A quiet, sunny day spills into the ward. The bed linen is a soft beige with a pattern of oak leaves. The same towels hang on the back of the bed. A checkered blanket in the same tones. Outside the slightly open window, a relic forest rustles. All of this feels more like some countryside retreat. If you forget that it's not just a nature reserve but also surrounded by two security perimeters with checkpoints. At the entrance and on all the signs, it's vaguely labeled as the "Center for Recreational Biology," but obviously, that's just a cover, since I'm the only guest here. Or patient. I'm not sure which term is more accurate.
The entire staff smiles so sweetly at me, but among themselves, they whisper and call this place "the complex," often disappearing somewhere for long periods. I wouldn't be surprised if beneath the three-story buildings with their charming facade mosaics, there are five more levels of underground facilities. The numerous ventilation "booths" scattered across the grounds hint at this. Though they could also be part of a simple bomb shelter, common in such facilities during the Soviet era. In the end, I never found any secret entrances. Not that I was looking. Back then, I was only concerned with my diagnosis. And the talkative chief physician, Valery Semyonovich (his last name remains unknown to me), was happy to explain the intricacies of the immune system, the inner workings of cells, and the peculiarities of their division.
He's probably the only staff member whose smile was completely genuine, and his cynical medical humor carried a kind of warm care. Spotting me from afar, shuffling along the park path, he'd loudly call out, "Here comes our malignant neoplasm!" and then, catching up, slap me on the shoulder with force, "Metastasizing slowly, are we? Well, well…" And though these jokes made me almost as nauseous as the chemotherapy, I smiled back.
In those days, I was the perfect patient. I was ready for anything. Painful injections that left me unable to sleep. Pills shoved into me by the handful, as if they'd replaced food. Hours-long scans in the MRI machine. Endless tests that had become practically daily. Amid such hospital routine, you start noticing the little things. New pills. The nurse drawing from a different ampoule. The kind doctor happily explaining changes in the treatment strategy. And for a while, you believe him, until…
The moment of truth comes after lunch. I've long grown used to the bruises appearing on my arms and legs. Just the usual. But this time, under my skin, it feels like a thin black hair is twisting. I call the duty nurse. She scrutinizes it, pressing painfully on my arm with her cold fingers. Then she goes to the station, picks up the receiver of an old telephone, and calls Valery Semyonovich. The conversation is mundane, uninformative, but from the tone of his voice, it's clear—something important has happened.
The chief physician appears in my room within ten minutes. He doesn't spend much time examining the mysterious bruise, just glances at me. I must look frightened because he immediately lets go of my arm and mutters, "It's nothing… It's normal. Normal." It doesn't reassure me, and he sees that. For a while, Valery Semyonovich struggles to find the right words, invents phrases, hesitates… He'd make a great science communicator, not whatever this is.
"Is it a tumor?" I ask, my voice tight.
"A tumor," the doctor nods amiably. "Your beloved one."
"So… is this it? The end?"
"Well, my friend… It's… I'd say it's just the beginning," he smiles slyly. "You're our phenomenon. Look how well you're feeling. You even asked for seconds at lunch."
Surprisingly, I do feel very well. Probably the best I've felt since I got here.
"And why are you so pale? Planning to die? That's a waste. Death is the last thing you need to fear now. Or any of us…"
Valery Semyonovich nods contentedly and keeps smiling.