(Warning: This blog post is non-technical but purely personal. In my leukemia diary, I write openly about my current health issues. This blog might be triggering for people who struggle with, or lost dear ones to, cancer and other similar diseases.)

As I write this (Monday 19:00 in Utrecht – I might finish and post it later), I want to be somewhere else. Right at this time, the MVP Summit has just started. Official sessions usually run Tuesday to Thursday, but past years often saw extra sessions on the Monday before or the Friday after. Smaller sessions. Informal. Direct contact between MVPs and Microsoft developers, who seek our opinions about plans they have, and plans they should have.

Well, I do have opinions. Lots of them. For me, those pre- and post-days are always the very best part of each MVP Summit, even better than the main program.

I want to be there. Be there, in the room where it happens. Give my input on policy. And, of course, outside of session hours, meet and hug and catch up with all my MVP and Microsoft friends.

But I am not where I want to be. I am where I need to be. And that is in a Dutch hospital. Because here is where doctors and nurses are fighting tooth and nail to make me better, to make sure that I can nag give feedback to Microsoft for many years to come.

Uncomplicated

The chemo, as mentioned in my previous blog, was administered over a period of 6 days. After that, I had expected to start to feel worse. And I did. Just not nearly as much as I had anticipated.

You see, the previous time, when I had to go through three such chemotherapy treatments, I had been suffering from complications for each round. Bacteria from some faraway country. A yeast infection. Canker sores in my mouth. Every time, there had been severe additional stuff, to make me feel really sorry for myself.

So that is now my expectation, sort of. My association with chemotherapy is based on those three episodes, with complications. This time? No complications. At least not yet (~touches wood). So while calling this a walk in the park would be overdoing it, I have so far has been feeling far less miserable than I had expected, based on previous data.

My tube

Of course, there are still effects that I notice. I do get tired. I have been having diarrhea for the past days. And my appetite has been gradually going down, with my body giving very clear signals on what it does and does not want me to put in there.

This brought back the memory of my first chemo. I got in a similar situation, and I was simply not able to get enough food in. Which resulted in a constant struggle, on which I expended, with hindsight, way too much energy. I did not want that this time.

So I actively called for the dietician. I told her about my previous time, and what a relief it had been when I was given a feeding tube. I told her that I do not want to go through that fight again. I’ll eat what my stomach allows, and if that is not enough, she can tube me up and start to give me additional nutrition that way.

Well, that is what happened today. I am literally, as I type this, waiting for doctor to analyze an X-ray to determine whether the tube is in the right spot. Tonight, I will get my first artificial extra nutrition.

Picture, or it didn’t happen

I doubted whether or not to include a photo of myself with the tube in my nose. That doubt is not because I am ashamed of this tube, or feel I need to hide it. That is not the case.

You see, it’s my hair. I was rather overdue for a haircut when I heard that my platelets were low and that I might have leukemia again. And from that point, knowing that I’d soon lose my hair again, it felt wasteful to spend money on the hairdresser anymore. Isn’t that very Dutch of me?

But the result is that now, with my hairs still intact, I see how terrible I look every time I pass a mirror.

I didn’t start this blog / diary out of vanity. I wanted to be open and honest with the community that has done so much for me, and that means so much to me. So without further ado, here it is: Hugo with bad hairdo and a tube up his nose. (But, as you see, still smiling).

Wrapping up

That’s all I have for now. To those who want to help, I once more remind you of two great ways you can help the fight against leukemia:

1. Donate to the Leukemia Research Foundation (or to any other leukemia or cancer charity).
2. Register as a stem cell donor (bone marrow donor).

And of course, all positive thoughts and well wishes are always very much appreciated.