The day I turned out not to be sick after all: ‘Should I just go on living? How?’

Veronica: “Here we go again, I thought, when the radiologist pointed out three spots on my liver with an extremely serious look. The ultrasound machine was still on my stomach, at the check-up they looked for metastases of the colon cancer for which I had been treated three years earlier. Those spots on my liver meant bad things. I immediately saw the film from then in front of me: sick, weak and nauseous again from chemotherapy and all the other treatments to combat the disease.

The message came like a bolt from the blue. I had no complaints and had regular checkups. One time it was an MRI, the other time an ultrasound of my liver. Because if there were still active cancer cells somewhere, there was the greatest chance that they would metastasize in the liver. It had been going well with me for a few years, I had my life back on track. I never dreaded the checks beforehand, the tension always came when we were on our way to the hospital.

metastasis

Fortunately my friend Edwin was with me when I was told that my body was wrong again. He couldn’t believe it anyway. Not even when we sat down with the oncologist the next day to discuss a treatment plan. Naive perhaps, but I was only concerned with myself, dreading starting chemotherapy again. Yet I took all that misery for granted, if only I would get better. But that would never happen again, the doctor told us. “We can only see how long we can stretch your life.” Actually he said: you’re going to die, I just don’t know when.

I broke down, from that moment on it was no longer about me, but only about our children. Dirk was seven, Elin just four. I couldn’t die, I’m their mother. A kind of primal power came to me that I did not know about myself. “Pump in what you need to pump in,” I told the doctor. “I don’t care how sick it makes me. I want to live as long as possible.’

“At home I drew the curtains and sat down on the couch. My head exploded with panic.”

To confirm that the spots on my liver were metastases, a puncture had to be done. With a thin needle, bites are then taken from the liver. Until then, nothing was certain, but the oncologist was so firm, he left no room for good news. At home I drew the curtains and sat down on the couch. My head exploded with panic. I could only be quiet, with Edwin beside me. He suggested to pick up the children, who were with friends. I couldn’t, was afraid I’d fall down as soon as I faced them.

Say goodbye

I immediately stopped working, although the puncture was not scheduled until two weeks later. From that moment on my life was dominated by saying goodbye. I wanted to record audiobooks for the children and record videos. Take pictures as soon as possible, because in a while I’ll probably look like a dishcloth again. I hadn’t even started arranging my funeral yet.

Edwin didn’t believe I had metastases. Just wait for that puncture, he kept saying. I got mad about that. I was heavy in my emotions, I had just been told that I would die and our children would have to go on without a mother. How could he pretend nothing was wrong? We didn’t understand each other at all.

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Spicy treatment plan

No malignant cells were found on the first puncture. According to the oncologist, the injection was wrong and a new puncture had to be done. In the meantime, a tough treatment plan was drawn up in the hospital. On the day we received the results of the second puncture – six weeks had now passed – I was to be admitted for a two-day course of chemotherapy. I looked up to it like a mountain. How would my body react to that? The first time chemotherapy I found already intense and that were always courses of a few hours.

My father came to babysit, I hugged the children tightly before we left. We told them I was sick and had to spend the night in the hospital, but not that I would never get better.

Back home

With a weekend bag next to me, Edwin and I sat together with the oncologist. I didn’t know what I heard when he said that no malignant cells had been found on the second puncture either. I had no metastases, I was not sick. Instead of taking the elevator to the chemo ward, we took the route to the parking garage. I could just go home. Of course I was relieved, but also confused. For six weeks I thought I was going to die and suddenly it turned out not to be.

“I had been in a fight mode for weeks. Should I just go on living?”

In the car on the way home, Edwin said softly, “See.” We both laughed really hard at that. My father and the children were amazed that we were back together so quickly. When we told them I wasn’t sick after all, everyone cheered. I did participate, but was mostly upset. I had been in a fighting stance for weeks. The adrenaline was constantly flowing, I was living on that. It fell off in one go. Should I just go on living now? How? Incidentally, it was still investigated what those spots were: benign tumors that do not need to be removed or treated.

Fight

I went back to work as a concept manager, but that didn’t make me happy. If someone whined about something that I thought was trivial, I got angry. I just didn’t say: ‘John, I was almost dead, don’t say that.’ I no longer saw the world completely in perspective. Everyone around me was so happy that I wasn’t sick after all. I don’t know what I was, but not happy anyway. I didn’t feel like doing anything, even on holiday with the four of us, I was completely listless. That worried me so much that I talked to a coach.

“I don’t know what I was, but not happy anyway.”

My feeling was partly due to the image I have of my mother. Without going into details I can say that for me she was not the example of a strong woman. At 52 she got colon cancer. After the first round of chemotherapy she stopped the treatments, she became too ill. She died less than a year later. My life is different, I taught myself from an early age to go for something full of energy and to fight when things go wrong. When that proved unnecessary, I lost myself. This insight not only gave me peace and space in my head, but also the strength to look for another job.

Edwin has always stood next to me. I lost myself, not us. He was my anchor that propped up our family. Life is kind of normal again. We try to do fun things more consciously and to celebrate that we have remained complete as a family.”

This article appears in Kek Mama 15-2021.

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