Every New Year’s Eve at the stroke of midnight, there’s a Colombian tradition that involves eating 12 grapes. With each tiny berry, you must make a wish, a prayer of sorts, you most strongly desire will come true for the upcoming year. I always have my wishes locked, loaded and ready to fire. It’s a whimsical custom I absolutely love and couldn’t wait for our 4-year-old son, Julian, to partake in. A few minutes before the 2020 countdown began, I explained the ritual to him. He merely nodded in acknowledgement, but when the time came, ate only one. After a few seconds, I encouraged him to continue.

“Keep going, Papi,” I said. “You still have a lot more wishes to make.”

“I already made a wish,” he said, candidly.  “For you to not be sick anymore.”

Gulp. 

A few weeks ago, as I was waiting for my oncologist to come into the room, I was growing anxious. Like a pastry dish baking in the oven, I felt the angst rise slowly and warmly. It was a gradual yet expansive ascension, and it felt like my core temperature was along for the ride. It was getting hot, and my fear was rising like a soufflé.

“So your scan results came back,” my doctor said. Continue reading “Remission” →