Confessions.

I think I'm in love. Tall, dark, nice skin, relaxing and soothing to be around, has a gentle touch... I might have to marry that massage chair they have here.

Right now I'm sitting on the 9th floor of Radiumhospitalet in Oslo, watching the city skyline from one of those electric adjustable beds ( I really want one of those). Beautiful view. It's a cancer hospital, and I'm here not for myself, but for a mate who has cancer for the second time, and am currently receiving chemotherapy. It's weird being here. The days are long and boring, and you're constantly surrounded by nurses, hairless people with IV stands. Hanging out with my mate, who apart from a balding head feels just fine, you tend to forget how sick people in here are, and that the sickness comes as much from the treatment they're recievcing, as the actual cancer. Spending a few days here, you pick up on a few silent codecs and unspoken rules in effect at a place like this: never speak about throwing up, barfing, puking etc, out loud. Just the word might be enough to set someone off. If you're in the living room where people on the ward eat or hang out, watching telly, never watch a food programme. Generally don't speak a lot about food, or cancer, loudly while around other patients. Not that I blame them, being pumped full of poison designed to kill of most of your cells without killing you, can't do wonders to your appetite or general feeling of well being. So I'm flicking past Jamie Oliver, out of respect.

Walking these halls, I can't keep myself from thinking if I'll ever be here again, in a differen time, another situation. As a nurse? As a patient? It might be just the spirit or the atmosphere here, but I find myself strangely thoughtful and melancholic. Somehow, at the back of my mind, or in my subconcious, I've always thought that I will, some day, get cancer. They say that everyone eventually gets it, if you just live long enough, and that might be true. It might just be my overly pessimistic nature, or the fact that my family is riddled with cancer of the "everything between your neck and your knees"-kind. Who knows?

And as horrific and blasphemous and ugly as it might sound, especially considering where I am, and what I know my mate has went through, and now am going through again: I sometimes wish that I do. Have cancer, that is. Well, maybe not cancer specifically, but some form of physical disease or affliction. Something tangiable that I could point to, or at, get specifically treated, and hopefully be rid of forever. Depressions, anxiety, personality disorders, these are all vague and intangible things, you can't touch them or point at them. Often, mainly during bad and paranoid periods, I suspect that people doesn't take mental problems seriously. Or, as seriously as they do for example cancer. Maybe they think mental problems are self-inflicted, or just hits those who are too weak to cope with the obstacles, problems and challenges life gives everyone in one form or another. That many of the terms and diagnoses used by medical people are made up, names given to conditions that really are just egoism, laziness, weakness, terms used to describe someone who really is just difficult, or evil, or a drama queen. I don't know, maybe people doesn't think like that at all, it might just be me who, after over 10 years of having mental problems, is still prejudiced. Who still can't accept that my problems are for real, they have a cause, I cannot control it, only strive to improve it through therapy and medication. That I am not lazy, or egocentric, or a bad person. But sometimes, having cancer really seems like the easier thing to have. "I have a tumor. Or several. That's a fact, see right here on this MRI?" I get chemo, maybe some radiation, a surgery. I get sick from the treatment, but it works. Or it doesn't, and I die, end of. At least I would've been a brave, strong young girl who fought with all she had, and either win or tragically lost. But this, here, me, now, what I'm dealing with... I don't loose my hair, loose weight and throw up, and get a surgery in an effort to get better. Again, it's not tangible. I do therapy sessions. I take some pills, anti depressants, but who doesn't in this day and age? It doesn't feel brave, I don't feel strong, and I never have. And will I ever win?

This shouldn't be about me, thought, and I know it. These are horrible thoughts to have, and I am aware of that fact too. I really should just get to bed, sleep, and get up early to keep my mate company. He's the sick one, and the bored one, and the one deserving attention.

Oh, and by the way: If that massage chair declines my marriage porposal I might just ask this electrical adjustable bed...