Which logo looks better?
Gonna generate more. Anyone any design any ideas? :)
Friday, April 27, 2012
Support group
Which logo looks better?
Gonna generate more. Anyone any design any ideas? :)
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Majority Vs Minority
昨天晚上，我梦见了。
完成治疗的第2个月，我头一回梦见复发的梦。许多病人在康复了之后，最害怕的不死亡而是复发。最初的癌症消息是从人间堕入地狱。如果来第二次，生不如死，永不超生。
至少你就这样死掉，就不需要面对太多的精神折磨。
不需要那些不甘的眼泪，还有治疗的痛苦。
因为复发，你更不能够放弃第一次捡回来的命。我一定很不甘心，然后我坚持，然后我接受治疗，然后我再给药物蹂躏，然后我流着愤怒的眼泪，然后我或许不会幸存。
如果，再一次走过来，我已残缺不堪。
未来，有何意义？
今天和SY约吃饭。她的噩梦还未真的结束，但至少我们都是majority。怎么说呢，在癌症的治疗中，没有绝对。第一线治疗往往很重要，若能一次击退、一网打尽，后患较少，所谓remission的可能也比较高。我记得我的医生在治疗前曾说过，"Ultimately, we wanna put you into remission as long as possible." 她巧妙地将复发说得很遥远，也不要让我失去斗志与希望。
我们是majority是因为，我们对第一线的治疗有反应。我们称CR, complete response。有些人则是partial response或完全没有效。这些minority会进行第二、第三线治疗，存活率就会大大减低。
和SY吃完饭，看到一家店在提倡以血型来饮食。他们张贴了醒目的不同血型的特性。甚至提到A型容易患癌，而O型则有很好的免疫能力，基本上癌症不是主要的健康顾虑。其实我也在很多地方看到这样的研究与报道。
我们俩笑到腰都弯了。
因为，我们都是O型。
一个淋巴癌，一个血癌。
不好笑吗？
完成治疗的第2个月，我头一回梦见复发的梦。许多病人在康复了之后，最害怕的不死亡而是复发。最初的癌症消息是从人间堕入地狱。如果来第二次，生不如死，永不超生。
至少你就这样死掉，就不需要面对太多的精神折磨。
不需要那些不甘的眼泪，还有治疗的痛苦。
因为复发，你更不能够放弃第一次捡回来的命。我一定很不甘心，然后我坚持，然后我接受治疗，然后我再给药物蹂躏，然后我流着愤怒的眼泪，然后我或许不会幸存。
如果，再一次走过来，我已残缺不堪。
未来，有何意义？
今天和SY约吃饭。她的噩梦还未真的结束，但至少我们都是majority。怎么说呢，在癌症的治疗中，没有绝对。第一线治疗往往很重要，若能一次击退、一网打尽，后患较少，所谓remission的可能也比较高。我记得我的医生在治疗前曾说过，"Ultimately, we wanna put you into remission as long as possible." 她巧妙地将复发说得很遥远，也不要让我失去斗志与希望。
我们是majority是因为，我们对第一线的治疗有反应。我们称CR, complete response。有些人则是partial response或完全没有效。这些minority会进行第二、第三线治疗，存活率就会大大减低。
和SY吃完饭，看到一家店在提倡以血型来饮食。他们张贴了醒目的不同血型的特性。甚至提到A型容易患癌，而O型则有很好的免疫能力，基本上癌症不是主要的健康顾虑。其实我也在很多地方看到这样的研究与报道。
我们俩笑到腰都弯了。
因为，我们都是O型。
一个淋巴癌，一个血癌。
不好笑吗？
Thursday, April 12, 2012
一通电话
我在翻看过往写过的东西。
然后我想起Mdm Leung。
你知道吗，我很想摇通电话给她。
可是，我害怕接电话的人不再是她。
当然，我不希望她发生什么事。
最后一次看见她时，还嘱咐了她的贴身女佣，什么事记得要告诉我。
至今，女佣没有打电话给我。
当时Linda的事，让我到现在都还无法完全释怀。
因此，这通电话是一拖再拖。
然后我想起Mdm Leung。
你知道吗，我很想摇通电话给她。
可是，我害怕接电话的人不再是她。
当然，我不希望她发生什么事。
最后一次看见她时，还嘱咐了她的贴身女佣，什么事记得要告诉我。
至今，女佣没有打电话给我。
当时Linda的事，让我到现在都还无法完全释怀。
因此，这通电话是一拖再拖。
Saturday, April 7, 2012
A&E
挥之不去的感冒在前几天蜕变成重感冒。之后我的胸腔开始隐隐作痛。想想也应该不是肿瘤吧？化疗期间，胸口很难过，因为药物和癌细胞在作战。放射性治疗期间，胸口的奇怪感觉也是放射性物质在清理残余的组织。
所以我就怀疑，这一次应该是感染了。
我这24年来，第一次住院是发现患癌。第一次的手术是活性细胞切除手术。太多的第一次是这一场癌症带给我的。而第一次上急诊室，也是今天。
我其实先去了haematology centre。可我知道周末那里是没有医生的，所以到头来还是那里的护士把我给送进急诊室。当急诊室的护士听到我说我胸口痛、感冒、发烧就把我给送进隔离区。过程很快，我不到10分钟就见到医生，在抽血了。
然后，护士就把点滴给接上。差点把我吓死。我最讨厌点滴了，让我想起化疗、让我作呕。之后，护士给我做了胸腔x光。我带着假发进去，出来时却脱了下来，手握假发，其他病人和病人家属都瞪大了眼睛看着我。还蛮滑稽的。
后来，等了一阵子，护士竟然给我吊第二包点滴！我真的很不愿意。这一切，我妹妹都在身边，她说我很无聊耶，好像小孩子。*pout 然后当她试图推我的轮椅时，竟把我给推撞上墙壁。-_-！
从头到尾，我一直坐在轮椅上。好像重病患。其实除了恼人胸口中的痛，我没有重病啦。可是，就因为我是癌症、化疗病患，所以这样的情况得跑到急诊室。偏偏我的主治医生休假。
幸而，我无须住院。医生开了一堆抗生素， 说如果下个星期还没有好转就再回来。其实这十个月来，我天天都服抗生、抗菌的药物。搞不懂为什么还会感染。
也对啦，上个月的血液报告我的白血球有点下降。
抵抗力哪里有力。
所以我就怀疑，这一次应该是感染了。
我这24年来，第一次住院是发现患癌。第一次的手术是活性细胞切除手术。太多的第一次是这一场癌症带给我的。而第一次上急诊室，也是今天。
我其实先去了haematology centre。可我知道周末那里是没有医生的，所以到头来还是那里的护士把我给送进急诊室。当急诊室的护士听到我说我胸口痛、感冒、发烧就把我给送进隔离区。过程很快，我不到10分钟就见到医生，在抽血了。
然后，护士就把点滴给接上。差点把我吓死。我最讨厌点滴了，让我想起化疗、让我作呕。之后，护士给我做了胸腔x光。我带着假发进去，出来时却脱了下来，手握假发，其他病人和病人家属都瞪大了眼睛看着我。还蛮滑稽的。
后来，等了一阵子，护士竟然给我吊第二包点滴！我真的很不愿意。这一切，我妹妹都在身边，她说我很无聊耶，好像小孩子。*pout 然后当她试图推我的轮椅时，竟把我给推撞上墙壁。-_-！
从头到尾，我一直坐在轮椅上。好像重病患。其实除了恼人胸口中的痛，我没有重病啦。可是，就因为我是癌症、化疗病患，所以这样的情况得跑到急诊室。偏偏我的主治医生休假。
幸而，我无须住院。医生开了一堆抗生素， 说如果下个星期还没有好转就再回来。其实这十个月来，我天天都服抗生、抗菌的药物。搞不懂为什么还会感染。
也对啦，上个月的血液报告我的白血球有点下降。
抵抗力哪里有力。
路上行人已断魂
今年的清明時節，我沒有去為爺爺掃墓。我出生幾個月時，爺爺就病逝了。媽媽說，爺爺在病床上的最後一刻要看我一眼。媽媽飛奔把我給抱去。可惜，我終究趕不上。
今年，我自己也患癌了。家族裡除了爺爺和還在世的年邁奶奶，我是第三個患癌的人。而且是罕見的霍金淋巴癌。
雖然完成了化療，一切還算安好，但今天是我感冒的第七天。而且沒有好轉。我的抵抗力在經過化療後衰弱，感冒自然不容易好。可是，今天胸口開始隱隱作痛，我明天就要去醫院了。
清明掃墓，心懷的是一個怎樣的心情？過往的我僅是對祖先的尊重與懷念。如今的我卻在心裡歎息自己將來會否有人來為我掃墓？
Friday, April 6, 2012
Dos and Don'ts to a cancer patient
While I may be really appreciative of all the kindness I was showered with, I do sometimes get frustrated with myself because I don't exactly feel good when friends or relatives say some stuff to me. I know it's out of concern, but it really doesn't help.
And having read the articles on the dos and don'ts to a cancer patient, those examples actually did happen on me.
I keep reminding myself I shouldn't expect too much from my friends, but I can't help because sometimes what they say really hurt me too.
http://secretsofcancerhood.com/advice/
And having read the articles on the dos and don'ts to a cancer patient, those examples actually did happen on me.
I keep reminding myself I shouldn't expect too much from my friends, but I can't help because sometimes what they say really hurt me too.
http://secretsofcancerhood.com/advice/
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
回首那把长发
时不时我会翻看过往的照片。
我那把再努力留就到腰间的长发让我一阵惆怅。
我是绝对不会一把剪掉长发的人。
每次看见朋友把长发剪掉，我都非常敬佩那份勇气。
如今，我别无选择，长发从根落下。
化疗的我们，常常哀悼长发的失去，而且内心里也失去了自信。
癌症夺走了自尊和自信。你们不知道，我们多么讨厌这样的自己。
可没有一个人曾这样对我说。
Forum上的一位男性病患，却为我们（女孩子）写了这一些：
To all you (bald) women...
I've read lots here lately from the women about their feelings about losing their hair and how that makes them feel and, well, you know me, I just can't let this one go.
I know our society has made us feel that losing our hair from chemo makes us look sick.
I know that psychologically, it's a huge blow for a woman to lose her hair.
I know that you'd rather complain about a bad hair day than try to pick out the scarf that goes with the outfit.
I know all that.
But I also know this: When I see your pictures, with the short whispy hair, with the bald head, with the crew cut, with the strange new curls, what I see FIRST, before the bald head, before all the other stuff a guy is supposed to see first (hey, it's in our jeans. I mean, genes.)... what I really see first, is your eyes and your smiles. I see a beatiful person living life like they sing about in country songs. I see fighters. I see winners. I see women who I'd love to know. I see women who make me want to be a better person.
Oh, yeah, then I notice that you're bald, or fuzzy, or whispy, or wearing a scarf or hat. And, despite that, you're smiling a REAL smile that goes all the way to your eyes. And THAT is beautiful. If you think guys are staring at you, you're probably right, but not for the reason you're thinking. I have no reason to butter you up or try to lie to make you feel better. I just really wanted to you to hear (read) what I'm sure lots of guys feel, but don't really know how to say.
In case you missed it in my rambling, you're beautiful, with or without the hair.
谢谢你。
我那把再努力留就到腰间的长发让我一阵惆怅。
我是绝对不会一把剪掉长发的人。
每次看见朋友把长发剪掉，我都非常敬佩那份勇气。
如今，我别无选择，长发从根落下。
化疗的我们，常常哀悼长发的失去，而且内心里也失去了自信。
癌症夺走了自尊和自信。你们不知道，我们多么讨厌这样的自己。
可没有一个人曾这样对我说。
Forum上的一位男性病患，却为我们（女孩子）写了这一些：
To all you (bald) women...
I've read lots here lately from the women about their feelings about losing their hair and how that makes them feel and, well, you know me, I just can't let this one go.
I know our society has made us feel that losing our hair from chemo makes us look sick.
I know that psychologically, it's a huge blow for a woman to lose her hair.
I know that you'd rather complain about a bad hair day than try to pick out the scarf that goes with the outfit.
I know all that.
But I also know this: When I see your pictures, with the short whispy hair, with the bald head, with the crew cut, with the strange new curls, what I see FIRST, before the bald head, before all the other stuff a guy is supposed to see first (hey, it's in our jeans. I mean, genes.)... what I really see first, is your eyes and your smiles. I see a beatiful person living life like they sing about in country songs. I see fighters. I see winners. I see women who I'd love to know. I see women who make me want to be a better person.
Oh, yeah, then I notice that you're bald, or fuzzy, or whispy, or wearing a scarf or hat. And, despite that, you're smiling a REAL smile that goes all the way to your eyes. And THAT is beautiful. If you think guys are staring at you, you're probably right, but not for the reason you're thinking. I have no reason to butter you up or try to lie to make you feel better. I just really wanted to you to hear (read) what I'm sure lots of guys feel, but don't really know how to say.
In case you missed it in my rambling, you're beautiful, with or without the hair.
谢谢你。
Sunday, April 1, 2012
We just needed validation, nothing else.
Many a times friends who are concern about me, give me advice, encouragement, or even scolding to make sure I do not sink into depression with this cancer episode going on. But, most of the time, it isn't really what we need.
Sometimes, I even got quite tired of all these and I figure out pretending to be fine is the best solution. But again, when my acting goes too well, people start to think I'm perfectly fine and okay to go on with life, which in actual fact I’m not. And then, it hurts me when my closest friends also think this way.
This is when I start running away.
I finally met Shu (a fellow Hodgkin's Lymphoma young patient I knew on a US support forum. He's a Singaporean though, residing in London till last year. This makes me wonder why we Singaporeans had to seek support from a US forum and not a local one. Simply, there isn't any form of emotional support or support of any kind in Singapore for us. It's such a shame. ), after 6 months of virtual emails exchange, we had a long and hearty chat at Starbucks.
His other friend Daniel, who had testicular cancer once said, when we’re feeling all down and sad, what we really needed was just some form of validation of our emotions. It struck me so hard; my heart was a little sour at that point.
Many people simply think that once treatment is over, things will go back to normal for me. Telling me even if it's not immediately, it will eventually.
But, do they really understand what we will face in the future?
And it hurts me even more when it's my closest friends who tell me that.
Honestly, it sounds more like a dismissal to me rather than trying to say "think of the bright side."
My Brazilian fellow Hodgkin's friend, Marina, recently posted this column written by a girl who had leukaemia. Her words touched me and it was so true.
Life, Interrupted: Facing Cancer in Your 20s
By SULEIKA JAOUAD
I was so excited for what lay ahead, I nearly forgot to wave goodbye to my parents. Armed with a college diploma, my first job offer, a one-way ticket to Paris and a new pair of heels, I was ready to take on anything. Little did I know, I would be back in New York seven short months later. But my parents would not be taking pictures at the airport or chatting about my future plans. I would be in a wheelchair, too weak to walk.
In Paris, the doctors had struggled to make sense of my symptoms — anemia, fatigue and persistent infections. They ran test after test — I was even hospitalized for a week — but the results were inconclusive. I was just 22, but the doctors released me with a diagnosis of “burnout syndrome” and orders to rest for a month.
Rest didn’t help. Desperate for an answer, I Googled my symptoms. It seemed I could have anything from the mumps to diabetes to something called cat-scratch fever. The word “cancer” also caught my eye. The first doctors I saw in the United States thought I was depressed and suggested antidepressants. I said no and insisted they keep looking.
A week later, my worst fears were confirmed. “Leukemia,” the doctor said, dropping the word like a bomb. Soon enough I would learn the specific diagnosis: myelodysplastic syndrome, a disorder of the bone marrow. In my case, the disease growing inside me had morphed into acute myeloid leukemia. I would need intensive chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant to save my life.
The long-awaited answer reverberated in my head, and I found myself slowly pronouncing the syllables: loo-KEEM-ee-ah.
Where cancer is concerned, it’s safe to say there’s no such thing as good timing. But having a life-threatening disease in your 20s carries a special set of psychological and social challenges. It defies our very definition of what ought to be. Youth and health are supposed to be synonymous. If only I could sue my body for breach of contract with the natural order of things.
Cancer magnifies the in-betweenness of young adulthood: You’re not a child anymore, yet you’re not fully ready to live in the adult world, either. After my diagnosis, I moved back into my childhood bedroom. And as I get sicker, I increasingly rely on my parents to take care of me. But at the same time, I’ve had no choice but to grow up fast. Daunting questions that most of my peers won’t have to consider for many more years have become my urgent, everyday concerns: How will I hold onto health insurance if I’m unable to work? Will I be able to have children? How long will I live?
Even inside the hospital’s oncology ward, being a young adult with cancer can make a person feel like a misfit. I’m usually the youngest patient on the floor. In fact, I’m the youngest person my doctor has ever treated with this disease. (A vast majority of patients with my form of leukemia are over 60).
Young adults might just be oncology’s “tweens” — too old for the pediatric cancer floor but equally out of place in an adult oncology unit. I’m not suggesting that it’s worse to be young and sick, but rather that young adults with cancer are a less visible demographic, swept up in the mix of adult cancer statistics.
A 2006 report from the United States Department of Health and Human Services presents a shocking reality: Despite great strides in treatment for most cancer patients, adolescents and young adults ages 15 to 39 have seen little or no improvement in cancer survival rates for decades. The report describes how survival rates have “been hampered because cancer risk and adverse cancer outcomes have been under-recognized in this population.” It points to the fact that health care providers are often not on the lookout for cancer in this age group and, as in my case, misdiagnose symptoms — or miss them altogether.
Nine months, eight hospitalizations and seven chemotherapy treatments later, I’m realizing that age is an inextricable component of how we experience cancer.
Cancer has forced me to pause my life at a time when my peers are just beginning theirs. For my friends, most of them young adults in their 20s, this is an exciting time as they look forward to starting new jobs, traveling the world, going to parties, dating and finding love, and all the rest of the small and big milestones that are part of early adulthood.
Like my peers, I have yet to fully define who I want to become. But as a young cancer patient, it’s difficult to see ahead when I’m fighting for my life. I don’t know what the future holds. I just know I want to be there.
Sometimes, I even got quite tired of all these and I figure out pretending to be fine is the best solution. But again, when my acting goes too well, people start to think I'm perfectly fine and okay to go on with life, which in actual fact I’m not. And then, it hurts me when my closest friends also think this way.
This is when I start running away.
I finally met Shu (a fellow Hodgkin's Lymphoma young patient I knew on a US support forum. He's a Singaporean though, residing in London till last year. This makes me wonder why we Singaporeans had to seek support from a US forum and not a local one. Simply, there isn't any form of emotional support or support of any kind in Singapore for us. It's such a shame. ), after 6 months of virtual emails exchange, we had a long and hearty chat at Starbucks.
His other friend Daniel, who had testicular cancer once said, when we’re feeling all down and sad, what we really needed was just some form of validation of our emotions. It struck me so hard; my heart was a little sour at that point.
Many people simply think that once treatment is over, things will go back to normal for me. Telling me even if it's not immediately, it will eventually.
But, do they really understand what we will face in the future?
And it hurts me even more when it's my closest friends who tell me that.
Honestly, it sounds more like a dismissal to me rather than trying to say "think of the bright side."
My Brazilian fellow Hodgkin's friend, Marina, recently posted this column written by a girl who had leukaemia. Her words touched me and it was so true.
*****
Life, Interrupted: Facing Cancer in Your 20s
By SULEIKA JAOUAD
I was so excited for what lay ahead, I nearly forgot to wave goodbye to my parents. Armed with a college diploma, my first job offer, a one-way ticket to Paris and a new pair of heels, I was ready to take on anything. Little did I know, I would be back in New York seven short months later. But my parents would not be taking pictures at the airport or chatting about my future plans. I would be in a wheelchair, too weak to walk.
In Paris, the doctors had struggled to make sense of my symptoms — anemia, fatigue and persistent infections. They ran test after test — I was even hospitalized for a week — but the results were inconclusive. I was just 22, but the doctors released me with a diagnosis of “burnout syndrome” and orders to rest for a month.
Rest didn’t help. Desperate for an answer, I Googled my symptoms. It seemed I could have anything from the mumps to diabetes to something called cat-scratch fever. The word “cancer” also caught my eye. The first doctors I saw in the United States thought I was depressed and suggested antidepressants. I said no and insisted they keep looking.
A week later, my worst fears were confirmed. “Leukemia,” the doctor said, dropping the word like a bomb. Soon enough I would learn the specific diagnosis: myelodysplastic syndrome, a disorder of the bone marrow. In my case, the disease growing inside me had morphed into acute myeloid leukemia. I would need intensive chemotherapy and a bone marrow transplant to save my life.
The long-awaited answer reverberated in my head, and I found myself slowly pronouncing the syllables: loo-KEEM-ee-ah.
Where cancer is concerned, it’s safe to say there’s no such thing as good timing. But having a life-threatening disease in your 20s carries a special set of psychological and social challenges. It defies our very definition of what ought to be. Youth and health are supposed to be synonymous. If only I could sue my body for breach of contract with the natural order of things.
Cancer magnifies the in-betweenness of young adulthood: You’re not a child anymore, yet you’re not fully ready to live in the adult world, either. After my diagnosis, I moved back into my childhood bedroom. And as I get sicker, I increasingly rely on my parents to take care of me. But at the same time, I’ve had no choice but to grow up fast. Daunting questions that most of my peers won’t have to consider for many more years have become my urgent, everyday concerns: How will I hold onto health insurance if I’m unable to work? Will I be able to have children? How long will I live?
Even inside the hospital’s oncology ward, being a young adult with cancer can make a person feel like a misfit. I’m usually the youngest patient on the floor. In fact, I’m the youngest person my doctor has ever treated with this disease. (A vast majority of patients with my form of leukemia are over 60).
Young adults might just be oncology’s “tweens” — too old for the pediatric cancer floor but equally out of place in an adult oncology unit. I’m not suggesting that it’s worse to be young and sick, but rather that young adults with cancer are a less visible demographic, swept up in the mix of adult cancer statistics.
A 2006 report from the United States Department of Health and Human Services presents a shocking reality: Despite great strides in treatment for most cancer patients, adolescents and young adults ages 15 to 39 have seen little or no improvement in cancer survival rates for decades. The report describes how survival rates have “been hampered because cancer risk and adverse cancer outcomes have been under-recognized in this population.” It points to the fact that health care providers are often not on the lookout for cancer in this age group and, as in my case, misdiagnose symptoms — or miss them altogether.
Nine months, eight hospitalizations and seven chemotherapy treatments later, I’m realizing that age is an inextricable component of how we experience cancer.
Cancer has forced me to pause my life at a time when my peers are just beginning theirs. For my friends, most of them young adults in their 20s, this is an exciting time as they look forward to starting new jobs, traveling the world, going to parties, dating and finding love, and all the rest of the small and big milestones that are part of early adulthood.
Like my peers, I have yet to fully define who I want to become. But as a young cancer patient, it’s difficult to see ahead when I’m fighting for my life. I don’t know what the future holds. I just know I want to be there.
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