind samamoodi – kuni enda elu lõpuni.

Tegelikult kõigi nende füüsiliste vaevuste kõrval, mida on nüüdse ravi käigus oluliselt vähem, kardan ma ikkagi surma. Paaniliselt. Ma kardan paaniliselt, et haigus tuleb tagasi ja saab minust võitu. Kardan, et uuesti ei jaksa ma seda kõike läbi teha. Jubedalt kardan igat peavalu, torget rinnas, kõhuvalu, iiveldust, kõhiulahtisust ja -kinnisust.

See hirm on väsitav, ruineeriv, aga see on päris. Nii nagu ka minu vähk on päris. See ei ole uni, see ei ole väljamõeldis ja see ei ole lihtne.

Loen teiste lugusid ja kardan. Tohutult. Eelmisel nädalal avaldas üks Onkoloogika kogukonna eestvedajaid, Pille, et tema haigus on taas oma sõrgi sirutanud. Ta vajab ravi, ta vajab selleks raviks raha. Õnneks ulatab abikäe Vähiravifond. Aga, kui sinulgi, kallis lugeja, on võimalik, siis toeta ka Pillet. Kasvõi minu isekuse pärast, sest ma ei taha, et järjekordne inimene, kellest ma olen interneti vahendusel väga lugu pidama hakanud, peab alla vanduma.

ENG

Sometimes I feel like I myself am a glimpse into what it means to be an idiot. As if I’m constantly groping around in a poorly lit cellar, where all the carefully prepared preserves should be neatly lined up by year. But, well—nothing makes any sense at all.

As you fumble around in the darkness, you accidentally knock over jars of jam and pickles. Splat and crash. Every now and then you stumble into a pile of potatoes, and then smash your head against a low ceiling beam.

All of this takes my thoughts and memories to my great-grandmother’s cellar. Oh God, how I would love a jar of gooseberry or apple compote from there.
Oh God, how I miss my great-grandmother.

My great-grandmother Elsa. This year marks 26 years since her death. For all those 26 years, I have missed her. Even if there are days when I don’t think of her, she comes back to me at least once a week. She is present in so many of my foundational memories. I don’t even know if “foundational memory” is the right term, but she is a fixed point in the base memories of my childhood.

She is part of almost everything I love.

I love strawberries, and it was my great-grandmother who always let me pick ripe strawberries straight from the bed and eat them. I love blackcurrants, and those berries always bring her to mind—because with her, we would always listen to the midday radio drama. That’s where my love for crime stories comes from, because I remember how the radio would often air Agatha Christie or other famous authors’ crime novels.

I have a very specific memory connected to blackcurrants and the midday radio play: sitting with my great-grandmother by the blackcurrant bush along the garden fence, picking berries and listening to a radio drama about the adventures of Sherlock Holmes.

She is the reason I love garlic. On the roadside side of the house there was a garden bed where garlic grew, and I remember sitting on the edge of that bed, brushing soil off the bulbs and munching on garlic, taking bites of bread in between.

From her comes my love for raspberry-stem and peppermint tea. I remember being a little girl, when my mother was ill and had been taken to my great-grandmother’s place to recover. It must have been during some Winter Olympics, because figure skating was on TV and someone was winning. We sat together—my great-grandmother, her sister, and I—in front of the television, drinking raspberry-stem and peppermint tea, eating cinnamon buns, and watching the skating.

She is the reason I love winter, snow, cold, and Christmas. Her home has always felt like a part of a fairytale to me. It was my fairytale land. A simple countryside home with a garden, fields, animals, and the whole rhythm of rural life.

I have so many memories connected to her. How much I loved her. How unbearably hard it was for me when she died.

Last week, out of anger, disappointment, and exhaustion, I said repeatedly that maybe everyone would have been better off if I had simply died last year. I was so hurt. I was so broken.
So broken that I couldn’t pull myself together in the doctor’s office and stormed out, in tears, from the office and the entire department. It wasn’t the doctor’s fault, it wasn’t my illness, it was someone close to me who hurt me deeply.

But now I think: I don’t actually want to die. I’m afraid of dying. Because then it’s the end. Then it’s everything. And maybe I, too, would leave behind someone who would mourn me in the same way, until the end of their own life.

In truth, alongside all the physical discomfort, which, during this phase of treatment, has been significantly less. I am still afraid of death. Panically afraid. I am terrified that the disease will come back and defeat me. I’m afraid I wouldn’t have the strength to go through all of this again. I dread every headache, every stab of pain in my chest, every stomachache, nausea, diarrhea, and constipation.

This fear is exhausting, destructive, but it is real. Just as my cancer is real. This is not a dream, not a fabrication, and not easy.

I read other people’s stories and I’m afraid. Terribly afraid. Last week, one of the leaders of the Onkoloogika community, Pille, shared that her disease has once again reached out its claws. She needs treatment, and she needs money for that treatment. Thankfully, the Cancer Treatment Foundation has stepped in to help. But if you too, dear reader, are able, please support Pille. Even if only because of my own selfishness, because I don’t want yet another person I’ve come to care deeply about through the internet to have to surrender.