“With Every Round of Chemo, I Won My Own Personal Olympics”

“I don't have any plain clothes—everything is dressy!” This extraordinary, almost defiant statement began our introduction to Daria Krasnova, one of the heroines of the  Project “I Will Live!”.

Her wardrobe is truly a collection of works of art. Every dress has its own character. For instance, we chose a red one with long sleeves for her, thinking it resembled a Renaissance outfit. Daria immediately gently but firmly corrected us: “It's a traditional Russian dolgorukavka (long-sleeved garment).” The dress looked especially epic when paired with a rapier. Daria recently fell in love with fencing, and according to her, this sport most accurately reflects her inner world.

She adores her daughter, the theater (this season, she's been to the Bolshoi 45 times!), and their family also has a dog named Patrick. Patrick became a part of the family a few years after Daria won her own personal Olympics—by completing her treatment for lymphoma.

Medical History

Daria Krasnova, 37 years old, Moscow.

Diagnosis — Primary Mediastinal Large B-Cell Lymphoma — was given to her 10 years ago.

It all started in the summer of 2015. I took up running with my girlfriends. When I returned from Sochi in August, I couldn't complete a 10-kilometer race. That was the very first warning sign. 

In November of that same year, my daughter and I flew to my father-in-law in Costa Rica. There, my condition visibly worsened. I thought it was acclimatization: I had a cough and pain in my upper back, as if I'd been caught in a draft. After we returned to Moscow, terrible night sweats began. I'd wake up, and even the bedding would be soaked. My temperature spiked almost every night. My mother even suggested I might have HIV. I really didn't look well. On 1 January 2016, I remember waking up with the thought that I had cancer, but I didn't pay much attention to it, deciding I needed to get it checked out. During the January holidays, I tried to get tests done somewhere, but the labs were almost all closed. By around the 10^th of January, my condition continued to worsen. The test results weren't good, but HIV, thankfully, was ruled out. I saw several doctors and even spent some time in the hospital. The second possible diagnosis was tuberculosis, but after the first X-ray, that option was ruled out. The true diagnosis—hematologic oncology—was first mentioned only at the Botkin Hospital, in the Department of Pulmonology.

Shock and Acceptance

My first CT scan was done on the 21^st of January. My ex-husband drove me there; it was his birthday that day. I think he will never forget that day after such an event. When the specialist came out and gave the preliminary diagnosis, I just slumped—I slid down the wall. I started crying. The clinic staff rushed over and tried to comfort me. At least some clarity brought relief, although my condition was still critically severe: a temperature of 38°C every day, antipyretics every 8-12 hours, and fluid began to accumulate in my lungs. They even drained it once, but it didn't bring any improvement. I waited for only one thing—for the treatment to start as soon as possible.

On my first day at the NMRC for Hematology, I was met by one of the staff members (who no longer works there now). He told me that on these very grounds there used to be a hospital where Vrubel was treated—and he's my favorite artist! At that moment, I realized I was in the right place. I was lucky with my doctors; I still occasionally meet with Yana Konstantinovna and Ekaterina Sergeevna, and I am very grateful to them. Another interesting point: my preliminary diagnostics were done at the Botkin Hospital, where I spent about two weeks. During that time, I watched life outside the window a lot. It turns out that only crows live there—real, Moscow crows. As one popular song goes, ‘Muscovite crows woke me up.’ They really did wake me up every morning, but since it was winter, the days were short and mostly dark, which had a very uninspiring effect. At the Hematology Center, on the other hand, only pigeons live. I am sure they have a positive influence, which is necessary for a speedy recovery, and in the morning you wake up not to cawing, but to pleasant cooing.

“It’s Great That It's Lymphoma”

When the diagnosis was confirmed, I already knew it was treatable. Lymphoma isn't HIV or tuberculosis. You just have to go through this path. Objectively, I am a positive person. Lying down and not trying to find a way out of any situation is just not me. They said get treatment—so we'll get treatment. I love life very much.

Also, friends sent Daria the story of Rinat Karimov, a participant from one of the previous “I Will Live!” projects. He had the same diagnosis and was treated at the Blokhin Cancer Research Center. Now he's doing well.

Support and My Personal Olympics

I have a lot of girlfriends, and they supported me. They made a video—each mother with her child drew a poster with a certain word, took a photo, and edited all the photos together to one of my favorite songs, “We're Not Afraid of the Gray Wolf” by the band Mgzavrebi. They made a collage from these photos and printed it out; it still hangs above my bed. My parents and my ex-husband supported me too. While I was in treatment, my daughter stayed with her dad.

The road to recovery was not easy, but I decided right away that I would do everything in my power. My mindset was always combative. One friend texted me every day asking me how I was. It was a kind of ritual that supported and helped. Plus, I kept up social media, where I shared moments of my treatment. Before the fifth round of chemo, my friends decided to gather in Muzeon Park with a big group. That's how “Dasha's Day” was born. Honestly, I don't know how many people came then, but I think no fewer than 50, including the kids! We still celebrate this day on May 27th. No one knows why that exact date was chosen; at the end of May it's already warm and very beautiful in the parks, nature comes alive, just as I did in the spring of 2016.

In an interview with an acquaintance who was also treated at the Hematology Center, I heard a great comparison: treatment is like the Olympics. I had only one opponent—myself. Each round of chemo was like a stage toward victory in my own personal Olympics.

How to Explain It to a Child

When I got sick, my daughter was four years old. In our family, we tell each other if something happens. Nowadays, all kids watch “The Fixies” and know about blood cells—maybe even more than we do—so I just needed to go to the hospital to fight the bad cells. Now my daughter is 14, and she is calm about it. She goes with me to charity projects, studies music, and participates in charity concerts. Helping others is part of our lives.

Treatment

I had six rounds of chemotherapy and 18 sessions of radiation therapy. After chemo, I felt okay for a few days, and then it got very bad. It had a cumulative effect—with each round, my condition during the breaks worsened. 

Imagine: they hook up an IV drip on Monday and pump medicine for six days straight. They turn it off on Saturday. The treatment is objectively not easy. Four months—and that's just the chemo. The weakness was terrible. When I came home, I mostly stayed in bed. My daughter played pretend and treated me as her patient; there’s even a video of it. Such a trial is part of my path. I believe: if you forget certain moments, it might happen again. So I remember and am grateful for everything. Everyone's experience is different, but everything is given according to your strength. If I recall the hard moments, at the very beginning of treatment I met a young man from Novosibirsk. We had the same diagnosis and were being treated in parallel. Two years later, he passed away. That was very hard. Yes, it was a difficult period overall, but it's worth talking about it—who knows, maybe in the future I'll decide to write a book.

"I Am Alive!"

After the second round of chemo, which was late March or April, the weather was starting to improve. The snow on the roadsides was turning black, and you could feel spring. I was driving alone in the car—and suddenly the sun broke through into the car, my favorite music was playing, and I even started crying. Just because I felt alive. We so rarely manage to catch that moment—here and now. Now I compare everything to that minute. If something happens now, I tell myself: ‘Look at that, you are here—alive.’

What Comes Next?

When the treatment ended, I didn't understand what to do next. After chemo, I achieved remission, but to solidify the results, they prescribed a course of radiation therapy (I did it at a different place). I didn't need to stay in the hospital; I just had to come in for the sessions on weekdays. During that month of treatment, I talked a lot to people waiting in line. Sometimes we'd sit and wait for up to two hours. It was interesting—though once we almost got into a fight. On the last day, the specialist said: ‘Well, that's it—last time, and goodbye.’ My dad came with me to the last session. We left, got in the car as usual, and drove home. No big words from the doctor, nothing—just a normal day.

Actually, that's not very good. There was a feeling of something left unsaid. A person spent nine months working toward a goal, arrived, and it's unclear what happens next. What to do? How do you live on? Their social circle changes—some people fall of the face of the map while with others, you start communicating more.

In my opinion, this is the most problematic stage of the entire treatment journey. Until the end of treatment, there is always a clear plan: today is an IV or an examination, or maybe a 2-week break at home, during which there's still a predictable schedule. When treatment ends—you are your own master. You do whatever you want. That's when questions about new meanings and goals arise. Unfortunately, we don't have a systemic rehabilitation program for patients like me. That's partly why I went to study to become a social worker. I hope my thesis project will be on this topic.

A New Friend

A few years after finishing treatment, I decided to get a dog. I went on Avito and saw a marble Shetland Sheepdog puppy that won me over at first sight. And when it turned out that his birthday was on the date of my first chemo—February 15th—I understood that I definitely had to take him. The name was decided in advance—Patrick. It also worked out that he looks like a little fox, and in fairy tales, there's the fox Patrikeevna. Now we have a celebration every year and enjoy life together every day!

Nothing Is Impossible

A lot is said around me about a reassessment of values. In my case, it didn't happen immediately—I think it was after the end of treatment. I suspect that for most who have gone through something like this, the most important thing is that everyone is alive and healthy today; the rest doesn't matter. Now, when I meet new people, I usually say almost right away: ‘You know, my values aren't like yours; they've been beaten into me.’

If you want something, you have to go and do it. For example, I wanted to study to be a makeup artist for years, and I kept putting it off, putting it off... Then I thought: that's it, I almost died, I have to go. I went—and I didn't like it. From this, I understood: why did I agonize over this for 12 years? I could have gone right away, realized it wasn't for me, and that would be it. Now this has become one of my mottos in life: better to regret what you did than what you didn't do.

One day I was walking my dog and saw the word ‘fencing’ written in big letters on a building—so I went in and gave it a try. It sucked me in, and I really love it. Or the Bolshoi Theater. Everyone says, ‘Oh, it's so hard to get into the Bolshoi, especially for The Nutcracker.’ I basically took it as a personal challenge, decided to prove to myself that it was possible. I thought I'd go once and that would be it. But no—this season, I have plans for 50 visits just to the Bolshoi, not counting other plays and concerts. I've even been to The Nutcracker twice this season. There is nothing impossible; all limitations are in our heads. That is the main thing the illness taught me.

Never Give Up

I wish patients who face malignant blood diseases or cancer to never give up. If you want something—go, try, and do it. Maybe it won't work out. Maybe something will go wrong. I am sure that later you will definitely have something to tell your grandchildren. Never be afraid to try. And most importantly—you can seek support from other people; don't be afraid to ask for help. 

Self-Realization Before and After

I didn't graduate from university in 2011—I wrote my thesis, but didn't defend it. Before my illness, I worked as a sling consultant (those long scarves used to carry small children on a parent or another adult). I was one of the best consultants in Russia. During my illness, I continued to work and consult. After treatment, I threw myself into self-realization. Everything I had put off—I decided to finally try. I studied to be a makeup artist, a colorist, and then found myself in osteopathy. Before COVID, I actively saw clients.

Currently, I am studying to become a social worker and will finish in November. I re-enrolled at university for Art History. In general, I live an active life, go fencing, go to the theater. I do what I like. The most unexpected thing I discovered about myself during this time is writing articles. I never liked writing texts, but suddenly I wrote several articles for classicalmusicnews.ru. Discovering my family history was a revelation for me; I even traveled to the Ivanovo archives. It turned out my great-uncle was an opera director. We share the same birthday, so that's probably where my love for theater comes from.

And there's no problem if you don't finish something to the very end. But where is the end? Who decides when the end is? What constitutes the end? For example, I go to fencing practice. I went today, had a great time—and I finished. Maybe I'll never have another practice in my life. So there's no point in chasing these “ends.”

Helping Others

A few years ago, I went to study at the Leukemia Foundation to become a peer counselor, and now I help patients like myself as much as I can. I think it's important because when I was in treatment, this didn't exist. It's great that now there are support groups and peer counselors; if you want, you can find support.

Our Best Life

Everyone builds their life the way they want. There is always a choice to live your best life or dedicate it to something else that doesn't bring joy. I choose happiness every day. A quote from the band Daite Tank comes to mind here:

"This won't repeat, this won't repeat

Time flies like a bird, straight over the horizon

Everyone remembers the rules, we won't see twice

Even a completely unimportant lived episode

This is a ‘live broadcast’

We all live in a live broadcast. Every moment is unique.

We can often just step outside and simply enjoy the sunshine, the singing birds...

For example, the other day I smelled acacia. I'm walking and thinking: I've been looking for this acacia for years, and I know it exists somewhere. I'm walking through the yards, searching... And suddenly—four stories tall, a huge white acacia! It smelled amazing. I walked past it for years. And it turns out it was in the neighbor’s yard all along! So, don't wait. Otherwise, your whole life can pass while you're waiting. It's better to try: it'll work out or it won't—that's fine, at least you'll have the experience.

A Playlist for Those Who Read to the End

Music accompanies me through life. It was always playing in my hospital room. I can't imagine myself without it, so here's a top-3 tracks list to help readers understand me better.

This section was originally born after watching a video on social media about how you can make a vinyl record from your ashes after death—and the question of which tracks to put on it.

Of course, I would also add Tchaikovsky's Piano Concerto No. 1, Cavaradossi's aria from Puccini's Tosca (which also has a cello quartet—my favorite), and definitely Ennio Morricone's “Chi Mai.” I'd also add a couple of tracks by Daite Tank, but they reflect different moments in life, so let them remain off the list.

About the Project “I Will Live!”

The project is really great. It reduces the level of cancerophobia in general. People are always afraid of it, but here—people who have been treated, who have walked a certain path—they show that you can live on, you can not be afraid to try new things. And that's wonderful. It helps both those who follow the project and those who participate. It's like therapy—accepting yourself, that you are beautiful, that life goes on. How did I join the project? Last year I wrote to the organizers, and they promised to include me on the list. And this year, I'm in the project!

We remind you that this year we are doing the project together with artists. They will create a special background and mood for each photographic portrait. The exhibition “I Will Live!” will open in September 2026 at the Winzavod Center for Contemporary Art. Special thanks to makeup artist Sergei Turchaninov and hair stylist Karina Levitskaya for creating the looks for our heroes. Project partner: decorative cosmetics brand ART-VISAGE.