July 19th, 2008 erik
On July 18, 2008, I was diagnosed with cancer in the lymph gland on the right side of my throat. This is my diary of whatever happened next. There are thousands of cancer diaries on the web, just as there are millions of people in the world. But this cancer blog, and this life, is mine.
The time since my diagnosis and the operation has been very difficult for me and my family. It’s been an extraordinary time, filled with hopes as much as fears. Expressing these emotions on this page, and simply chronicling the events as they happen, have been my way of coming to terms with what I’m going through. Sharing it with you, and getting your comments has been a great source of comfort. You have cheered us up, given invaluable advice, and encouraged us to go on. I’m immensely grateful. Having cancer is terrible, but sharing the experience has made it an easier burden to carry. Thank you all!!!
If you’re more interested in my regular blog, Too Many Mangoes, you can find it here.
I’ll write as often as I can.
yours always,
Erik Ringmar
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I’m starting to really resent the linear accelerator, the large radiation machine. There I am, strapped down, with no means of defending myself, as it circulates around my head for ten minutes a day, bombarding me with laser beams that make my throat, my mouth and gums swell up. I leave the machine after 10 minutes all warm, red and throbbing. On the train on the way back home my stomach begins churning and I have to focus all my attention on not throwing up. Later in the evening, the swelling goes down and instead I dry out. I get drier and drier, to the point where the tissue in my throat cracks and starts bleeding. Waking up in the morning, I dread returning to this machine. I know it’s going to hurt me again.
I had the first day of chemotherapy today. In Swedish chemotherapy is cellgiftsbehandling — “cell poison treatment.” Somehow or another I envisioned test tubes filled with bubbling green, poisonous, liquids stirred by mad witches. Actually it’s nothing like that. They put you in a bed, insert an IV channel into your hand, and hook you up to a drip. During the next two and a half hours a succession of nurses replace the plastic bag of liquid as the old one is depleted. The liquids are transparent, like water, none of them is green and bubbling. And there is nothing even remotely witch-like about the nurses.
I just came back from my first radiation session. It was easy piecy! I expected blood and tears, but I didn’t even break a sweat.
We are going off on another mini-vacation. Our decadent hotel stay in Tainan was such a great success, we have to repeat the experience. Besides, it’s the last hurray before the kids go back to school, before Diane starts working, and before my treatment. Are you allowed to enjoy yourself when you have cancer? Of course you are!
ns, and what Diane did before giving birth to our kids. Starchy food burns slowly and can power you for days. Besides, tomato sauce and broccoli have great anti-oxidant properties.
Saga and Beata, our two oldest, claim we talk too much about death. Almost every topic around the family dinner table ends up at the same conclusion. “I listened to the Beatles all the time when I was a boy. John Lennon was the best — he is dead now.” “Passion fruit is delicious. And did you know, it can lower blood pressure. High blood pressure can kill you!”
John Edwards, presidential candidate for the Democrats in the US, has admitted to having an
We’re back from our mini-vacation in Tainan. I can’t remember when I spent a lazier weekend. Despite all the historical and cultural attractions of the city, we barely left the hotel! I’m recovering from a cancer operation, remember? I don’t have to do history and culture. All I have to do is to call up room service.
Going down to Tainan we passed the Tropic of Cancer. We are now officially in the tropics. The Tropic of Cancer, 
We are off on a mini-vacation. We are going to Tainan, a city in the south, to stay in a big hotel for three days. Tainan is supposed to be a very traditional place, with lots of old temples, narrow streets, and the best food in Taiwan. Foreigners, we are told, like Tainan a lot. Amazingly, we’ve never been.
After lunch they strapped me to a bed, put the new mask over my head, fastened it securely, and ran me through a CT scan for ten minutes. To be strapped down with a piece of plastic covering your face is bound to release automatic flight mechanisms, but I’m glad I managed to remain cool. Why panic now after all I’ve already been through?
No, I won’t be teaching next semester. I’ll be under treatment until October and most likely I’ll be hospitalized for at least some of the time. And once it’s over, I’ll need a few weeks to recuperate. What about my work? What about my salary?
Only yesterday — reading insightful comments on this page — did it dawn on me what my doctors are planning to do. They are going to totally burn off the mucus tissue covering the interior of my throat, mouth and nose. They are going to parch me, elephant-hide me, turn the inside of my head into a Gobi desert full of dead carcases and whitening bones. By killing every other living cell in this whole area, they are hoping they will also kill the original cancer — if it exists — and all the entrepreneurial little cancer cells that happen to be floating around. Or, in the medical vocabulary, I might experience “extreme dryness of mouth.”
With a super-sonic bang my time horizons just expanded. For a while there I figured I had about a 50/50 chance to make it to age 50 (three more years). But now I’m suddenly thinking of making it to 100. With good nutrition and plenty of exercise, why not?