⁇ Cancer light – The days that are slowly gaining weight

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

⁇ Rest that costs something every day

Since November 28th, the days look alike, but every day brings something different out of me. Every morning I go to the hospital for the radiation, and every day I come out without immediately feeling a difference. Half an hour later the fatigue still strikes, as if my body kindly but urgently informs me that I really have to sit now. Or lie down. The prospect that the night brings new complaints, or worsens old complaints, sometimes makes the rest during the day more oppressive than it seems.

‘Fatigue does not make any noise, but it does take over the room.’

⁇ Taxis, ponchos and unexpected comfort

Fortunately, the taxi has now been arranged. It takes some time, but it gives Sylvia an amount of rest that you can't measure in minutes. The drivers are used to it. They say little, turn on the seat heating and let me sink into silence. Speaking of heating, I have a new poncho. Even softer and even warmer. Thank you dear Sylvia.
Meanwhile, tickets keep coming in. Tickets that do much more than their weight. Every stack says: Somebody's thinking about me. That remains special.

“Small gestures sometimes outweigh the problem they mitigate.”

⁇ Recruiters and other roaming algorithms

Less soothing are the daily messages from recruiters. They all start out identical:
“Hi Henro, I hope everything goes well...”
I now read it as: ‘Dear random name, this is an automated mail and your well-being is completely unknown to me.’
My standard answer may be a bit rude, but my patience is thinner than it used to be. And to be honest: Their emails are too. At the same time, I know that there are also real gems in between, recruiters who know what I can do, who really know me and who have a relationship with clients that goes beyond just matching software.
It remains a curious phenomenon, working in an industry where you can hardly do without these mediators, but in which the human dimension is sometimes far to be sought.

“Automatic messages are missing all that matters: attention.’

⁇ The match gets tougher

Although the forecasts are still good, it feels like the second half of the game has started. The rest position is clear: Henro 2 – Cancer 0. But now that the whistle has sounded again, I notice that the opponent comes out of the dressing room rough. No new goal chances, but tough violations in places where it hurts. It's like the game doesn't change, but the fight gets tougher. The pain pulls further up, above my ear, and sometimes it feels like my neck is carrying out its own battle plan.
On December 2nd Sylvia and I celebrated nineteen years of courtship. Reason enough for cake, but I lay on the couch wriggling like a too tightly wrapped puppet. The pain was simply too much.

“Sometimes winning is not a matter of being stronger, but of standing still.”

⁇ Plasters, pills and cautious trust

After that night, I sought help in the hospital. Thankfully, I'm there every day. The fentanyl patches provided a solution, although the starting dose is low. For the peaks I have oxycodone, which unfortunately appears to be needed regularly. Fentanyl is 70 to 100 times stronger than morphine, so it's not a candy that increases you indiscriminately. Both Sylvia and the doctor agree on one thing: I'm far too reluctant to use resources that can increase my comfort. I have excellent ordinary tools like chamomile tea and manuka honey, but even those I use sparingly. And I keep, as I always say, painkillers ‘for when things get really bad’. Both at home and in the hospital I now hear that this is nonsense, that this is precisely the time to pursue comfort and that we will see later.
And slowly I begin to give in. The fentanyl does not take away all the pain, but the relief it gives brings peace. Less tension, less fear of what is to come, more room to breathe in a body that already has enough to endure. I notice that the peace in my body is coming back. I sleep better. My energy is low, but less jerky. And in an unexpected twist it turns out that the only pillow on which I still lie is the pillow that my brother once received from the army for his deployment to Iraq. Dutch healthcare system in combination with Defence: plus one.

‘Comfort sometimes comes from a corner you had long forgotten.’

⁇ For now

For now, this is where I am. The days are heavy but clear, the pain subdued but present, and the humor sometimes thin but never disappeared. Tomorrow I'll go to the hospital again, look at what my body is doing today and trust again that it's going somewhere that's better than where I am now.

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