⁇ Cancer light – The day my beard said goodbye

⁇ 15:33 The bell that no one wants to hear

It was a call on Friday afternoon at 15:33. I was just preparing a kwis beer tasting. In a few minutes my afternoon changed from light to heavy. Since then, I've been trying to write down everything that happens. Not to get pity, but to keep my head and heart together. These blogs are my way of understanding, sharing and showing how I deal with this, sometimes seriously, sometimes with humor but always really.

Life doesn't call in advance to ask if it's convenient.

⁇ My beard and me

My beard and I were once a close combination. Full, proud and a little stubborn, just the way I wanted him. In the last few days, however, he is cautiously preparing to leave the scene. It leaves her as if she has started her own dismissal procedure. The bare spot is in such a strategic place that creative modelling no longer helps. Shave is not yet possible because the mask for the irradiation must be tightly connected.

But I am relativizing it. A beard is a decoration. Health is the foundation. As soon as the radiation is complete and my skin calms down, I shave it off and start again. Or not. Maybe this loss is simply part of the story I'm living now.

Sometimes something lets go to make room for what stays.

⁇ The light in the CT room

Today I saw more of the technique working invisibly on my recovery. After each session, a screen with fresh CT images appears. An employee explained how I can see where the rays land and with what intensity. The irradiation starts above my left clavicle and continues to the lower edge of my left ear. The edges get a soft dose, the bump in the middle a firmer one.

I think it's getting smaller, although I don't know if it's because of the treatment or the medication. My hope whispers the first, my realism suggests the second. The truth is probably somewhere in between, and that's enough for now.

Knowing what you see is sometimes more comforting than hoping for what you feel.

⁇ Taxi safari

After a week of traveling by taxi, I better understand why some people write travel stories to protect themselves from the chaos of everyday life. My first ride was with a young man who seemed professionally surly. His car smelled like diesel that went with him for a generation and probably still had family in the trunk. He said little, but his vehicle communicated enough.

The drive back that day was with a jovial man in a big bus where I could have organized a small festival on my own. He said that he had sold his company and was now driving a taxi purely for pleasure. That fun turned out to consist mainly of saying success stories with a slightly glassy look. When I carefully asked what he was doing in business, the answer was in beautiful Twente: of everything, sometimes a bit at the fair and so on. It was the kind of answer that sketches more atmosphere than clarity.

The next day I was picked up by an enthusiastic driver who drove as if Google Maps was a suggestion and traffic rules an advice that you can take with you or leave behind. At a roundabout, she did not give priority and had to brake acutely, after which I sat just a little straight in the seat for the rest of the ride. I learned a lot about her upbringing style, even more about that of her ex and surprised me especially about my own ability to concentrate.

Then came the retired driving instructor in an electric Mercedes EQB. He thought the car was beautiful to drive, but electric driving as a concept was, according to him, a mistake in evolution. Every charging station works differently according to him and all that stuff makes you crazy. He used three navigation systems at the same time but ultimately relied mainly on his own memory, which I think came from an era in which roundabouts were still in the design phase. But we arrived on time.

Later that week I sat in the waiting room next to a taxi driver who spontaneously started with some sadly bad jokes, the kind that is even removed in family apps. This was followed by a small speech about how the government had allowed itself to be packed by nitrogen, a subject for which my energy was unfortunately not sufficient at the time. Fortunately, he was not my driver that day. I was grateful for every meter of distance between us.

Then I was picked up by a young chauffeuse who drove out of the hospital in a direction that even the navigation didn't seem to recognize. According to her, the internet was down. After a few minutes, I said I wanted to sleep. The best option for both of us.

Finally, there was the taxi that arrived too late while I was ready early. ZCN did not answer, Sylvia was already ready to leave and just when I wanted her to come, a taxi company called that they had been waiting for me for a long time (bullshit!) but did not have my phone number. During the ride, the windows appeared to be wide open and there was a solid smoke air. My throat protested, I coughed a lot, my bump protested even harder and the ride took longer than my mood liked.

In between all this there were also very correct, quiet and friendly drivers. They actually deserve a ribbon, if only because they proved that normal rides do exist.

Those who travel learn a lot. Those who travel by taxi learn more than was ordered.

⁇ For now

For now, this is where I stand: a beard in retreat, drivers shaping my days and a rhythmic treatment pathway. The coming days will hopefully bring new adventures and further clarity. Until I'm healthy again, I keep writing, I keep breathing and I keep looking for the light where I can find it.

Gravity may have light and light sometimes weighs surprisingly much.