At any point in time, there is a cacophony of dissonant sounds bellowing throughout our house. Whether it’s Julian’s incessant singing or Keanu’s baby yelps, finding a quiet space of my own can be challenging. But inside our master bathroom, on the east side of the wall, there are two mirrored doors. When you open them, you’ll find our closet and sometimes me. That’s where I usually hide. Last Thursday was no exception.

It was the morning of my surgery — a lymph node excision — and I needed some alone time. Merely 10 days prior I had been diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma and the lymph node was being removed for further diagnostics. So, there in the closet I sat, legs crossed and a rosary in my hand. A flame from a Virgin Mary candle flickered in front of me, and I focused on its undulating flare.

Through prayer and guided meditation, I had been working on being mindful and staying in the present. That morning I was doing pretty well, when the most unpleasant noise disrupted my focus. 

If I had to guess, it sounded like BJ was peeing from atop of a 10-foot ladder. After what felt like an eternity, he finished, walked past the doors, and amid his yawn he said, “Morning, baby!”

Seconds later, Julian came in, went straight for the toilet and followed suit.

When he was done, he shouted, “Buenoooos diiiaaas, mami!”

Now, since being diagnosed, I’ve had some bad moments. It’s usually when I’m alone or driving, and on the rare occasion, in front of someone. An overwhelming sense of fear, anger and sadness fuel those moments. Like weeds in a garden, they sprout and infest my mind. But when they appear, I do my best to pull them out, ensuring their lifespan is short and ineffectual to the soil that is my emotional state.

And then there are other moments — the spaces in between — that make me laugh and temporarily forget. The not-so-symphonic sounds of both my husband and son urinating, like they had just woken up after years of being cryogenically frozen, were one of them.

So listen, I have not lost perspective. In fact, I’ve always been the type of person that as soon as I complain, I think about things like the civil war in Syria, the prosecution of the Rohingya people or the mass exodus in Venezuela. I know there are far worse evils in the world. And being told I have cancer hasn’t changed that. 

But yes, having cancer sucks. I’m still digesting the news, after all. Between the excision and the port implantation I had yesterday, I’m beat up and I haven’t even begun my treatment. And the pain isn’t what bothers me as much as the fact that I have not been able to hold my babies. I’m afraid I am missing out, and I’m afraid I’ll miss out on more once I begin chemo. Just thinking about the chemo itself, and its list of side effects that are longer than BJ’s Publix receipts, horrifies me. It has been at the forefront of my mind in everything I do and everywhere I go. When a stranger asks, how I’m doing, I want to scream, “I have f-ing cancer!” But instead I say, “Fine, thank you.” And go on my merry way. I feel alone at times, a deafening sound wave of solitude. But in my heart, I know that’s not true. I know that when these moments of weakness happen, I have to pull myself out of that vortex of terror. I know that I have to be mindful, present and focus on the ones that I love, even when they interrupt my alone time … to pee.

Life After Diagnosis: Scans, Results, Port and More

Tests, follow ups and doctor appointments have so far monopolized most of my time. Here’s what I have been up to so far:

• PET Scan — The results came back showing multiple hypermetabolic biopsy-proven Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in the left axilla. In addition, there was mediastinal hypermetabolic adenopathy, which is also related to Hodgkin’s. Basically, Hodgkin’s Lymphoma in my left pit and chest.
• Post-Op Diagnosis — Nodular sclerosis classic Hodgkin’s Lymphoma; Stage 2. Apparently a couple of my lymph nodes were described as: “tan, homogenous, firm, glistening cut surfaces.” Is it me, or do these lymph nodes sound sexy.
• Meeting My Oncologist — Dr. Heather Yeckes-Rodin, a petite redhead, who — albeit is not the warmest person I’ve ever met — is a bad ass. She’s effective, aggressive and a bulldog when it comes to fighting cancer, and that’s what I care about. So even though she’s no Dr. Craig Wengler (my sweet and sensitive surgeon, who has treated me like a delicate flower), she’s going to get sh$% done.
• Pulmonary testing — I had to do a series of guided and very odd breathing tests. 
• Echocardiogram — A test to check if the ol’ ticker was strong enough for the treatments.
• Corneal Ulcer — OK, this is not cancer related, but it happened right after I was diagnosed. Inflammation, bacteria and scarring has resulted in me using three separate drops, seeing three separate ophthalmologists and confined to my coke-bottle glasses. It’s been a bitch of an inconvenience. OK, so it’s not being-diagnosed-with-cancer inconvenient, but, you know, pretty annoying. 
• Port implantation — Described to me as “A necessary evil,” this device was placed under my skin toward the right side of my chest. The port will be used to draw blood and to give me treatments. It is attached to a catheter, a flexible and straw-like tube, that is guided into a large vein above the right side of my heart. It usually goes under the muscle, but my body wasn’t cooperating and the doc had to put it through the muscle. And boy oh boy did that hurt. 
• Diet — Apparently, sugar is the devil for cancer patients, along with a slew of other delicious treats. So BJ has been getting creative with organic and healthy ingredients.

What’s Next:

• Chemotherapy Treatment — I start on Monday.  The ABVD treatment is the four-drug, cocktail of sorts, that I’ll be receiving through my port. Each letter represents a different type of chemo drug. In the most rudimentary of explanations, it’ll work by preventing cancer cells from multiplying. One nurse described it to me as a Trojan Horse, and in the cook book for chemo patients that I’m reading, says that sometimes the cells commit suicide. While suicide is never a laughing matter, I like picturing a successful coup: the chemo infiltrating my corrupt DNA, while the cancer cells shout some insane rhetoric from their murderous manifesto, and then swallow cyanide pills. Ah, that’s gold.
• Head wraps — I don’t want to lose my hair, but the reality is I probably will. So I’ve been googling head wraps for cancer patients and there’s some pretty nice ones. I’ll look like a gypsy, no doubt, but I will make it work.
• Medical marijuana card — OK, so I don’t smoke pot and I don’t plan on starting, I’m mainly interested in the CBD oil. But do I feel cool now that I have access to any marijuana dispensary? You bet your sweet ass I do.

Final Thoughts:

I can’t thank each and every one of you enough. I always say words can describe literally anything, but I can’t seem to find the perfect ones to capture the gratitude we feel. We were very reluctant to move forward with the Go Fund Me page. It was difficult to ask for and accept help. In truth, it still is, but the significance of your prayers, support and financial contributions have heavily affected us. To quote BJ, “That shit is touching.” We love you, all.