⁇ Cancer light – The mask that kept me quiet

⁇ 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 them – sometimes serious, sometimes humorous, but always real.

“Life does not call in advance to ask if it is convenient.”

⁇ The GO that was sighing and sparking at the same time

Today Sylvia and I sat with the doctor who had to decide: Radiation or not. The GO or NOGO, it almost sounded like a game show, if it weren't for the fact that the stakes were my future.
After a careful conversation came the redeeming word: GO. Thirty sessions, start Monday, end 28 December. "The chance of full recovery is between 85 and 95 percent," she said with that calm tone that at the same time reassures and instills a bit of fear. “I can never 100% say, you understand.’
Of course I understood. But somewhere 95 sounded% It's like a jackpot. For the first time in weeks I felt that the balance was tilting my side again. There was hope, tangible, in figures. And those numbers felt like oxygen. For now it is rest, with an intermediate position: Henro 2 – Cancer 0.

“Sometimes good news is not loud, but precise enough.”

⁇ The logistics of healing

After the GO came the paperwork, the administrative back of hope. We received explanations about travel expenses, parking rights and a special box at the MST car park: One door away from the department where my new routine will begin. It sounds banal, but that practical care does something to you. As if the hospital said: “We know this is rotten. At least let's make it a little less awkward.”
Every employee, from desk employee to laboratory technician, exudes a kind of patience that I hardly know in other sectors. No rush, no sighing, no ‘just as fast’. Only people who know what they're doing, and they're doing it with warmth. And while I was sitting there, between leaflets and appointment cards, I realized: This is not a factory. This is a community of concern.

“Sometimes humanity is hidden in a parking permit.”

⁇ From warm tea towel to armor

Then came the mask. A warm, wet, limp cloth was placed over my face. It felt like someone had put down a wet tea towel to dry me off, but forgot to take it away. In a few minutes, that soft cloth turned into a hard, cold armor.
I had to lie still for ten minutes while it hardened. No movement, no tickle, no cough. Only my breath under the plastic grid that will fix my face during every irradiation.
When they removed it, it felt strangely familiar. As if I had just gotten acquainted with something that literally determines my face in the coming weeks. And honestly: It wasn't that bad. The mask was not an enemy, but rather an ally. It helps me to lie down exactly, so that the light can touch what needs to be, and save what is allowed.

‘Sometimes control starts with surrender.’

⁇ Precision CT

A little later I was allowed to test the mask during a preparatory CT scan. A technological dance of millimeters, lasers and markings. The lines on the mask were drawn with surgical attention, as if I had been temporarily promoted to map.
The staff constantly asked me if I was still pulling it, if I was stuffy. I wasn't. What bothered me was the infusion for the contrast agent. That needle in my arm is still my personal enemy. Anyone who knows me knows: I can have quite a lot, except for a drip. I'm afraid of drips and needles, and believe me, I'm getting my portion right now.
The scan itself took exactly 10 minutes. Ten minutes in which my future was aligned, pixel by pixel. Then I could breathe again, literally and figuratively.

“You only learn to really stand still when standing still means progress.”

⁇ The real fighters

Everyone says I'm fighting cancer. But honestly: I mostly lie still, wearing a mask. The real fighters walk around me. The nurses, the technicians, the doctors who know when to talk and when not to. And of course the strongest warrior, Sylvia, my rock in everything that feels liquid.
She is the one who holds my hand at the right time, who arranges all my food and drinks, who holds the conversations with doctors and nurses, and who really organizes everything I can't. Her concern is not heroic, but precise. Subtle. Like watering a plant without drowning it.
I know she has it harder than she shows. And that awareness makes me humble. Because this disease may be in my body, the burden of it we carry together.

“Some heroes do not wear a cape, but a wedding ring.”

⁇ Texel in sight

After the last treatment, Sylvia and I took the agenda. The last irradiation is on December 28. The next day, as every year, we depart for Texel, our annual flight away from the fireworks. Only this time it feels more symbolic than ever: away from the noise, literally and figuratively.
I can already see it in front of me: cold air, empty beaches, hands in coat pockets, silence. Maybe some salt on my lips, not from tears, but from the sea. No lasers, no appointments, no waiting rooms. Only wind, water and us.

“Sometimes leaving is the best way to get home.”

⁇ For now

For now, it's rest. A few days recover, strengthen and try to live a normal life between waiting. Starting Monday, the countdown begins: Thirty times under the mask, thirty times relying on the technique, thirty times lying still.
I know it's going to get heavier. Every day will be a little more annoying than the previous one. Side effects will build up, slowly but steadily. Yet I know that any discomfort brings me closer to recovery. So I keep doing what I can: writing, laughing where I can, listening to my body and being kind to those who walk next to me.

‘Heaviness may have light. And light sometimes weighs surprisingly much.”