Not Everything Translates

Author: Sara Olsson

  • Existential Paradox

    There is a brutal paradox in being chronically ill and still fully alive.

    I see clearly.
    I see my body, my illness, my limits.
    I see the present for what it is.

    I also see the future, dimly.
    Because the future is already here.
    Not dramatic, not sudden, but stretched thin over time.
    A slow deterioration.
    A life that keeps shrinking, quietly.

    That is why clarity can become unbearable.

    People try to protect me from it.
    Doctors. Friends. Sometimes even myself.
    They tell me it does not have to be this way forever.
    That it might improve.
    That my body could respond.
    That the fog might lift.

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  • Self-chosen

    I have now completed my fifth day of treatment in this strange in between world. A place built for healing, rest, and procedures. And yet, one aspect of this journey has surprised me more than anything else.

    The culture clash.

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  • Sanatorium

    So, I have gone away for a while.
    Just after New Year’s.

    I am here now. Alone.
    With myself. With my thoughts, my fears, my life.

    A month on my own, far away from everyone who loves me, needs me, and who grieves me a little all the time, even though I am still here. I have stepped out of their lives for a moment, or what may feel like an eternity, to find myself. Not again, but anew.

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  • Trying is enough

    It is the third day after Christmas.
    I thought it would ease. It didn’t.

    For three days I have been caught in a carcinoid storm. My body is in absolute, wild panic and at the same time completely exhausted. My heart is racing. A pressure in my head creates the sensation of being a ticking bomb, about to detonate at any moment. The flushing comes in waves, affecting my blood pressure, and at times it feels as if my face is about to catch fire.

    My entire system is in revolt. And yet I know — I know — that this is physical. A backlash after Christmas stress, too much food and drink.

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  • NET is like china

    As I was waking up this morning, it struck me that NET (NeuroEndocrine Tumors) is like China.

    I’ve been to China once. It wasn’t a long stay. A work trip of about a week, with factory visits in southern China and a few days of sightseeing in Shanghai on my way home. But really, I can’t say that I’ve been there. I’ve been to a few micro-fragments of China.

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  • The day I got my diagnosis

    I lie on the bed with my husband.
    We wait.

    We hold each other in silence.
    Sometimes one of us breaks into tears—quick, sharp sobs—then quiet again.

    Time stretches.
    And still, nothing prepares me for what I am about to do.

    The front door opens.
    “Hello? Mom?”

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