hello ! i'm wulan from
indonesia. i'm 17 and i'm just
a silly girl with
a happy face :D

(Source: pusheen)

kanayoshiko:

sic burn

(via ghostey)

prufrocking:

vandressed:

The Leukemia Diaries, Part 1
That was me about a week ago, covered in tubes and sensors, with oxygen being forced into me. Within 24 hours of being admitted into the hospital, I was sent right to the Intensive Care Unit. I was not a pretty sight.
In the weeks leading to my hospitalization, I knew there was something wrong with me. I don’t like landing in the hospital, but I knew something was wrong enough with me and I was begging to be thrown in one. We had to wait for some test results to come out before we could actually go to the hospital though, because we still didn’t know what exactly was wrong with me. I spent nearly two weeks being unable to eat, with insane stabbing headaches that jolted me out of what little sleep I could manage to get while in pain. I stayed near my mom so she could take care of me, but even she couldn’t take my agonized screaming at odd hours. I’m pretty sure my neighbors thought a tortured soul was trapped in the walls of my home at that point.
When my blood test results finally came out, my mom rushed me to the hospital that my uncle – one of many doctors in the family - recommended. I was offered no explanation of my condition at this point, but I was satisfied with finally being brought to the hospital.
So much medical jargon was thrown around and it all flew right over my aching head. My hours in the ER were a whirlwind of people stabbing me with needles and giving me medicines that my shrunken veins couldn’t handle. I could tell my parents were worried and doing their best to stay level-headed in this situation, and there was nothing I could do to help.
We finally got a room in the hospital, but I didn’t stay there very long. Within 24 hours of admission, I underwent minor surgery to have a catheter inserted in my jugular to facilitate all my meds and transfusions, then I got carted off to ICU. I remember kicking and screaming as the nurses were trying to strap a tight oxygen mask on me. I wasn’t breathing sufficiently anymore and they had to pretty much force all the oxygen in me to make sure I wouldn’t die, but it felt like I was drowning under the mask. I eventually submitted, kudos to the ICU nurse who took the no bullshit approach and told me I would die if I didn’t strap on the mask.
My days in the ICU were insane. I had separation anxiety, and I couldn’t sleep properly. I did what I could to resist calling my nurses for company all the time, and I knew I had to fight. Being stuck in a hospital bed is maddening, I tell you. At this point, I still didn’t know what my real condition was.
My parents told me I had pneumonia, and that I’d have to spend some time in the ICU. I accepted this, even though I felt trapped in my own body. Completely bedridden for nearly a week, too weak to even prop myself up a bit. I took comfort in knowing I was in the best hands possible, and that my nurses were doing everything to make me as comfortable as they could, given the situation.
My dad’s Facebook status asking for blood donations went viral. People I didn’t even know were giving and were praying for me. It was overwhelming to hear that so many of my dad’s and mom’s friends were calling in reinforcements even though some of them had never met me. Friends I’d thought I’d lost along the way came by, people I’d met only once were coming to support me, people I’d never met IRL were showing up to visit. It has been nothing short of heartwarming, and I swear, all of you who have prayed for me, came by, attempted to donate and got rejected, those who were able to donate, you all helped me through this. I don’t think there are enough words for how grateful I am for all of the support, and you all kept me holding on.
I was moved out of the ICU after I stabilized, and my parents finally broke the news to me. I have been diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia, which is cancer of the blood and bone marrow. They expected that I might cry or freak out, so they waited til I was at least back in my room before telling me. I… was strangely calm about it.
I’ve been undergoing chemotherapy this whole time, and we’re getting the desired results so far. I’m really thankful for the catheter stuck in my neck, because my IV goes through that instead of tangling up both my hands. My arms are covered in wounds from all the blood extractions they had to do when I first came in, and I can just barely stretch out one of my arms because it still feels really bruised from the very first major blood extraction.
People have sent me well wishes and encouraging words, and they have also told me that I don’t have to put up a brave front for all of this. I’d like to clear something up, guys: I am genuinely at peace with my condition. This is not a brave front. I’m just happy to be alive, and see no point in being sad and worrying about it. Of course, I get stressed when the doctors tell me they’re running low on B+ blood and platelets, but beyond that, I shake everything else off. I’m not saying I take my condition lightly, I just believe that being positive will help me loads more than crying over it ever will.
My sleep cycle has been messed up because of nurses bustling in at odd hours, so I mostly stay awake at night and conk out frequently during the day. My meds leave me easily exhausted, and so many of the things we take for granted are already major victories for me. Finishing a meal, being able to stand on my own after being bedridden for a week, sitting up by myself, these have all been major stepping stones toward my recovery. My doctors were surprised to catch me standing and doing a little dance the other day instead of my usual lying-in-bed-looking-completely-sick look. Right now I’m under orders to take it easy because my immune system has gone down more at this point in treatment, but I continue to exercise a little bit to make sure my muscles don’t completely forget how to function.
In all this, what I’ve found most heartwarming are all the prayers. I don’t normally ask people to pray for me, but I do accept when they offer to. My parents know this, so they freaked out when I was in the ICU and I asked them to pray for me. I believe there is a divine plan, and if this is part of it, so be it. I – and many others – will continue to pray for a miracle. My condition is curable, but we will still consider it a blessing and a miracle when I am cured. Some people don’t make it this far, and I’m thankful I have.

To anybody residing in Manila: Vanessa Bianca Lopa is in need of B+ platelet donations (her treatment requires 6 bags per day). She’s currently undergoing chemotherapy for AML at the National Kidney and Transplant Institute at Quezon City.
To contact NKTI:
Trunkline — (632) 981-0300 / 981-0400Blood Donor Room (local 1052)Blood Bank (local1053)Open 8am to 7pm

prufrocking:

vandressed:

The Leukemia Diaries, Part 1

That was me about a week ago, covered in tubes and sensors, with oxygen being forced into me. Within 24 hours of being admitted into the hospital, I was sent right to the Intensive Care Unit. I was not a pretty sight.

In the weeks leading to my hospitalization, I knew there was something wrong with me. I don’t like landing in the hospital, but I knew something was wrong enough with me and I was begging to be thrown in one. We had to wait for some test results to come out before we could actually go to the hospital though, because we still didn’t know what exactly was wrong with me. I spent nearly two weeks being unable to eat, with insane stabbing headaches that jolted me out of what little sleep I could manage to get while in pain. I stayed near my mom so she could take care of me, but even she couldn’t take my agonized screaming at odd hours. I’m pretty sure my neighbors thought a tortured soul was trapped in the walls of my home at that point.

When my blood test results finally came out, my mom rushed me to the hospital that my uncle – one of many doctors in the family - recommended. I was offered no explanation of my condition at this point, but I was satisfied with finally being brought to the hospital.

So much medical jargon was thrown around and it all flew right over my aching head. My hours in the ER were a whirlwind of people stabbing me with needles and giving me medicines that my shrunken veins couldn’t handle. I could tell my parents were worried and doing their best to stay level-headed in this situation, and there was nothing I could do to help.

We finally got a room in the hospital, but I didn’t stay there very long. Within 24 hours of admission, I underwent minor surgery to have a catheter inserted in my jugular to facilitate all my meds and transfusions, then I got carted off to ICU. I remember kicking and screaming as the nurses were trying to strap a tight oxygen mask on me. I wasn’t breathing sufficiently anymore and they had to pretty much force all the oxygen in me to make sure I wouldn’t die, but it felt like I was drowning under the mask. I eventually submitted, kudos to the ICU nurse who took the no bullshit approach and told me I would die if I didn’t strap on the mask.

My days in the ICU were insane. I had separation anxiety, and I couldn’t sleep properly. I did what I could to resist calling my nurses for company all the time, and I knew I had to fight. Being stuck in a hospital bed is maddening, I tell you. At this point, I still didn’t know what my real condition was.

My parents told me I had pneumonia, and that I’d have to spend some time in the ICU. I accepted this, even though I felt trapped in my own body. Completely bedridden for nearly a week, too weak to even prop myself up a bit. I took comfort in knowing I was in the best hands possible, and that my nurses were doing everything to make me as comfortable as they could, given the situation.

My dad’s Facebook status asking for blood donations went viral. People I didn’t even know were giving and were praying for me. It was overwhelming to hear that so many of my dad’s and mom’s friends were calling in reinforcements even though some of them had never met me. Friends I’d thought I’d lost along the way came by, people I’d met only once were coming to support me, people I’d never met IRL were showing up to visit. It has been nothing short of heartwarming, and I swear, all of you who have prayed for me, came by, attempted to donate and got rejected, those who were able to donate, you all helped me through this. I don’t think there are enough words for how grateful I am for all of the support, and you all kept me holding on.

I was moved out of the ICU after I stabilized, and my parents finally broke the news to me. I have been diagnosed with acute myelogenous leukemia, which is cancer of the blood and bone marrow. They expected that I might cry or freak out, so they waited til I was at least back in my room before telling me. I… was strangely calm about it.

I’ve been undergoing chemotherapy this whole time, and we’re getting the desired results so far. I’m really thankful for the catheter stuck in my neck, because my IV goes through that instead of tangling up both my hands. My arms are covered in wounds from all the blood extractions they had to do when I first came in, and I can just barely stretch out one of my arms because it still feels really bruised from the very first major blood extraction.

People have sent me well wishes and encouraging words, and they have also told me that I don’t have to put up a brave front for all of this. I’d like to clear something up, guys: I am genuinely at peace with my condition. This is not a brave front. I’m just happy to be alive, and see no point in being sad and worrying about it. Of course, I get stressed when the doctors tell me they’re running low on B+ blood and platelets, but beyond that, I shake everything else off. I’m not saying I take my condition lightly, I just believe that being positive will help me loads more than crying over it ever will.

My sleep cycle has been messed up because of nurses bustling in at odd hours, so I mostly stay awake at night and conk out frequently during the day. My meds leave me easily exhausted, and so many of the things we take for granted are already major victories for me. Finishing a meal, being able to stand on my own after being bedridden for a week, sitting up by myself, these have all been major stepping stones toward my recovery. My doctors were surprised to catch me standing and doing a little dance the other day instead of my usual lying-in-bed-looking-completely-sick look. Right now I’m under orders to take it easy because my immune system has gone down more at this point in treatment, but I continue to exercise a little bit to make sure my muscles don’t completely forget how to function.

In all this, what I’ve found most heartwarming are all the prayers. I don’t normally ask people to pray for me, but I do accept when they offer to. My parents know this, so they freaked out when I was in the ICU and I asked them to pray for me. I believe there is a divine plan, and if this is part of it, so be it. I – and many others – will continue to pray for a miracle. My condition is curable, but we will still consider it a blessing and a miracle when I am cured. Some people don’t make it this far, and I’m thankful I have.

To anybody residing in Manila: Vanessa Bianca Lopa is in need of B+ platelet donations (her treatment requires 6 bags per day). She’s currently undergoing chemotherapy for AML at the National Kidney and Transplant Institute at Quezon City.

To contact NKTI:

Trunkline — (632) 981-0300 / 981-0400
Blood Donor Room (local 1052)
Blood Bank (local1053)
Open 8am to 7pm

(via demi)

zellah4:

OMFG

(Source: sizvideos, via ghostey)

inuis:

fantomeheart:

The only acceptable birthday cake

so when you blow out that candle you’ll be killing that charmander happy birthday u sick fuk

inuis:

fantomeheart:

The only acceptable birthday cake

so when you blow out that candle you’ll be killing that charmander happy birthday u sick fuk

(via ghostey)

when profs meet newly minted doctors

phdstudents:

profs:

image

newly graduated phds:  

image

Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. I only just heard the sad, sad news of Robin Williams’s death. My wife sent me a message to tell me he had died, and, when I asked her what he died from, she told me something that nobody in the news seems to be talking about.

When people die from cancer, their cause of death can be various horrible things – seizure, stroke, pneumonia – and when someone dies after battling cancer, and people ask “How did they die?”, you never hear anyone say “pulmonary embolism”, the answer is always “cancer”. A Pulmonary Embolism can be the final cause of death with some cancers, but when a friend of mine died from cancer, he died from cancer. That was it. And when I asked my wife what Robin Williams died from, she, very wisely, replied “Depression”.

The word “suicide” gives many people the impression that “it was his own decision,” or “he chose to die, whereas most people with cancer fight to live.” And, because Depression is still such a misunderstood condition, you can hardly blame people for not really understanding. Just a quick search on Twitter will show how many people have little sympathy for those who commit suicide…

But, just as a Pulmonary Embolism is a fatal symptom of cancer, suicide is a fatal symptom of Depression. Depression is an illness, not a choice of lifestyle. You can’t just “cheer up” with depression, just as you can’t choose not to have cancer. When someone commits suicide as a result of Depression, they die from Depression – an illness that kills millions each year. It is hard to know exactly how many people actually die from Depression each year because the figures and statistics only seem to show how many people die from “suicide” each year (and you don’t necessarily have to suffer Depression to commit suicide, it’s usually just implied). But considering that one person commits suicide every 14 minutes in the US alone, we clearly need to do more to battle this illness, and the stigmas that continue to surround it. Perhaps Depression might lose some its “it was his own fault” stigma, if we start focussing on the illness, rather than the symptom. Robin Williams didn’t die from suicide. He died from Depression*. It wasn’t his choice to suffer that.

Tom Clempsom (via mollyfamous)

(via ghostey)

thefuuuucomics:

Funny Makeup Transformations by Guys

(via ghostey)

frankmacchia12:

For best results, sync it up with the Vanilla Ice song.

frankmacchia12:

For best results, sync it up with the Vanilla Ice song.

(via fuckyeahanimation)