It has been 4 weeks since my treatment ended, one month since that March 11th at 1 in the afternoon when I saw for the last time that blue corridor; I hope with all my strength and faith that it be so.
During the 4 weeks that have passed I have had to subject myself to physical medical revisions, laboratory analyses, studies, taking blood samples, controls. Even so, I was grateful every day that I was not injected with chemotherapy, that I was not radiated, and that I did not have to take the nasty chemotherapy pills.
I had the opportunity to recover my energy, heal my body and my mind (maybe not to 100%, but very close), to return to my life almost to the point that I forgot that I ever had cancer or that maybe it is even still there. These 4 weeks have been wonderful for me to realize that we can actually survive the treatment; that our body is stronger than we think; that even though sometimes our minds betray us, in the end they are always there, ready to continue on and give the best of us; to confirm happily that this change that the cancer caused in my life was not fleeting, that it will not pass and become just one more opportunity that I did not take.
I continue to hold on to life; to the moments that present themselves in the day to day and that many times we don’t care to see; to my wife, who is always there, present and attentive as though we were still in those terrible days that made us question the results of the treatment; to my mom, whose love grows each day, and now at least she smiles and tries to stay positive, seeing that I’m still here and that I survived the treatment; to my family, who even when the 9 weeks of treatment are over, continue to pay attention and take care of me; to my friends, whose demonstrations of support haven’t diminished or changed, to the contrary, now each embrace, each greeting, each moment and each beer that we share is enjoyed more because we realize that we don’t have any guarantees, that life can escape our hands at any time, so we want to enjoy it and hold on to these small moments that we DO have with our love ones.
A couple of weeks ago I had an appointment with the head doctor in charge of my treatment; the objective was to see how I was doing, and schedule the next step, that I tried to avoid, that every day I prayed would not arrive: the surgery. The doctor began the same as all of the appointments, indicating how good I looked, and how “healthy” I seemed, as if I didn’t have anything, as if the chemo and radiation therapy had not been applied; “the other doctors have told me about how well you received the treatment, we’re all surprised by how well you responded.” The doctor continues to speak formally to everyone (using the Spanish usted), you could say he is of the old school, that culture of respect and extreme formality that on occasions I long for, while in other situations I am grateful to live in more modern times.
After the initial chat, the comments on how well I am doing, giving me hope that there was a tiny possibility that the surgery could be averted, came the bucket of freezing water, practically ice. “We need to schedule the surgery, I think I’ll operate in two weeks,” he gave us the date and time. Why? How? This doesn’t make sense! – were the phrases and questions that flew through my mind. If I look well, if I responded “very well” to the treatment, if the tumor has been reduced by more than 80% and the chemotherapy will continue to have an effect, why do I need to have the surgery anyway?
I understand that there will always be things we don’t understand, either because God doesn’t want us to or simply because it’s his way of teaching us, or simply because the doctors think they are gods and that they can do whatever they want with our lives and our bodies; at the end of the day, they are the experts. Who are we, mere mortals, to question their designs? “It will be a rough surgery,” he said, I should prepare myself as if for a marathon. His reference was not referencing that running a marathon is the toughest challenge that a person can face, in many ways I think our “marathon” is a thousand times more difficult, more rigorous and at times with less likelihood of arriving at the finish line.
But I understood the reference; my body, my mind and my soul needed to be ready for a surgery of this magnitude. I should be prepared to survive and to fight, once again, to beat this damned cancer that I would have wished never to have. I asked if I could return to B-63, as you remember together with my home, that sweaty room, full of training equipment, of the people that at 7 in the morning receive me warmly, became my sanctuary and refuge. Fortunately, the response was affirmative. Moreover, it was motivated by the doctor, who said that the exercise would help me to prepare my body as well as my mind. Preparing my soul and spirit is the work of the people who surrounded me; it is the ones who love me who would prepare me for this new battle.
Since then I completed three full weeks in training, taking my body to the limit, making my mind strong against the challenge and the body’s pain when it told me to stop, but my mind wouldn’t let me. I´ve used those three weeks to try to recover what I had achieved and later lost because of the treatment, and I am not just talking about the muscle gained and fat lost, I’m talking about the strength of my mind, my motivation to continue on and understand that when the mind sets itself to completing a challenge, the body only has to follow that instruction.
On this occasion, the goal isn’t to train harder, it’s not to gain more muscle, not to avoid vomiting, not to withstand the daily and constant nausea, it’s not walking 25 minutes daily without enjoying the path towards the hospital, it’s not walking down that blue corridor without turning around and running the other way; this time the challenge is to survive a surgery that seems will be a battle without equal. This time the fight is with my own body against the anesthesia, against the stiches, but above all against those organs that might want to give out while my mind tells them not to, tells them to continue fighting, that we’re going to be ok and we will leave behind this horrible experience.
I don’t know what’s going to happen in the surgery, I don’t know in the end how serious it will be, I don’t even know if I’ll survive, but I can tell you dear readers that I AM READY, that my mind and my body are in the shape they should or can be to fight this final battle, that I am arriving at this defining moment, prepared and trained. You’ll ask yourselves if I’m afraid; of course I am. Not just fear, terror of what is to come, a sensation of fear that I’ve never felt before, probably because I’ve never played with my life on this level before.
So yes, I am afraid, yes I am worried about what might happen, yes I refuse to leave this world. But that fear doesn’t defeat us, I am ready! I trust God and my grandmother, I trust that I will be able to write you again in the future days, that I will be able to talk about the battle that’s coming and say that I was the winner. As I tell my wife, I am NOT going anywhere. I AM READY.
Mario
April, 2017