Kristin Molven

My name is Kristin Molven, and I’m a medical doctor working in the orthopedic emergency room at Oslo University Hospital. I live in a quiet neighborhood called Nordstrand, which translates to North Beach. Life here has been a blend of hectic days and cherished moments.

My husband and I were living the dream, both of us doctors working around the clock—day shifts, night shifts, weekends, and holidays. Whenever we managed to carve out some time for ourselves, we would pack our car with bikes or kayaks and escape into nature. Most of our holidays were spent exploring the stunning landscapes of Norway, though we also ventured abroad whenever possible. Our apartment in the heart of the city made commuting to work easy, and then we welcomed our son into our lives. He was simply amazing. Despite the whirlwind of our busy lives, those were some of the happiest days.

Now, I truly cherish the time we had together, in good health, doing the things we loved. Becoming parents, nurturing our family, living close to friends and relatives, and developing our careers in medicine—all while making time for life outside of work.

Family means everything to me. I grew up in a family of six, with two brothers and two sisters. Being the third of four children, there was always something happening. We all played sports and music, and we spent a lot of time outdoors. Our parents even bought a minivan so we could travel through Europe together. There’s a significant age gap between my siblings; my oldest brother is a surgeon in the US, and my youngest sister is a high school student. We’re all close, and even though we’ve spread out a bit, we make it a point to see each other.

Everything changed when I was diagnosed with cancer. I’ll never forget the day; it felt surreal. I had been experiencing persistent upper airway infections, and despite being a doctor, I brushed them off as nothing serious. I thought I was just overworked. But when a lump appeared in my neck, I knew I needed to get it checked. After numerous tests, I was informed I had central nervous system lymphoma.

I was overwhelmed with fear and uncertainty. As a physician, I knew the statistics, the treatments, and the potential outcomes. But nothing could prepare me for the emotional toll. I found myself lying in the hospital bed, feeling utterly defeated. I was very sick, throwing up, and barely able to communicate. The only photo from that time is one of me lying down, pale and drained, a stark reminder of how fragile life can be.

My entire family showed up at the hospital, anxiously waiting for good news outside my room. Being moved from the isolation room to a surveillance unit was terrifying, but I tried to muster a smile as I was wheeled past them. I could hardly sit up, let alone engage in conversation.

During my treatment, I was on antibiotics the entire isolation period after the high-dose chemotherapy until my new stem cells established a functioning bone marrow. Antibiotics were essential for my recovery, but they also highlighted the bigger issue of antimicrobial resistance (AMR).

Antimicrobial resistance occurs when bacteria develop resistance to the drugs used to kill them. For example, MRSA (Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus) is a well-known bacteria that has become resistant to penicillin and other related antibiotics. This resistance is alarming because it can make treating infections much more complicated, and for patients like me, it can be life-threatening.

As a society, we have a responsibility to use antibiotics wisely. Overuse and misuse can lead to bacteria evolving and becoming resistant, making it harder to treat infections in the future. I understand this issue intimately, as effective antibiotics are crucial for life-saving treatments. When you rely on them during critical times, they must work when needed.

It’s essential to prescribe antibiotics only when absolutely necessary. Every time someone takes antibiotics, it contributes to the risk of developing resistance. Even the right use can provoke drug resistance. It’s a complex issue that demands attention from healthcare providers and patients alike.

Throughout my treatment journey, I encountered many healthcare professionals. Initially, I saw different doctors each time, which left me feeling insecure. However, I voiced my concerns, and soon I was assigned an oncologist who would oversee my entire treatment process. He even gave me his phone number, which was invaluable during those uncertain times.

Having one doctor responsible for my care brought me comfort. I knew he would oversee everything, making sure the right decisions were made. Continuity of care is critical, especially in a system where many work shifts, and patients often meet different professionals.

I was also fortunate to have nurses who got to know me well. They understood my specific needs and provided personalized care during my chemotherapy sessions. The familiarity and compassion from my medical team made a significant difference in my experience.

During the worst of it, I had to be wheeled in for blood tests, unable to walk on my own. The nurses were always there, ready to assist, and I became close with them. I could even FaceTime my son during treatment, which brought me joy amid the challenges.

Getting cancer was frightening enough, and the added uncertainty of my situation made everything more difficult. I realized that even healthcare professionals can feel vulnerable in a hospital setting. It’s a strange place for anyone, filled with anxiety and fear.

It’s essential to communicate openly about what patients need and how we can improve their experience. Every patient’s journey is unique, and understanding their individual needs can lead to better care.

I believe that addressing continuity of care and making sure patients feel supported should be a top priority. When patients have a reliable point of contact who understands their situation, it alleviates some of the fear that comes with being sick.

Every moment matters, and I want to advocate for the preservation of antibiotics for future generations. We can prevent AMR by using antibiotics responsibly, ensuring they remain effective for those who truly need them.

My journey with cancer taught me about resilience, the importance of family, and the need for better systems in healthcare. As I move forward, I hope to share my story to raise awareness about AMR and the experiences of patients like me. Getting cancer was bad luck, but AMR is a challenge we can prevent. Together, we can ensure that antibiotics remain a viable treatment option for everyone, today and in the future.