It was early summer 2016. My consulting room was rather too warm, and I was sweating a little in my suit. I couldn’t gather my thoughts. It was as if I had been hit in the stomach by a cannonball.
Two patients were sitting waiting in the corridor. I ought to have taken them in a long time ago, but I was completely out of action.
My hands moved rather shakily over the keyboard. Black letters glared at me from the screen. I looked at the text again. Could the news be different this time? No, the radiologist’s report left no doubt.
I had opened my in-box and been confronted by the image and report of my own MRI scan. I had opened the report without hesitation, not expecting to be faced with catastrophe.
Tumours in the pancreas. Widespread enlarged lymph nodes in the abdomen. Tumour in a rib.
Two years later, in Paris. My friend, author Geir Stian Ulstein and myself are staring out in the darkness. We are about to start our project of running seven marathons between Paris and Moscow in 13 days. I’ll tell you more about that later.
