Part one. Receiving a marginal zone lymphoma diagnosis and feeling alive in the midst of uncertainty.

Something didn’t feel right in me. As if my body resisted when I tried to slow down, to settle into a softer holiday rhythm. I had a headache. My body felt itchy. And then there was that small lump behind my ear. The smallest of concerns, in the middle of all the tension in my shoulders, neck, and head.

A routine procedure. A few stitches. I went back to work.
The stitches were removed, everything healed nicely, and life moved on.

Until the doctor called.

It wasn’t a fatty lump, as we both thought.
It was a lymphoma.
Not aggressive.
The hematologist would explain more.

Lymphoma?
Not aggressive?
Hematologist?

So many new words. Hard to grasp what they actually meant.

I touched the scar behind my ear. Soft, warm skin. A scar. No lump.
I googled “lymphoma” for a while, although I don’t really like googling diseases. You can live with a non-aggressive lymphoma, it said. Sometimes you need treatment, sometimes you don’t.

I stopped reading.

Jörgen came with me to Karolinska. I could feel in my whole body that something significant was happening. I had never been to this new hospital before. It felt large. Almost overwhelming.

The doctor took her time. She explained everything slowly, methodically, clearly.

There are two main groups of lymphoma: Hodgkin lymphoma and non-Hodgkin lymphoma. Within the non-Hodgkin group there are many subtypes. Some are fast-growing and require immediate treatment. Others are slow-growing, often called chronic or indolent.

Mine is called marginal zone lymphoma. A slow-growing form of cancer.

Bone marrow biopsy. Imaging scans. Possibly radiation treatment, twelve days in a row.
The biopsy hurts. The scans and radiation do not.
Everything should be completed by the end of April.
There is no panic. You can go on your Easter holiday. This is not acute. We will plan this together.

Chronic lymphoma.
Slow-growing.

Chronic?
Am I sick or am I healthy?
Is it good that I have the mild version?
Should I feel grateful or afraid?
Should I live as usual, or prepare to die?

I left the hospital with heavy steps. By the evening I was exhausted. My thoughts moved in circles.

And then I woke up the next morning with a surprisingly peaceful feeling. A clear sense of being alive. As if life itself gently reminded me: you are here. You are alive.

I woke up with a strong conviction that as long as I feel healthy, I am healthy. That is the feeling I want to hold on to.

I know my emotions will rise and fall. Worry will weave itself into ordinary days. But perhaps this is only a small bump in the road we call life, or perhaps it will reshape my life in ways I cannot yet see.

For now, I am here. I am breathing. I am alive. And in that simple fact, there is a quiet kind of joy.

…

This is the first reflection in a series about receiving a diagnosis and learning to live with the unknown.