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