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Viskas bus gerai.

As I’m writing this we are winding down our eighth day in Vilnius. We are about halfway through our journey here. Today though, was the final day of our “vacation”. Tomorrow begins the medical treatment portion of our time here, and the remainder of my time here will be used to heal. Before I go into detail about my upcoming medical procedure, I want to reflect a bit on how our time was spent.

I’ll gloss over the typical vacation stuff. Of course my dad and I are going to bed and waking up whenever we please. We try one new restaurant a day, but otherwise have bought groceries to sustain ourselves. Eating out is less expensive here than back home, but making your own food in a kitchen anywhere will always cost less. Our apartment does not have a microwave, and learning to use the gas stove and oven has been an enlightening experience on its own. Pun intended. My advice: do not rest the matchbox on the oven door. The stress of putting a flame to gas will make you forget it exists, and when you close the door… whoops! We were lucky it landed somewhere other than the open flame. Sorry Birute! Birute (bee-ROO-tay) owns the apartment we’re staying in, and she has been a most gracious hostess. She even spent a full day driving us through the countryside and taking us to see some very majestic sights:

A view of the Neris River from the Gediminas Tower.
Galve Lake with Trakai Castle in the distance. One of the many glacially formed lakes in the area.
The hill forts of Kernave, a UNESCO heritage site. The former home of King Mindaugas, leader until 1263 AD.
Our hostess and I shortly before ascending one of the hills. The dark line you see to the right of the hill behind us is actually a staircase to the top. It was a tough climb, but worth the view. Photo Credit: Darryl Beech

As you can see our days have been filled with abundant sunshine. Pretty good for a land that’s actually named as such because it rains so often (Lithuania refers to itself as Lietuvo; their word for rain is “lietus”). There was a whopping twenty percent chance of rain today, so we spent a bit of time indoors at the Zoopark. There they gave ample opportunities to feed some of the animals (rabbits, big fish, birds, guinea pigs) and I was delighted to find that they did not think it necessary to cage either their lemurs or tamarinds. Imagine never having been allowed to touch a monkey and suddenly being in a room with ten or more of them climbing around you as they please. I know the sign said “Don’t Touch”, but did I pretend not to know? You bet, and I have no regrets.

This trip so far has been fantastic, and whether or not it counts as a true vacation does not change the fact that these memories will last me for the rest of my life. In addition to seeing more of the world, I’m thankful for the friends we’ve made here. Somehow, when choosing this place, I stumbled upon a location in the world where by only four degrees of separation I found a person with a similar condition who has not only had the procedure I’m expecting tomorrow, but by the same surgeon. To clarify, Lilija is my boyfriend’s aunt’s best friend’s sister. She and her husband Ed have been making sure I get to all of my appointments on time by picking us up and driving us there and back. They’ve called the clinic on my behalf as advocates in their native language to ensure that things were progressing as they should be. A lot of coincidence had to happen for us to find each other, and I cannot speak for them, but I feel something powerful in it. I am extremely thankful for their kindness.

So tomorrow afternoon we head to the clinic for my full thyroidectomy. I’ve been told there’s no evidence of metastases in my nearby lymph nodes so far, though they’ll be removing a few of the central nodes just to be safe. They’ll biopsy the pieces they remove and later let me know what they’ve found. Several people have told me I’m brave for leaving home and seeking medical treatment abroad. Frankly, I think this surgery would be just as scary at home. I would be in an operating room of people I’d only just met either way. The same complications exist there that exist here, and I’ll be sedated should they occur. My time here has only served to make me more confident in the decision I made. Thank you for taking some time to join me here, and I look forward to returning here next on the mend and hopefully cancer-free.

Laba Diena.

So far these are the first words I’ve memorized in Lithuanian. They mean “good day.” Beyond that, all I’ve generally had for people here after they continue to speak to me in Lithuanian are confused looks. Next we try Russian, which works depending on the context. I made a seemingly random choice to learn in college that’s finally paying off. If we’ve exhausted those options, we’ve gotten very lucky finding people who speak English. The people here have been incredibly accommodating, but I still feel a bit embarrassed by the time we’ve gotten to this point. The British Embassy is just down the street, so even though they speak English Americans are not as common here and my accent is a little strange to them. What is this American doing here?

They would be surprised to learn that I’m here for medical treatment. I don’t look sick. I don’t look like the typical image of a cancer patient. America has great doctors. Why did I come all this way? I met with my Lithuanian surgeon yesterday (who at first insisted we speak in French, because my name is Jacqueline, and quickly discovered to his disappointment I speak no French). While waiting for my medical records to upload for his review, we had a discussion in broken English about the American healthcare system. He understood well enough why I had never purchased insurance. I’m only 30, and prior my thyroid cancer diagnosis had been very healthy. A question he asked my father and I gave a huge insight to the foreign medical community’s view on the matter: “You have purchased health insurance. What do you get for free?” My father and I, almost stifling laughter, answered in unison, “Nothing.” Another question, regarding the amount my surgery in America would have cost, “You mean sixty or sixteen [thousand]?” “Sixty.” By this time my records had loaded, and he began poring over the 15 pages to determine the best course of action for me. We are planning a full thyroidectomy for the beginning of May.

If you’re curious and want a further explanation of how I ended up here, I encourage you to click the “Donate” link up top and read the description of the GoFundMe. You’re under no obligation to donate. My goal here is simply to publicize my experience for others who may find themselves staring down the barrel of lower middle class income (read: worked hard for entire adult life) and no health insurance in America (read: did not want to choose between the paying for insurance I was not likely to need and living a normal, not impoverished, lifestyle). Medical tourism is a relatively new and scary thing, but it is an option I’d highly encourage some to consider. Ačiū (thank you, my next words learned) for reading, and if you do choose to donate or already have, an even bigger ačiū to you. I’m sending you a postcard.