Today is International Women's Day (08.03.26). It's not a day celebrated equally everywhere. I don't usually like to celebrate the date openly, because I think every day should be women's day. As long as we have one day to celebrate ourselves, it is a reminder that we still have a long way to go. I am, of course, aware that the places that don't celebrate it now are not necessarily paragons of gender equity. But I do respect and honour the long history of the battles fought by the women who came before us.
Today, I share the messages that touched me most, shared with me by other women.
One of the first was a picture a friend took of a spa window on a window we both mate to Berlin last year. She dedicated it to me when she sent it today. It says:
"I had a second birth,
when my soul and my body
loved one another and married."
The second was sent by another friend. We are each other's valentines. We met in 1993, when we enrolled in Anthropology, and we have been friends ever since. This friendship has survived since the pre-social media era, despite the three of us living in different countries after graduating. This second was a picture of women striking for equality and against war. Sadly still necessary.
The third was a song my mother sent: "Secretos de Mujer" (a woman's secrets) by Layah Noir. Her voice is deep and piercing; the lyrics resonate.
"Duermo ligera, (I sleep lightly,)
Por si alguien llama, (In case someone calls for me,)
Por si un hijo (In case a child)
Se pone a llorar (Begins to cry)
Por si mañana (In case tomorrow)
Falta dinero (There is no money)
Por si algo (In case something)
Vuelve a salir mal (Goes wrong again)
Trabajo dentro (I work in)
Y fuera de casa, (And outside the home,)
Sin horario (Without a time)
Para terminar (To finish)
Si algo falla, (If something fails)
Mi nombre aparece, (My name appears,)
Si todo sale bien, (If all goes well,)
Da igual (It doesn't matter)
Secretos de mujer, (A woman's secrets,)
Lo que hago (What I do)
No siempre se ve (cannot always be seen)
Si me equivoco (If I am wrong)
Soy señalada, (I am pointed at,)
Si resisto, (If I resist,)
'Asì deve ser' ('This is how it should be')
Secretos de mujer, (A woman's secrets,)
Aprendí (I have learned)
A no incomodar (To not inconvenience)
A bajar (To lower)
Un poco la voz (A little my voice)
Para poder avanzar (To be able to advance)
Me enseñaron (I was taught)
A estar pendiente, (To be on the lookout,)
A sostener (To hold)
Sin reclamar (Without complaining)
A ser conprensiva (To be understanding)
Y paciente, (And patient,)
Aunque nadie (Even when no one)
Pregunte qué tal (Asks me how am I doing)
He sentido (I have felt)
Miedo en la calle, (Fear on the streets,)
He fingido (I have pretended)
Una llamada más (To get just another call)
He calculado (I have calculated)
Cada gesto (Each gesture)
Para no provocar (To not provoke)
Secretos de mujer, (A woman's secrets,)
Cansancio que (Fatique that)
No hace ruido (Doesn't make noise)
Llevar la culpa (To take the blame)
Por defecto (By default)
Aunque no tenga (Even if it makes no)
Sentido (Sense)
Secretos de mujer, (A woman's secrets,)
Doble turno (Double shift)
Emocional (Emotional)
Ser refugio (To be a refuge)
Permanente (Permanently)
Sin un lugar (Without a place)
Al que llegar (To arrive)
No quiero ser fuerte (I don't want to be strong)
Todo el tiempo, (All the time,)
Quiero poderme (I want to be able)
Equivocar (To be wrong)
No ser ejemplo (To not be a role model)
De nada, (For anything,)
Solo vivir (To just live)
Sin justificar (Without justification)
No quiero aplausos (I don't want applause)
Por cumplir (To manage)
Lo que otros (What others)
Dan por normal (Find normal)
Quiero el mismo (I want the same)
Espacio simple (Simple space)
Que siempre acogieron (That welcomed)
Los demás (Everyone else)
Secretos de mujer, (A woman's secrets,)
Historias (Stories)
Que no se cuentan (That aren't told)
La presión (The presure)
De ser perfecta (To be perfect)
Aunque la regla (Even if the norm)
Esté impuesta (Is imposed)
Secretos de mujer, A woman's secrets,)
No es drama, (Isn't drama,)
Es realidad (It's reality)
Es aprender (It's to learn)
Desde muy joven (From a young age)
A sobrevivir (To survive)
Y callar (And shut up)
Secretos de mujer, (A woman's secrets,)
Lo que sostengo (What I hold)
También es poder (Is also power)
No es silencio (It's not silence)
Ni costumbre (Or custom)
Es aprender (It's learning)
A no ceder. (To not give in.)
Secretos de mujer (A woman's secrets)"
As I was transcribing the lyrics, I realised that Layah Noir is what Google's AI calls "a virtual AI artist and singer". It is no wonder that it resonates. That is what AI is built for. To learn from and cater to the widest tastes.
Today, I will choose to look away; from the invisible work that supports AI, the ecological disaster that is its energy consumption, the specific threat that AI "artists" pose to human artists and creativity. Perhaps it isn't the best day. I will do my penance another day. Every other day...
This was supposed to be my third post (still in my slow catch-up), right after the one about the side effects.
Very early, when I started sharing my diagnosis with a few of my closest people, I noticed a sharp difference between my calm demeanour (which is actually uncharacteristic of me, since I can be very emotional) and the concern and shock of most I told about the cancer.
Of course, I had been through the tests and consultations for weeks, which had probably helped me get used to the possibility of having cancer. But I also think that years of studying and teaching women's health have given me a particular idea about breast cancer. I knew the statistics were in my favour. For all the abysmal lack of knowledge about women's health, breast cancer is one of the few areas where there is actually a wealth of knowledge. Even if my conspiratorial side does think that it is because it's profitable for the pharmaceutical industry in this treatment paradigm.
This is not a complaint. It's an observation. This paradigm will treat me and cure me.
Additionally, I live in a country where the health system is universally available, for free. I had to pay a nominal fee in the first few consultations and tests. These are called deductibles (egenandel). If I couldn't afford it, I could be exempt. After a certain sum (a little over 3000 kr), the state covers everything.
The cancer-related medicines were free from the start. Even before I had reached the limit of the egenandel. Now that I have reached it (there were a lot of consultations and tests), every future appointment will be free, even if unrelated to the cancer. For the rest of the year.
The free health care is also generous. For example, Phesgo, which attacks this specific cancer, is an expensive medicine. For this reason, not all universal health care systems offer it, even when free. The Norwegian is one of the few that does. Elsewhere, I would have to pay dearly to include it.
This is why I keep saying: if one is going to have cancer, there is no better place to have it than here.
But even in countries with fewer resources, systems manage to treat, and people survive breast cancer. The health outcome for this cancer is largely dependent on social and economic factors. As is the type of treatment one gets. Biology usually comes in if the cancer is not detected in time or if it has spread. Then treatment has less impact on the cure; life-extending and palliative care are the logical approaches. But early detection is usually also determined by social and economic factors. Including which health system the woman has access to.
Then comes the fact that while I am fighting this disease, and if unable to work, the state WILL continue to support me. So, I don't have any financial concerns. This was one of my mother's concerns. She wanted to know if I had enough savings to support myself while in treatment. My answer: "I am so happy that I do not live in the US. At least I will not go bankrupt because of an illness."
But even if I lived in Mozambique, my health insurance would likely only cover part of the treatment. I would likely have to cover the rest. The paycheck would be covered by Social Security there, too. A privilege only for those with a job, unfortunately.
But most of all, being a cancer patient gives a special status in the Norwegian health system. I (along with otherfellow cancer patients) have priority treatment. This means that I/we jump ahead of any queue. I can request treatment for anything, even unrelated to cancer, without going through my GP or the Emergency Services (legevakt), which are the two access points.
The UK doctor who saw me for the prep appointment told me that his advice to his (female) patients was for them to channel their inner Beyoncé.
Beyonce (Creative Commons licence: CC0 Public Domain)
I take it to mean to bring my inner diva. He stressed: "You can reach us at any time. Sometimes the nurses may be busy and sound dismissive. Don't just take it. Ask for things to be done the way you want."
This is the biggest silver lining of all. But I have to learn how to be a diva, without overdoing it. 😀
So far, most nurses haven't been too dismissive. They have been patient, heard me out, called me back (except one single time - details to be shared on another post), and when they thought I felt anxious, they offered me a solution and told me why they didn't think I should go to the hospital, but would always ask if I agreed with them. If I didn't, they would have done whatever I requested...
This was supposed to be my second post. Then things just precipitate, and other experiences became more urgent to pen down.
In the meeting where I first got the cancer diagnosis confirmation (on 30.01.26), the doctor gave me three information pamphlets.
The first one was information to patients at the Kreftklinikken (Cancer Clinic), specifically related to breast cancer. The pamphlet had a QR code that directed to a site with resources and on the theme of breast cancer. These are multiple options, such as courses, support groups, financial support, physical rehabilitation, etc. From the cancer association, multiple cancer support centres, the municipality and other organisations.
It feels good to have so many resources to choose from. But it also feels a bit overwhelming.
The second pamphlet was information about the chemo, in my case, Docetaxel (Taxotere).
This pamphlet provides information about this medicine. It can be taken in combination with other medications. It then covers the preparation of the treatment.
This includes the period between cycles (in my case, every 3 weeks) and the medicine that I need to take before the treatment (Dexamethasone) to prevent allergic reactions.
It also explains that Docetaxel is administered via an intravenous drip and that the treatment takes an hour.
The rest of the pamphlet is the description of the side effects, which are:
Allergic reaction, effects on the bone marrow (reduction of production of blood cells) - they were particularly insistent to look out for symptoms like 38 degrees, chills or limpness - hair loss, joint and muscle pains, mouth ulcers, skin reactions and nail changes, peripheral neuropathy (numbness of the extremities), water retention, diarrhoea, and nausea.
The doctor who saw me in the preparatory session prior to the first round of treatment, who is originally from the UK, while going over the symptoms, said that the Norwegian word for chemo (sellgift, i.e., poisoning of the cells) was the more correct term.
The third pamphlet was about Phesgo. It explains that this medicine includes the antibodies pertuzumab and trastuzumab, which bind to the HER2 protein on cancer cells, blocking their reproduction and preventing the tumour from growing.
The preparation is an ECG of the heart (echo). The treatment is an injection in the thigh. It is given over 8 minutes the first time and 5 minutes in the subsequent times. It requires 30 minutes of observation for symptoms the first time and 15 minutes for subsequent times.
When given simultaneously, Phesgo is given before the chemo drip. The period between treatments is 3 weeks. The number of treatments will depend on the disease's progression.
The rest of the pamphlet then goes into the side effects. Most of them are the same as the chemo side effects. The ones that are different are effects on the heart (it will be regularly monitored), rash, abdominal pain, constipation, loss of appetite, weakness, and sleep problems.
Also, pregnancy should be avoided for up to 7 months after the end of this treatment. I don't think this will be an issue.
The list of side effects was repeated at the preparatory session with the UK doctor and during the first treatment-round session.
I was prescribed medication to counter most of the side effects. The amount of medicine seemed exaggerated. After the treatment, when symptoms appeared one by one, I found out that it wasn't nearly enough. But that is for another post...
The picture includes the medicine I have to take for the cancer and the medicine (supplements) I was already taking. I feel like a mobile pharmacy, and the picture doesn't even include the medication that is not mandatory. To be taken only if I get specific side effects...
I talked to my mother on Friday (27.02.26). I wanted her to hear my voice and confirm that when I tell her (by text) that I'm doing well (under the circumstances), I mean it. She knows me well enough to sense in my voice if I were trying to deceive her. Which I haven't.
I withheld the details of my 'reaction' to the treatment. But I told her that I had a reaction. I have also told her about the joint pain and tingling sensation in the first few days after the treatment.
There is a balance to be had between unfiltered honesty and the consequences of such candour.
Here I am free to convey the experience with all the detail and unbridled (even schadenfreudian) transparency. When talking/texting with my mother, I have to consider that she is far away, unable to see what is happening, relying only on bits of information and her imagination. And, as the unforgettable Kant said, the human imagination can run quite wild. I am paraphrasing, of course.
I also know her well. I see from what she chooses to text me and how she changed some of her routines, how she is coping. She is staying strong for me. And she is sending me inspirational texts to help me stay strong.
She comes from a long line of stoic women. She has told me a few times about a particular moment with my grandmother (her mother). She (my grandmother) had five children who lived to be adults. Three (all girls) did not. Two died before my mother was born, but one died when she was a tender child, but old enough to remember the moment. It was a day on which mourners had gathered in the house.
"Children were not allowed into the house with the mourners. But at one point, we (she and her sister) were taken to mãezinha (mummy). She was lying on the bed. I noticed a single teardrop drying on her gown".
This is verbatim how she always tells me what she recalls. Always the detail of the drying teardrop, presumably against a face that did not allow my grandmother to show any pain to her daughters, even after just having lost another.
This stoicism extends to my mother's understanding of if and how one should reach out for help. This stoicism is probably why, despite my many criticisms and snarky comments about the Norwegian Lutheran self-reliance, I am quite familiar with its inner workings. And, hence, why I can call it out so clearly.
This stoicism is why, when I told her that on that day I had asked my sister in law, who works at the hospital, to pick up a couple of medicines that the doctors has advised against a growing rash, and my niece (her daughter) had dropped them off on her way to the gym, my mother's instant response was: 'don't overdo it!'
By that she meant that I should not overdo my overeliance on solidarity. Also, I should not make people feel that I am taking advantage of them.
I won't. I would never.
But at the same time, we need to know when to ask for help. Many people (not just women) refrain from doing it when they really ought to. Often, when they finally do, it's too late. Or a better outcome would have happened if they just reached out sooner.
I told her that I am an excellent logistician. I know how to redistribute the requests. And I know that people around me genuinely want to feel like they can do something. Ideally, see me cured, but while that doesn't happen, just something... It's a way of regaining some semblance of control, of not feeling powerless.
I shouldn't have needed to tell her that. I shouldn't feel shame in reaching out to my network of love. She shouldn't feel like the resources within this network are that scarce. I think she underestimates the power of networks of solidarity. We are not made to suffer needlessly alone; if with help, we would do better.
People forget, humans are a gregarious species. We are supposed to go it at life together.
I would have been irresponsible if, while with a weakened immune system, fighting an allergic reaction, I had ventured onto public transport to autonomously get the medicine.
I am choosing to break the chains of stoicism (the developmentalists call it resilience, especially when referring to women). I will not cry or complain without reason. But I will call out on each member of the network, as needed. And if I ever overdo it, I am counting on them to be candid enough to tell me to cut the crap or drama. That is why they are in this network.
Golda Rosheuvel (Charlotte) behind the scenes of Queen Charlotte: A Bridgerton Story (from Shondaland; Creative Commons license)
One of the questions I get is whether the tumour was identified during a routine mammography. In fact, the two times I went for a biopsy were because I felt lumps in my breasts that were out of the ordinary. I have heard of other women who also have the same experience of feeling abnormal lumps and checking with their physician.
I think that breast cancer is something that hovers over every woman's life. It is the most common cancer for women in most countries, and for half of those who are diagnosed with it, there isn't a particular risk factor other than being a woman and over 40. I am now over 50. Already in perimenopause (no night sweats, but some debilitating sleepless nights).
Women don't trust that they know their bodies enough to see if something is wrong. But they do. They may rationalise it, minimise it, but they know when something is off. That is how I knew. Not that it was cancer, but that it was off enough to ask a doctor if I should be worried. I have seen and heard, since my thirties, that many other women do the same. This is how I know that women know their bodies.
It reminds me of two instances in which I heard women's relationships with their bodies described in memorable ways.
In a meeting among African feminists, one recalled how they had been shocked and transformed when radical feminist Patricia McFadden had asked a group of eager young feminists in training: when was the last time they had looked at their own p****.
She meant to point out how our bodies and relationship with them are often marred with shame and avoidance. She means to remind us to reconnect deeply with ourselves. To look at ourselves with radical self-love.
Which brings me to the second instance. In a conversation with a friend, she shared that, with age, she had begun to "see" herself better. To see parts of herself that she had not paid attention to before.
This same friend asked me recently: "Do you feel that you are inhabiting another body or do you recognise yourself in this medicated body?"
I like the questions she asks me. They make me look deep inside. My answer:
"The issue is that this cancer is also part of the hormonal woman which I am becoming. The menopausal woman. I have been thinking (still incipiently) about how we prepare for or accept the propensities, ailments, aches and pains, as well as the more serious illnesses. I am curious about other paradigms for dealing with this transition. So, I don't exactly recognise myself. Because I am leaving behind a body, an existence. And another will emerge. And it is happening with this disease, but the high blood pressure, the sleepless nights, the difficulty focusing... all is part of this transition"
This experience, and the way I am forced to look and listen to my body, has forced me into a deeper and more radical self-love. My attention to my body, in a simple but intimate moment of self-grooming, and my decision not minimise what it was telling me, only makes me appreciate our relationship more. I wish this same relationship and self-embrace for all women.
Last night (22.02.26) was not optimal. I had been feeling the tingling sensation on my hands since the treatment. But it was bearable. I have since noticed the tingling move along the body and particularly to the ancles.
After feeling well and energetic for a couple of days, last night my body temperature rose. Though, not above 38 degree, which would be concerning.
I slept badly. The tingling became more intense. It felt like a stabbing sensation, particularly around the joints. Very similar to malaria.
This morning we called the nurses and asked for advice. They went through the symptoms and all were within what should be expected. They reminded me that I have taken really strong medicine. They were very attentive and wanted to make sure that I got the attention I felt I needed.
After the call, and with their blessing, I took some paracetamol, to reduce the pain. And will monitor how I feel throughout the day. I can call them any time, if my discomfort or pain continues. But for now, it does not seem that I have an infection.
It is surprising how things can turn around so quickly.
"I read the first posts, and I must say that I didn't care for the cliffhanger!!! Luckily, I knew that there was a happy ending, otherwise I would have been very worried! Don't scare us, please! When it's fiction, use all the literary tricks, but in real life, we want to know that all ends well."
I understand! I really do. But a little mischief and suspense are good for my soul. I apologise in advance if this is going to be a rollercoaster. Because, in a way, it cannot be otherwise.
So, what happened when all hell broke loose? I was chatting away with the nurse, in a very good mood. Then I mentioned that I was feeling something of an aftertaste in my mouth. I was smiling because it reminded me of the sensation I had during the CT scan. The contrast liquid that I was given would give me an aftertaste in the mouth and make me feel warm in the stomach and groin. I would feel like I had peed myself when I hadn't. The sensation had made me giggle at the time. And because it was similar, I wasn't worried.
But the nurse's look, when I asked whether it was normal, was not one of amusement. She asked me if I was feeling anything else. As if on cue, my chest compressed and I started having difficulty breathing. Like I never had before. Like the chest couldn't move. I gasped. The nurse had already pulled the emergency button and warned me that there would be a LOT of people coming. I had my eyes closed and did not see immediately how many there were. I just heard their voices.
The nurse held my hand and asked me how I was feeling. A male doctor asked me about my symptoms and where it hurt. I had difficulty breathing, and my pelvis hurt, on and off. It was throbbing. But I didn't know exactly how to describe it. I had never felt that kind of pain. At every onset, I held my breath, and tears rolled off. I grabbed the armchair's arms hard. He asked if my back also hurt. I said no, just the pelvis. He ordered me to receive antihistamines and paracetamol. Probably other things too, but I am not sure what. They stopped the chemo, got my breathing under control, and the heart rate down.
When I opened my eyes, there were, sure enough, about 10 people in the room. They had rolled a bed into the room. A smiling, vivacious nurse (?) told me: "You are going to feel very tired now, you have a lot of things in your system to control the allergy".
A young doctor (?) asked me how I was feeling. I let out a faint: "Much better". Slowly, most of the people left the room. A female doctor presented herself and asked me again about the symptoms and how much pain I had feltin the pelvis, from 1 to 10. I said 7, on and off. The difficulty breathing, the oppressed chest and upper stomach, which all felt connected, and the warming of the lower side of my face. The face getting warm and the difficulty breathing were symptoms that the nurse had told me could happen.
They were prepared. Throughout the ordeal, they did not panic; they did not shout over one another. They were in control. I felt safe. The nurse's voice and her holding my hand were comforting. I felt the anti-allergic medicine weighing heavily on me. I accepted the offer to move from the chair to the bed. The nurse was told to restart the chemo after half an hour. I was awake on and off. I heard them coming in to monitor my blood pressure. The pumping machine woke me up at a certain point, when it started beeping and flashing a red light. I thought that in my stupor, I had pulled on the emergency cord they put under my hand, in case of need. The nurse came in to increase the drip rate, which had been slowed to not stress my body. She asked if I was hungry. It was past 1 pm, and I had been in treatment since 10 am, passed out for nearly two hours, from the heavy medication. I accepted a yoghurt and water. I felt myself getting back to normal. The smiling nurse (?) came into the room and said: "That was something. You gave us a scare".
It should have lasted an hour. It lasted four.
This is why they plan for the first session to be longer. To see how the body reacts. To adjust as necessary. Aside from the standard pre-meds, I'll be receiving antihistamines to prevent allergic reactions. But the chemo and the Phesgo will continue as planned.
My mood after this was not as chatty. It made me take stock of what I was potentially up against. I had been informed of what could happen, but knowing and experiencing are not always the same. My mother was the first to whom I shared this realisation. At 13:09, I wrote to her:
"I had a reaction to the treatment, but everyone (doctors, nurses) was prepared for that possibility and came promptly to the rescue. It was a way to be reminded that I should not minimise the seriousness of this disease".
She had written to me earlier:
"All our positive energies, relatives, [and] close friends who know. I have been reserved; I have not divulged. The strength of our ancestors, who never abandoned us. To my good God, in whom I deposit my faith and hope. Not least, to the scientific advancements, in which I believe. A kiss and a hug. We are all with you. Until the overcoming and always".
I didn't grow up particularly religious. I do not feel the compulsion now, either. But we all get our strength from multiple sources. This network of love will certainly be my source of strength...
