Categoría: Chronicles in English

Publicado en

Round 12 – K.O.

The alarm went off at 7:15 in the morning on Monday, October 16, 2017. I looked at my telephone, and thought about not getting out of bed. After a few minutes, I managed to convince myself that it was time. I knew that this day would come and that I should even be happy, content, and maybe even proud.

I got into the shower, bathed, and got ready for the day, a process that took longer than I usually invest. Afterwards, I put on my suit, kissed my wife goodbye and went to the kitchen to make my breakfast (cereal, nothing more elaborate). I ate in a strange mood, and with my mind far from the dining room table. I kissed my mom goodbye on my way out of the house and took a taxi to the office.

That October 16 was the day of the last injected chemotherapy session. I had managed to get to round 12 of this battle that seemed like it would never end. This day would mark the rest of my life, just as the January 4th has, when the doctor gave me the diagnosis; the day when stage 3 cancer and I would meet in the ring to decide who would come out a champion, if He or I would be knocked out.

When the clock hit 2:30 in the afternoon, I left my office. On the way to the hospital I thought, more than once, about turning around and dropping out, throwing in the towel and let all of this GO to shit. I was overwhelmed by the anger, the pain and the feeling of impotence. All of the people who love me, and have followed me, or maybe I should say suffered with me on this long process, called me to give me supportive words to cheer me up, to let me know how proud they were. Their demonstrations of caring didn’t stop all day. They wanted to show me that I had made it, that I was finally leaving this terrible stage behind me. In my mind it was different: the battle continued as constant and as difficult as it had every day up to this October 16.

I couldn’t, and didn’t want to, accept that I should be content, proud, and even happy for having gotten to the last round, to the last battle between the damned treatment and me (remember that I curse the treatment for the pain and the damage it causes, not for the treatment in itself, whose only end is to save lives). On the radio I hear an announcement about the increase of cancer cases and death rates in Mexico (and the world). I realize that I am part of that statistic now, and that I will be for the rest of my life. The anger, the frustration, the desperation and the frailty invade me once again. I again thing about going back and letting EVERYTHING go to shit.

My wife sends me messages; she lets me know that she’s on the way, that I’ll see her soon to eat something together before getting into the ring for the final battle. She knows what I think and what I feel. She could see it in my eyes this morning, my fear, sadness, depression, my desire to give in, and while we eat she does everything she can to keep those thoughts from my mind.

We arrive at the hospital, do the paperwork for my admittance, and then I am ready for the fight. The nurses, the doctor, the hospital staff, they all receive me with a smile, they cheer me up, “It’s the last one, you did it”. My mind is still a thousand feet high, thinking, trying to understand, arguing with itself: How did I get here? Why did this happen to me? Am I really such a bad person that I deserved to go through this and to be at the edge of death? I return to the feeling of injustice and anger.

My wife and my mom accompany me. They are there every minute and every second, paying attention to how I am doing. They talk with the doctor, they ask about my health, and most importantly: what happens next. They try to think positively, to believe and have faith that this is the last time we’ll hear about this and that we will have to go through this exhausting experience.

Seeing how they hold on to this thought, to that faith and hope that the cancer will never come back, I remember: I’m in the battle; it’s ME who is fighting; only I can save myself; only I can arrive at that last bell of the last round and come out victorious. I gather my strength, I realize that this battle, as well as the wear that cancer brings with it, is not only mine; that I fight for my wife, for my mom, for my family, for my friends and for all of the people who love me. But I also fight for each and every one of us who suffers from cancer, because each battle won by one of us is hope for those who continue fighting; because each successful case is one more study that allows the doctors to have more efficient treatments; because every cancer patient is there with me in that ring, in that last round, jus as I am with them when they are receiving their treatments and fighting to resist and to survive. Because yes, we are a statistic, but we are also people who, because of fate’s random will now form part of a community, to which no one would like to belong, not even us. And that unites us; it creates a bond, a common feeling, a goal and a final objective that we all share: TO SURVIVE and beat cancer. In this moment, I realize that I fight for all of them, and they all fight for me; that the battle against cancer doesn’t belong to me, but rather to all of us, and that united we are stronger and we can achieve this common goal.

Last bell, round over, I won. Here I remain, and my life will continue, because never has it been more true than now that my story is just beginning!

It doesn’t matter how many times we fall. It doesn’t matter how many times I broke my 30 minute rule; it doesn’t matter how many times I screamed and cried; how many times I fell and wanted to give up, just stop fighting and let everything go to SHIT. In the end, my wife’s philosophy was always present: it doesn’t matter how you get there, the important thing is to get there. There is only one path and this is through the tests that life gives us. I suffered, I cried, I got depressed, I screamed, I hated, I fell, I almost gave up, but in the end I can say that the objective was achieved, it doesn’t matter how or what we had to go through in the process, the point was to get to the finish line and that objective was reached.

Now, while I’m in my last two weeks of treatment (taking the damned chemotherapy pills to complete the cycle), going through rough moments, feeling bad, wanting to throw up, resisting, finally this tranquility has come, that I have overcome this battle and I can say that I won.

All I have left to do is wait; hold onto the idea that all of this long and painful process was successful and that the following 5 years of constant follow up and observation will culminate with a total cure: that at the end of the coming 5 years the doctor will finally say, “you did it”. When you’ve been touched by cancer, the possibility that it will return to your life is much higher than for all of those who have the privilege of not living through it, but even with this statistic I will hold onto the idea that the battle is over and I won, that the cancer will not return to put my life on pause, and to live each day with the hope of getting to the next.

Once again, thank you for allowing me to share my story. Thank you for reading me and following me in this process. Thank you for being an additional support from far away that allowed me to vent, talk, and above all share. The battle against cancer isn’t only for those who are sick, so lets do this together and survive together. Special thanks to my wife and my mom for enduring each day by my side, for being my source of inspiration and strength to keep fighting, for putting up with my mood swings, my moments of weakness, my moments of anger, but above all, thanks always for LOVING me every day above all else. This victory is as much theirs as it is mine. Thank you for keeping me alive.

Mario

October 2017

Publicado en

The aftermath

That morning of May 12 time stopped. The long awaited and anticipated date had finally arrived for my wife, my family and myself. Not for happy reasons, but we all knew it would come. I woke up at 2 in the morning, and lay in bed staring up at the ceiling unable to fall back asleep, I managed to go back to sleep at about 3:30 in the morning only to wake up again at 4, and that’s how the day started.

At 9:30 in the morning, we headed to the reception of the hospital, where I would be admitted. My wife, my mom, one of my aunts and one of my cousins and her fiancée were with me. At the hospital a few minutes later another aunt, uncle and my cousin, the one who accompanied me in the chemotherapy sessions all those Mondays, arrived. It was the moment we always knew would come, but that nonetheless represented the culmination of all of the fear, nerves and ghosts that each of us had because of what might happen during the surgery. The doctor who would operate had always inspired security and calm, she’s basically the best surgeon there is for the type of tumor and location of the cancer that I was fighting. But even so, it was still the most terrifying moment for all of us, or at least for me. I couldn’t stop asking myself what would happen if I didn’t wake up; if I never saw my loved ones again; what would happen if something went wrong in the surgery and the result wasn’t what we were expecting; what would happen if…

We had expected the surgery to last for 6 hours or more. After many hurdles, discussions and phone calls, the insurance company had accepted to cover the robotic surgery, which is the most recommended method for the type of operation I would have, and I fought to have it, since I felt more certain that with that method we would achieve the desired result (minimal collateral).

At 5:30 in the afternoon the phone in my room rang, “We’ll be bringing you down to the operating room soon” said the nurse’s voice on the other end. We didn’t know at the time how short the wait would be. At 6 in the afternoon a nurse came into the room and began to get everything ready, the moment had arrived, there was no turning back, there was nothing left to do but hold onto my faith, trust in the hand of God and be grateful for all of those who accompanied me with their presence and love. By this time the room was full, there were more than 15 of us there, all there for me, and because of me, all supporting me with their ghosts and fears, but there. I’ve never been able to complain about having so much love around me, God has always blessed me with love from my family and with many great friends, which I owe to my grandmother who taught me to talk to everyone and have an agreeable character, at least I think so.

While they pushed my hospital bed towards the door, each of those who were there with me gave me a kiss, a hug, a supportive word, cheering me on to get through what was coming. The last to say goodbye were my mom and my wife. Both hugged me, gave me a kiss and tried to smile and tell me that everything would be all right, that they would see me soon when I got out of the surgery. Neither could hide the fear of what might happen, my wife was so sweet when she touched me and told me she loved me that I couldn’t keep my heart from breaking a little thinking that it could be the last kiss and the last time I’d see her. I have to tell you that the possibility of something terrible happening was not something real, according to the doctors. The surgery was going to be a massacre, they were going to cut up a large portion of my body, mutilating me on the inside and remove everything removable near the site of the tumor, but even so, there were no risks that I would not survive the surgery. The doctor was certain of it. This didn’t mean, however, that I wasn’t terrified of something so severe. I suppose that you never know what you really suffer before the surgery until you’re in that position.

Four and a half hours later I was back in the hospital room, barely waking up from the surgery and pretty dazed because of the medication they were administering so I wouldn’t feel the pain of my body at that moment. I wasn’t even all the way conscious when my wife and mom gave me the report that the doctor had shared with them after the surgery and while I was in recovery.

They had removed what they needed to, they hadn’t found indications of tumors outside of the localized area of the tumor, and even better, the tumor had practically disappeared and was very small when it was removed from my body. There were complications during the surgery, the doctor made the decisions she considered pertinent to fulfill her primary objective, saving my life. She wasn’t concerned with the functionality of my body and much less for aesthetics, that is the protocol of all oncologists, first life, then function and aesthetics comes last.

I couldn’t help but be angry, complain, cry and scream with rage. Who are the doctors to make such important decisions that will mark you for the rest of your life, without even asking. Why do they have the right to determine how you live and what type of life you’ll have in the coming months, years or for the rest of your life while you’re sleeping? With what justification can they say to you when you wake up, “I had to leave these tubes, these connections, remove this or that, because I decided it was for the best.” The best for who? For the doctor who makes the decision, for the oncologist who decides how much to mutilate the body in order to “save” the patient’s life?

Since that fateful January when I received for the first time the news that I had cancer, I have found that with this illness there is no stability, everything is uncertain and it’s a process of overcoming and of constant frustration. When you think you’ve overcome one part, something comes along that shakes you again, that makes you think and deny life, that makes you hate your body for having allowed the cancer to develop. Because, yes, cancer is a personal disease, you yourself provoked it and you yourself have to overcome it, our own cells have betrayed us and made us ill.

While I was trying to digest and accept the result of the surgery, which left me feeling like Robocop – you remember the policeman reconnected with tubes and hoses that allowed his body to function and move -, the moment for the doctor’s appointment arrived, when she would give us the results of the pathology analysis following the operation, the result of which would affect the rest of my life.

Neither I nor my wife spoke as we drove to the hospital, other than to give directions on how to get there. Both knew what this day would mean and that the news we would receive could mark the rest of our lives. When we arrived, my mom was already in the waiting room. My tubes hung from my body while I walked in circles waiting to be called into the doctor’s office. By then I was sick of the circumstances I was in following the surgery and it had barely been five days. I already wanted the doctor to take out the tubes, reconnect everything, close the wounds they left open and that would last 8 weeks. None of my requests to end this process sooner resonated with the doctor, her response was a raw “we have to follow the protocols; you’ll remain with these wounds open for 8 weeks.”

Nonetheless, in spite of how hard and raw the doctor had to be, that day she changed our lives. That day everything became different. That day marked the beginning of what will be a new life for me. Friends, YES I could, yes there was one survivor at the end, the nightmare was over. The cancer was gone, all of the results from pathology were negative, the tumor had been removed and had been reduced by more than 90%. They did not find signs in any other part of my body nor were there infected lymph nodes. The doctor smiled, she took a breath while she looked at the extremely happy faces of my wife, my mom and myself, to say in the end, “Congratulations Mario, you’re cured, you’ve done it.” These words will resonate forever in my head. It was worth all of the suffering, all of the treatments, the daily and constant nausea, the lightheadedness, the lack of appetite, the frustration, the damned blue hallway, in the end, everything was done correctly and it worked… the hard decisions of the doctors involved in my case achieved their objective, to eradicate the cancer from my body.

I still have to get through the weeks of recovery, I still have to wait for them to close me up, what’s more I still have to overcome 4 more chemotherapy sessions that the oncologist decided were necessary, “to assure and prevent any recurrence” he said. But I will overcome all of this having been cured, with a victory in hand and knowing that it is possible. The mind, the body, the spirit, our faith are stronger than we think and can achieve the greatest miracles that we can imagine, they can cure us of one of the greatest evils known to man, they can combat and most importantly, win the battle against cancer, obviously helped along by the wonderful doctors and horrible treatments, but neither the first nor the second can work without our own iron will that carries us step by step, day by day, minute by minute with our strength and minds focused on overcoming this terrible illness.

It’s not a criticism of the doctors, to whom I’ll be forever grateful for saving my life, but they always seem to find a way to be the protagonists in the end, and diminish the joy that we can feel after such positive results as the ones I’ve just shared. Yes, I’m cured; yes, everything went well in the surgery; yes, the treatment was effective; yes, my body was a rock withstanding all of it; but even so it’s necessary to undergo additional chemotherapy. 4 more sessions to be sure any residue of the disease has been destroyed. It doesn’t matter that the surgery and the results from pathology guaranteed that there was nothing left, it’s not excessive to be sure with more chemo. It’s very easy to make these decisions when it’s not your body in play, when it’s not the doctor who will be submitting himself to another 4 treatment sessions that will cause nausea, lightheadedness, pain, loss of appetite, frustration… all of this to be sure that even though we’re already sure the cancer is gone, that it’s all the way gone.

The most frustrating and worrisome part is that because of the result of the surgery and my Robocop situation, I can’t exercise, I can’t run, I can’t jump, much less lift weights; my B-63 that was my refuge that helped me to keep a cool head and get up every day ready to overcome one more chemotherapy session, is off the schedule until they close the wounds that are still open. A new chapter of treatment is starting, and different from the first time, I can’t anticipate how it will be since my most solid refuge that I had to overcome it won’t be there.

What I can anticipate is that overcoming 4 more sessions knowing that the cancer is completely gone should make a difference in how I will live these new treatments. A new chapter will be written, a new battle will be fought, but one that begins with the war already won.

Thank you for allowing me to share my story, thanks for keep reading this blog and for following me in this process. Thank you for being an additional support, even from far away, that allows me to vent, chat, and above all to share. I hope this blog continues to help those that are suffering, have suffered or know someone who might need hopeful words and proof that it can be done; we can defeat cancer no matter how hard the battles are.

Mario

May 2017

Publicado en

Barbarous Methods

Even in this modern age there is something fundamentally barbaric about cancer treatment. Given, we are not talking about the extremes that earlier cancer treatments achieved: high-dosage chemotherapy sessions where patients would spend the entire session vomiting convulsively and surgeries intended to remove all trace of cancer, but that left patients mutilated and had varying degrees of success in preventing a relapse. Treatment has evolved significantly over the past 20 or 30 years, as has the medical community’s understanding of this disease, and with it an improvement in prognosis for cancer patients – including Mario, thank God. None the less, the basic elements of cancer treatment remain the same – surgery, chemotherapy, radiation – but now applied more precisely, and where possible with limited collateral.

My mother-in-law said to me the other day, “You know, 25 years ago a cancer diagnosis was synonymous with death; having cancer was like walking around with a sign on your forehead that read ‘DEAD’.” She was telling me about the comments people would make, the pity-filled looks. And of course, the weight and hair loss only made it that much more evident. Thankfully, that’s not always the case now, and it’s not always necessary to subject patients to the extremes of earlier times. That does not mean, however, that oncologists have lost sight of the deadly nature of the disease they are helping their patients to battle. In the many doctor’s appointments I’ve participated in over the past few months, I’ve been reminded several times of their order of priorities: survival, function, cosmetics. So, if you’re a cancer patient, your doctor’s mission – their first priority – is to save your life, at any cost. Everything else is secondary to that primary goal.

The fight against cancer is personal in a way that fighting other diseases is not. Compare, for example, any kind of bacterial infection, the common cold, HIV/AIDS – the disease is caused by something foreign to the body, an outside aggressor that can be identified, named, and persecuted using medical and pharmaceutical technology. Psychologically, we have a target for our frustration and anger; something to hate. In the case of cancer, it’s your own body, your own cells, that have betrayed you, and that is precisely why it is so difficult to come up with a treatment that doesn’t make the patient feel like crap, or worse – the treatments attack healthy cells along with the cancer cells because they can’t distinguish which is which. Genetically, they are the same. The result of course, is that chemotherapy – taken to an extreme – is basically killing both the cancer and the patient in the hope that the cancer will be eradicated while it is still possible to bring the patient back from the brink of death (remember, I’m talking about an extreme here). This basic principle is barbaric, but also illustrative of the oncologist’s dedication to the primary goal – survival at all costs – the implication being that it doesn’t matter how bad things get in the inter.

Mario has been lucky – and by extension so have I. His cancer was diagnosed and treated before it spread, which so far has meant a milder chemotherapy regimen. He was able to find a surgeon specialized in the type of cancer he had, who was able to perform a non-invasive surgery to remove any remaining tumor and scar tissue following the initial chemo and radiation treatments. By and large, he and I and the rest of the family have been able to maintain a normal life – Mario never stopped going to work, even in the last couple of weeks of treatment. We continued to spend time with friends, eat out and go to the movies on the weekends, in spite of the nausea and exhaustion. Following the surgery, he’s basically all in one piece and the doctor gave strict instructions to walk 3 hours a day, starting the day after surgery. We have been so lucky in so many ways throughout this process, and yet even in these given-the-situation-fortunate circumstances, I see how Mario is suffering following the surgery.

For the first time since his diagnosis, he can’t go to work, much less to work out – his routine has been affected, the consistency of which helped him to keep his head above water in this sea of uncertainty and fear. There are tubes coming out of places they shouldn’t be, allowing blood and fluid from the surgery to drain away. There is pain, sometimes more, sometimes less, sometimes much more when a tube gets pulled on or I drive over a pot hole on the way back from a follow-up appointment – you can imagine how awful I felt. He doesn’t talk much about it, but I can tell how difficult it is for him to experience this, and I can’t help but think about how before the surgery he was fine – he could run and work out and go to work, and on the surface he was a picture of health.

Oncologists are brave souls; they are the ones who tell their patients, “It’s going to get worse before it gets better. I’m going to have to make you sick to save your life.” The women and men who stare down this disease every day make life-changing decisions for their patients: life, function, cosmetics. They’re the ones who have to explain after the surgery, “I’m sorry, I had to remove _____ it was too risky…” – just to be clear, by risky they mean life threatening. And then the patient has no choice but to find a way to cope with this change, this new version of life after cancer; to find a way to make due with the life the oncologist has permitted him or her to have, and that’s not always easy. There is something barbaric about waking up from surgery to find that something in your body has been fundamentally altered.

Now, before you get the wrong idea, please don’t confuse my description of cancer treatment as barbaric – which I do think that it is, and one day I am sure we will find a better solution, like the one discussed in this recent article in the Washington Post – with a claim that oncologists are barbarians, because they are most certainly not. They are remarkable individuals with nerves of steel who are doing their very best under some of the very worst circumstances, with tools that we all hope will one day be much better and more precise. It’s the treatments that are barbaric, not the people who administer them in good faith.

When Mario was first diagnosed I didn’t know what to do with that news – he was the first person close to me to face this particular form of evil, and I had no context for interpreting what his diagnosis would mean for him or for us. A friend recommended a book – The Emperor of All Maladies by Siddartha Mukherjee – about cancer but written for a lay person. It provided me with all the context I have about how cancer treatment has developed and where we stand today – mostly oncologists are very busy and don’t have that much time to explain how modern cancer treatments have been discovered and refined. It’s well written and an interesting read, but if you are dealing with this disease in your personal life it’s more than just interesting. It provides useful context and information – particularly useful if you cope by trying to understand, as I do.

RoseAnna

Mexico City, May 2017

Publicado en

Back into the ring

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

Publicado en

Mid-season

The final two weeks of treatment were an avalanche of feelings, physical and emotional.

The pain was constant, the nausea worse than ever, pressure in my stomach all the time, exhaustion to such a degree that I could fall asleep at the computer while I was writing, or even standing and talking with someone. I was getting up as much as 7 or 8 times a night to use the bathroom.

On the second-to-last Monday of injected chemotherapy my platelets were low; “continue without exercising for the rest of the treatment,” the doctor said. Two full weeks that I’d need to continue without the training that I enjoyed, without this additional motivation that on many occasions was the highlight of my day.

Soon, while I was holding up under the pain and the desire to vomit, while I was trying and ordering my body, more out of pride than conviction, that it not regurgitate the little I had been able to eat for breakfast, lunch or dinner, the weekend came. Two more days of rest, when I would be able to try and recover and yes, prepare myself to start the last week of treatment.

That weekend before the last week of treatment my wife and my mom’s words of encouragement were interminable, much more than in the other weeks; the visits, the calls, the messages, the good vibes and prayers erupted from every corner of my family and friends, “you can do it”, “it’s the last one”, “you’ve come this far”, “you’re almost done”, “you can’t give in now”. Among all of these phrases of support, one always resonated in my mind; during this whole process my wife, who suffered in silence to stay strong, often told me, “the only way out is through”.

And yes, the only way to cure ourselves and continue ahead is through the treatments, it’s surviving the chemo and radiation therapy, it’s staying strong and not giving up.

An aunt came from Oaxaca just to be there for my last chemotherapy session. Upon seeing me after 5 weeks of treatment, her face couldn’t hide the pain that she felt seeing her nephew so thin, with dark circles under his eyes, tired, worn out, going through something that, like many others, she questions and shouts, “this shouldn’t be happening.” She tried to cheer me up all day on Sunday, probably trying to prepare herself more than me to withstand that last Monday of chemotherapy.

Incredibly, the moment arrived. At one in the afternoon I walked into the hospital to receive what, with all of my faith in God, I hope will be the last chemotherapy session I ever receive. On the way to the hospital I couldn’t believe that the day had come, that finally, I was walking that path, at that time, for the last time in this first stage to overcome cancer.

My cousin was already there when I entered Room 19 – “Oncology”, the same area where other times I had come to accompany my mom in her treatments, in her follow up visits with the oncologist (our family doctor) and where I had wished with all of my strength to never come as a patient. He had already done all of the paperwork for my last session. They put the white bracelet with my name and patient number around my wrist; kindly, the receptionist told me to take a seat, they would call me in a moment.

I sat down next to my cousin. He asked me how I was, “fine, hanging in there” I answered in a joking tone, or maybe not so much. We sat in silence both of us, I don’t really know what went through his mind, but it was certainly something similar to what was going through mine. Will I hold up during the last session, how will my body react after so many toxins and accumulated exhaustion, will…? Minutes later a comment broke the silence, that more than uncomfortable was caring and supportive. My cousin didn’t need to say anything for me to know that he was there for me. “My aunt and Rose are here,” he said, “too early” he complained, we knew already that they wouldn’t let all three join me in the session and, obviously, none wanted to stay out in the lobby during these last three hours of treatment.

Upon arriving, my wife gave me a warm kiss and said, “I’m here if you need anything darling, everything is going to be fine”. My aunt, with her eternal fondness for me said, “I’m here my little son”. We sat together, the four of us looking at each other, and silence once again invaded the room. We were all concentrating on our own thoughts when the nurse announced my name and invited me into the other room. I jumped from my seat, taking a deep breath to gather the little strength I had left in that sixth week. The faces of the other three were cold, trying to hide the fear and nerves that invaded their hearts at that moment, wishing with all their strength and love that everything would be alright, but always with the eternal fear and mistrust of not knowing what would happen.

After weighing me, taking my vital signs and preparing all of the equipment, my treatment started. A Monday that for me marked the end of a treatment that I hope the people I love never ever have to experience. But at the same time it was the start of something new, something different. I can’t talk about a rebirth because that would be poetic and absurd; no one can be reborn. But it was a Monday when many things about the old me changed, died in that chemotherapy room, in order to take a step towards a new version of myself that I hope and trust will be better in many ways.

15 minutes after me, they let my aunt and cousin in. How they arrived at the arrangement that my wife would give up her place at the beginning so my cousin could be with me I don’t know, I suppose that my illness also reached the hearts of my whole family, so they were able to talk about things and organize themselves without fighting or disagreements. (Really, I insisted on waiting outside because I spend a lot more time with Mario than the other two. Later, his cousin insisted that I go in and he waited outside. –Rose) My aunt was once again unable to contain her expression of worry and frustration upon seeing me connected to the cables and pumps that injected the chemicals into my body, little by little.

That day passed without any surprises, aside from the side effects of the last five Mondays before and the exhaustion that was even worse that day because of the accumulated effect of the injected chemotherapy, the radiation and the oral chemotherapy. The really surprising thing was when the week passed and my body responded in a way that none of the doctors, or even my family, expected. There was nausea, but even so, it was less than in the fifth week; the pain in my stomach was not as intense as earlier weeks; I had light-headedness and headaches, but nothing out of the ordinary. My body was probably just as excited as I was to be in the last week of treatment.

In spite of this good response, there was a point of conflict during the week that came very close to making me collapse, finishing off the little strength I had left to give each day to the last radiation sessions. On Wednesday, when I was finishing my radiation session, the doctors told me there had been a mistake, “we calculated the sessions incorrectly” they said. I clearly felt my strength leaving me, as my courage and will to keep fighting were lost. At that moment, I felt rage, anger, hate, I wanted to scream, to insult and even to hit the doctors. It’s easy for them to just say that they made a mistake and that I’d have to go to more sessions than the ones my mind trusted I would. “We’re in session 24, not 25” they said. I know that many of you, mainly those who are fortunately not going through a similar procedure, might feel relieved to read that it was just one session, that the mistake wasn’t “so serious” and it would only cost me one more day.

However, all of you who are suffering the treatments day by day, you will understand, or rather you will feel, the same frustration as me. One more day of treatment makes too much of a difference; it’s one more dose of oral chemotherapy added to the radiation session. It’s one more day of attacking my body and hurting it. It’s one less day to recover, it’s one day less to say “I survived the treatment”. It’s one more day that can destroy us psychologically. After giving me this information they asked if I wanted the session to be on Saturday to finish up that week, or on Monday to have my usual two days of rest. Obviously I chose Saturday. What I wanted was to finish and never see that damn blue corridor again.

Saturday arrived, at 12:30 I crossed for the last time, again my faith in God makes me believe this, that damn blue corridor. For the last time they laid me down on the cold slab inside the isolated room. For the last time they moved me, pulled and adjusted however they wanted to line my body up with the x-ray. For the last time I left that area and greeted don Jose, who said goodbye with even more pleasure and spirit than usual, wishing with all his heart that he would never see me again in that blue corridor.

When I left, my wife was waiting for me in the black chairs, in that same place where she had lived and survived with me 28 days of treatment. She jumped up from the chair and walked towards me. “The last one darling, you did it.” I couldn’t answer, I hugged her, I held on to her as though I was never going to let her go, I put my head on her shoulder and I cried. I cried with pleasure, happiness, faith, gratitude to God and my grandmother who is in heaven and who walked with me every day from the office to the hospital, with gratitude for my wife and my family, for having survived. I cried just because I can still cry.

The treatment sessions concluded this week. Finally, I can really take a rest from those chemicals and x-rays that my body received for 28 days. I know this is barely half of the road, that I still need to have analyses to be sure that the tumor has been reduced substantially or even disappeared, which would be the best case. I still need to schedule the surgery, based on the test results. I still don’t know how aggressive it will be. I still need to get through the operation and recovery.

But I also need to keep living, to enjoy the moments life allows me to have. I still need to keep loving my wife. I still need to keep loving my mom and all of my family. I still need to travel. I still need to learn. I still need to be a better person. So I’m going to continue fighting and surviving.

The first part of this long and painful process is over, but my contact with you is not. This blog will continue. I’ll update it with the processes that are to come, and I’ll keep supporting you with my words, in case they are worth something. This blog will continue to exist to give us a human perspective of what we live through while we’re surviving cancer.

Remember that each of you can be a survival story, we can all say that at the end only one was left and it was us. If it helps, know that you have my support and prayers, they all add up. We continue to SURVIVE this illness in order to keep LIVING afterwards.

March 13, 2017

Mario

Publicado en

Fourth

4 full weeks of treatment, Monday through Friday; 24 hours of nausea; only 3 to 4 hours of sleep; getting up 5 or 6 times each night. 4 weeks of wearing down, of worry, of anxiety.

The treatment continues to be more difficult with each day. The fatigue accumulates; the body doesn’t fully recover with the few days of rest. Each time there is more death inside; more cells that are lost, white blood cells diminished, pounds lost, additional organs affected.

One of the most difficult blows of this fourth week was having to lose my training. I was left without B-63 until the treatment is finished. While I was injected with the chemotherapy on Monday, February 20, the doctor informed me that my platelets (responsible for the production of white blood cells and regulating coagulation) were at worrisome levels. Compared to the level of platelets a healthy body should have, I had less than a third.

I was informed of the risks of hemorrhages, open wounds and injuries that the body would not be able to arrest or heal, since the production of cells that help with coagulation was seriously diminished. The result: any exertion could cause a hemorrhage, external, or more seriously, internal, that could cause a lot of complications and, for this reason, I was order to stop attending my daily training sessions.

As you’ll remember, B-63 had become a motivation for me. An aspect of my life that helped me to remain cold, objective, with my mind fixed on the result; a way of showing myself that my body and mind can still reach goals that seemed impossible. In that moment I realized, once again, that I’m sick; that even though I want and try to hold on to with all my might, I CAN’T live my “normal” life as though nothing were happening. My body was demanding rest and I didn’t want to listen. I was so focused on trying to live a “normal” life, that I forgot to pay attention tot he signs my body was showing asking for a pause in the excessive effort that I subjected it to.

That’s when I realized that the concept of “normal” is a lot stronger than I wanted to realize. The implication of the word goes much further than it’s simple meaning. We hear the word and immediately think of the context that we have pre-programmed of what is “normal”. Is being healthy normal? Is exercising normal? Is being tall, short, white, brown, Catholic, married, gay, normal?

I am undergoing one of the most aggressive treatments that man has created to treat an illness, and I am not just talking about the type of chemotherapy that they are giving me, or whether it is combined with radiation therapy. What I am trying to transmit to you is that cancer treatment is in itself one of the most aggressive. It consists in injecting a person with a series of chemicals focused on killing the cancer cells, but what we often don’t realize is that the sick cells share almost exactly the same genetic structure as the rest of our cells. So, the idea of the treatment is to kill all of the cells that act like cancer cells, which means that little by little, day by day, they are also killing us on the inside, in the hope that the cancer cells die before the rest of the body. This sums up the treatment: play with the combination of chemicals that are more aggressive against the cancer cells than to the rest of our cells, hoping that the first die before the second, and thus we survive treatment.

When I realized this, I was forced to accept that for me, in this moment, feeling tired, sad, unmotivated, unable to exercise, suffering from low levels of platelets, is my new “normal”. That trying to live my life as though nothing were happening, was maybe just a self-defense mechanism to try to ignore a reality that I never wanted. I have cancer and suffering the effects of the treatment is NORMAL.

After this blow and the exercise of accepting it, as always, the calm came. I understood that it is NORMAL that I can’t exercise; normal that I am nauseous all day every day; normal that my wife, my mom, my family and my friends are worried every day about how I am doing; normal that the people who know what we are going through are available and try to help, even if only a little, with our recovery, in any way that they can.

I understood why I no longer enjoy those 20 minutes that I walk every day from my office to the hospital to receive treatment. I understood why, in spite of having the good fortune of working in my favorite neighborhood in the city, full of restaurants, shopping malls, parks, people, pets, joy, music, bars and atmosphere, it didn’t cause the same reaction of happiness each day. I understood that the fact that people pass by you in their cars, on their bicycles or walking, completely unaware of what you are living through and probably not caring, is NORMAL.

But this normality also opened my eyes to another reality that I had forgotten, even though I always thought that because of my personality I never would. I am talking about empathy; that human characteristic that allows us to identify with the suffering, the worries, motivations and emotions of others. In those 20 minutes that I walk each day – due to my conviction, not necessity – I have learned to appreciate the little details that show empathy between us. Why someone shows gratitude to a driver or cyclist who stops to let them pass when crossing a street; or the person who stops just to say “good afternoon”; the person who takes 5 minutes out of their busy day to help someone else cross the street or recover a fallen object. In that moment, you realize that this characteristic, which is rarer by the day, is something that can make us appreciate the world more and be better.

I have seen that it’s not necessary for everyone to know what I’m going through, or to read these lines, or be interested in my case, to show empathy. But those 20 minutes each day have helped me to appreciate all of the caring and empathy of those who do, every day.

The fourth week has definitely been the worst up to now, Wednesday and Thursday continue to be the most difficult, since that is when the treatment is at it’s highest point. But at the same time, those are the days when I receive the most support.

I am starting the last two weeks of the initial process to combat the cancer with my hope recharged, with the dream that the end could be near. The strength and motivation aren’t fully renewed, but I continue, in this daily fight to reach the end when only one remains, US.

Mario

March 1, 2017

Publicado en

Poor Darling

We’re walking back to his office from the hospital.  It’s hot; the stretch of Ejercito Nacional where the hospital is has few trees, and no shade at 4 in the afternoon.  The sun reflects off of the plywood wall that has been erected to block off the construction site on the other side.  We are both sweating, even Mario under his sweater.  We always hold hands as we walk, but not today.  Too sweaty.  She sees us from 20 feet away, and greets us both enthusiastically: “How are you? Are you back in Mexico permanently?  Mario, you’re so thin! Congratulations.”  We used to work together, all three of us, a long time ago.  She remembers Mario 10 or 15 kilos heavier – it’s always been hard for him to lose weight, until now.  We walk in silence after we say goodbye to our friend.

We’re in the elevator, on the way home.  Two coworkers are in the elevator with us; “You look thin,” one says to Mario.  “I’ve been working out,” he replies, like it’s nothing, with a smile.  “Looking good,” the other replies.  Mario smiles, he says thank you.  He says good bye with a handshake and a slap on the back as the other gets out of the elevator.  The doors close and Mario turns to me.  “Sometimes it’s so hard to keep smiling,” he says.  He hangs his head, dropping it onto my shoulder, and I put my arms around his shoulders and neck, and massage the back of his head, and say, “my poor darling.”

What else could I possibly say?  This is something I say a lot these days.  When we are at home, and he falls asleep in the overstuffed chair in front of the television while watching a soccer game.  When I walk into our room and find him laying on the bed, pale, lacking either the will or the strength to drag himself up – I can’t tell which.  I sit on the bed and stroke his forehead.  Every day he is paler.  His shoulders are narrower, his arms are thinner.  My poor darling.

We are leaving the hospital.  I ask if he has completed the radiation – if he resisted the urge to run away from the blue corridor.  He says yes, “barely.”  I look at his face and I realize that he is not joking, he does not smile and his expression is completely serious.  “We aren’t supposed to be here,” he says then.  “You mean you’re not supposed to be sick?”  “Yes. It’s not fair.”

No, it is not fair.  But life is not fair sometimes.  Sometimes things just happen.  Sometimes bad things happen, a lot of bad things, to good people who have no idea what they’ve done to deserve this punishment.  But the things that happen in life aren’t supposed to be fair, or unfair, they’re not intended to be a punishment, they just ARE and we’re left with one option only: to cope any way we can.

So I say, “poor darling,” and I wrap my arms around him and I wish with all my heart that I could make it go away, somehow protect him from all of the hurt.  I make lunch every day, I take it to the hospital, I wait on the black pleather chairs for him to emerge from the blue corridor.  I stay nearby in the afternoon, just in case, and then we drive home together.  I make quesadillas for dinner and tell him how proud I am when he manages to finish 2, with no hunger and in spite of the nausea.  I stand in the kitchen, eating ice cream from the carton, and I suddenly realize how hard it must be for him to face this with a smile – the symptoms of his treatments are becoming more apparent, and friends who think they are being supportive congratulate him for it – and my heart breaks a little more.

Rose

February 22, 2017

Publicado en

Half Time

I’ve walked down the blue corridor in the basement of the hospital where the radiation equipment is kept 16 times. 16 distinct moments each day when the nurses, the doctors, the security guard, greet me.

They take my vital signs each day, to keep track of how my body is responding. They lay me down on a cold metal and plastic table inside a carefully sealed room, to make sure there are no radiation leaks. They cover me with blankets and comforters so I don’t get so cold. They move me every possible way to line up the tattoos they made to mark the exact point where the x-rays should enter. “We’re going to start now, please don’t move,” are the last words the doctors say each day before starting the radiation sessions.

Those 30 minutes that I spend alone, receiving the x-rays, seem eternal. My mind soars, it betrays me, my feelings get stronger, sometimes I cry, sometimes I smile, sometimes I lament.

On more than one occasion while I’m walking down the blue corridor I’ve thought about turning and running, escaping and never returning. Often it’s enough to repeat certain activities 2 or 3 times for them to become routine in our lives. Not this time. Not when you know that each time you get to the end of the corridor and enter the radiation chamber, a little bit of you is worn down; it dies a little bit at a time. And I’m not talking about the cancer, I wish it were only that damned tumor that we never wanted in our lives to begin with. No, I’m talking about the rest of the cells, I’m talking about the layers that cover part of our body and protect us, I’m talking about the skin, I’m talking about all of the side effects of the treatments. When you think of what you are living through, it is impossible for the blue corridor to become routine. Moreover, we pray to God that it never becomes routine.

Don Jose, the security guard in charge of the radiation chamber greets me with an incomparable smile. “Good afternoon, how are you?” he asks every day, maintaining a positive attitude towards life, towards the people that he sees worn out, weak, suffering; even so, he smiles. Don Jose helps us to keep our spirits and hope alive. He always gets up from his chair, takes his cane, and approaches each patient to extend a warm greeting, a handshake that reminds you YES, YOU CAN DO THIS. In spite of all the years he has been watching over the corridor, all of the patients he must have seen, and all the ones that he never saw again because they are no longer with us, in spite of these experiences that are part of his life even though they are not his own, Don Jose keeps smiling and greeting, trying to bring a little cheer to each of us that walk that damned blue corridor.

This third week was hard. The chemotherapy attacked me much more aggressively than the previous weeks. They continue to be “normal” side effects according to the doctors. My body and my mind were on the brink of falling; I wanted to quit, I wanted to give up when all of the smells, all of the flavors, all of the images made me want to throw up every 10 minutes. Afterwards, I remembered the 30-minute routine, and I pulled myself up.

I held on to life once again, to my passion for my work, my love for my wife and my family, and all of the pleasures and moments of happiness that life gives us, and I pulled myself up. “I’M NOT GOING ANYWHERE” I tell my wife; I’ll be here for many more years, pestering and enjoying those little moments that the cancer has taught me to enjoy once again.

“You can fall down, cry, complain, curse with me darling, but don’t stop the treatment,” are the words of my wife, which she repeats every time she sees on my face an expression even close to tired. My mom knows I’m strong, she’s proud of my ability to withstand the treatments, but at the same time her expression reflects worry, pain, desperation. Each of us is fighting a constant battle against our feelings and thoughts; each tries to stay strong in their own way and in their role. Each part of the strength that our loved ones show while they walk this weary road with us recharges us and allows us to continue on.

At work things continue on their course; the people who know what’s going on do their best to treat me as though cancer didn’t exist (although they can’t keep from their minds the thought that it’s there and we have to wait). At B-63 the encouragement and cheering continue from the ones who know, and from the rest the same treatment as always, the friendship that this community has permitted me to create.

This week was the one that, up to now, I have most wished for the weekend to come, which is my rest from the chemo and radiation therapy. I needed a break, to regroup and continue on. I realize that we don’t have to be strong all the time, we don’t have to hold our heads up every day, but we do have to continue on, convinced that we are stronger than the cancer, convinced that at the end of the road, only ONE with remain, and it will be US.

Hold on to life, find that motor, that motivation that makes you feel alive and happy. That force is the one that will get us to our goal.

Mario

February 20, 2017

Publicado en

A series of moments

When I realized that Mario had cancer it was in a series of moments, not all at once. Maybe everyone else knew after the first where the series of tests that followed would lead us, but unlike my husband, in my family there is no history of cancer – at least not until 60, 80, 90 years of age – so my experience up to that moment dictated that my 35-year-old husband would be fine. Sure, they found something abnormal, but it wouldn’t be anything serious. I couldn’t imagine in that first moment that at the end of the process that began with that first test we would find ourselves in a chemotherapy room.

The second moment was when Mario called me after an appointment with the doctor – I was in Washington, DC where I was still living after the year we had spent there together for his LLM – and he told me, “it’s a tumor.”

“Ok,” I thought, “it’s a tumor, but we don’t know anything else about it yet. Maybe it’s not malignant. Maybe it’s nothing.” Mario told me later that at that moment he knew what was coming, but I hadn’t yet realized it.

When I did realize it was on a Thursday two weeks later. It was in the afternoon and Mario was leaving his last test. He called me and said, “I have the diagnosis. It’s cancer, stage IIA.” That was the moment when it became real for me. Up until that moment, I had not accepted that it could be something so serious. I closed my office door, and I sat at my desk while we spoke via Facetime for the few minutes he had free, and afterwards I frantically searched Google to find out what “stage IIA” means.

On Thursdays in DC I always went to an ashtanga yoga class after work. Ashtanga classes follow the same series of postures. With time, the class becomes a constant friend – a measuring stick of your progress and state of mind that reassures you: “I’m here, at least for the next hour and a half there will be no surprises.” That Thursday I arrived with a pain in my chest like I had never felt before, and during the course of the class I felt it break loose and move around, as my consciousness began to absorb all of the implications of the diagnosis that we had just received. During the back bends section I couldn’t contain it any more, and I laid on my back on my mat and sobbed silently, hoping not to interrupt my classmates’ practice.

That Thursday was the moment when for me, everything changed. I would not stay in DC until mid-February – I would return to Mexico sooner to be there for the treatments that began the last day of January. We would no longer move as soon as I got back – how could we in the middle of the radiation and chemotherapy sessions? We had no idea how he would react to the treatment, so we would stay with my mother-in-law until he recovered. Once back in Mexico City, my days would no longer consist only in walking our dog, making lunch and looking for an accountant. Additionally, I would cross the city each day to be at the radiation appointments and weekly chemotherapy sessions.

Now that I am back in Mexico City, my free time does not only consist in lunch with friends, Thursday date night, and weekend trips. Even if these things also happen, the current running under every activity is worry for my husband. How does he feel? Can I do anything to help him feel better? At lunch, what can he eat and drink that will not make him feel worse? When he wakes up in pain in the middle of the night, what can I do to make it better? What can I make to eat that won’t make him nauseous? I generally avoid eating milk products, sugar and bread and since I cook, we follow the same diet, but now I tell him, “it doesn’t matter what you eat; have ice cream for dinner if you want, but have dinner.”

 

Rose

Mexico City

February 2017

Publicado en

Second Round

Getting through the second week of treatment was more difficult than I expected. Nausea every day, light headedness, accumulated exhaustion. The second round of injected chemotherapy was much more aggressive than the first; “another 90 minutes,” said the doctor on the second Monday.

The radiation and oral chemotherapy are still every weekday. This week, even on Saturday to recover the session we missed one Monday that the radiation equipment wasn’t working.

The intensity of the reaction was to be expected, the doctors had warned me. The discomfort, a natural consequence of the chemicals they inject during the chemotherapy. The frustration, irritation and anger at feeling bad every day, probably normal, but that didn’t keep it from being intolerable at times.

Many people have said: “you’ve reacted very well,” “you haven’t thrown up, that’s something,” “you’re doing well.” It doesn’t always feel that way. It’s not always easy to keep my head up and smile, answering that everything is fine and we’re holding up like champions.

In those moments of sadness, frustration, defeat… I realize something very important: my mind, my body, my immune system; they are so much stronger than I thought. My body continues to fight, continues to endure, it continues to hold up, it can take much more than we sometimes want or allow ourselves to recognize.

I hold tight to my work outs, my work, I continue to live as though this experience is only one more process; another cold that I need to recover from. I fix my mind on jumping out of bed as soon as the alarm goes off at 6:30 am, I get dressed for my workout, grab my bag and get in the car to drive 8 minutes to the gym. I do my workout session: 50 minutes of high intensity, my heart rate reaches 160 beats per minute, my energy level approximates 95%. After my workout I bathe, I get dressed for the office. At 8:30 I’m in the car. I stop at the corner of my house where my wife is waiting with a berry smoothie (currently it’s the only thing I can handle for breakfast). Only then do I remember, I have cancer, maybe I shouldn’t be doing such intense exercise, maybe I should let myself sleep in every day.

Inmunocal

“Immunocal is a patented supplement similar to breast milk. It contains more than 90% pure protein and has a biological value higher than any other protein supplement or food available on the market. The term “biological value” (BV) is a scale of important edible proteins found in the body. Daily consumption of Immunocal will help you augment the concentration of glutathione (abbreviated as GSH), a molecule referred to as the most important protector of the body.” [1] Most people I’ve spoken with have no idea what Immunocal is, or even that it exists, and until a few weeks ago I was one of these people. As soon as I received the diagnosis, my mom “informed” me that I would be taking two packets each morning. When I asked why and for what the response was simple: “the chemotherapy is going to destroy your immune system, your white blood cells will get really low, and you need them to be active to hold up under the treatment.” I don’t know if it really works or if it’s helping, but it certainly doesn’t hurt. It’s in circumstances like these that we are willing to take and try everything within our reach if it can help us get ahead. I can’t suggest that you take it, but I’d say if something might help, give it a try, there’s nothing to lose.

B – 63

B- 63® is an integrated high intensity exercise program. It’s based on a system of daily sessions from Monday through Friday with a duration of 50 to 55 minutes, during which your body reaches its maximum limits in order to achieve better and faster results. If you’ve heard of Crossfit or 54-D, it’s similar. For me it’s a big motivator, and it has been a refuge where I can work my mind and body in order to reach limits that I thought were unattainable. In general, exercise has always been in my life, but not consistently or with the passion that I see in other people. When I discovered B-63, I just couldn’t stop. The commitment is with myself. “You’ll never be the same” is the motto of the program; it couldn’t be more true.

I suppose that what I want to say is find that passion, the exercise, the walk, the pool, that “something” that motivates you to stay active and disconnect a little from what we are living. The mind is the most important member of the team in our battle. It is our thoughts, the challenges that the mind creates, that allow us to keep moving and walking towards our goal.

In general every day is more difficult and exhausting, but my body holds up under the treatment, the love of my wife and family remain strong, the signs of their care always present. The battle is individual – we have to overcome it – but the war is shared with those who walk with us every day, step by step. One day at a time, one daily battle, an objective achieved that brings us closer to the goal we wish for: to be cured. We are going to get there, we only need to have patience, strength, faith and hope.

All of this brings me to the conclusion that maybe even with cancer we can fight, we can turn and face our challenges, and most importantly, we can WIN. In a competition I had last Saturday I gave my all, I overcame myself, I fought against the exhaustion of the chemotherapy and radiation – and I won second place in the intermediate category out of 25 competitors in my group. YES IT’S POSSIBLE! This eternal saying that we repeat each time the Mexican soccer team plays, is really the motto of human existence, where we can overcome the barriers and limits that we once believed to be insurmountable.

After two weeks, and 4 kilos lighter, the goal continues to be the same, and each day we are closer to achieving it. It doesn’t matter how tired you feel. If you’re so exhausted that you don’t want to get out of bed, if the sadness takes over, remember the routine of 30 minutes. Afterwards, keep going because life doesn’t stop and we have to keep living it.

Because yes, even with cancer you can compete and win, you can enjoy a delicious dinner with your partner in crime, you can reach goals and set new ones. Because YES, IT’S POSSIBLE!

Cry, scream all you want, but remember to also smile. We’re alive and we want to continue living. Laughter is the best medicine.

 

Mario

February 13, 2017

[1] http://www.cisteinabioactiva.com