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