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.

Whatever it is, it’s going to be OK.

That had become my mantra as of late, suppressing the desperation that can sometimes spread like wild fire. And, quite frankly, it has helped. The affirmations, the quiet meditation, the prayers, all of it has helped me metaphorically fly through these uncharted skies.

But if I’m being brutally honest, at a certain point in this journey, I switched to auto pilot, adjusting to a series of abnormalities. To my diagnosis; to my treatment; to not kissing my babies for five days afterward to avoid the possibility of chemo contamination; to feeling like shit; to logging in late night hours at work; to losing my hair, albeit very slowly, but enough that it looks like I have cornrows when it’s wet; to being poked four to five times every other week with booster shots; to darker nails, knuckles and elbows; to virtually a new way of life.

And don’t get me wrong, of course, I want all of that to end, to return to normal, to receive the highly coveted news of remission. However, a string of “what if’s” impregnated my mind. What if the cancer was still there? What if it had worsened? And what if, just what if, it was gone?

And there it was. Amid all of the potential bad news floating in a pool of uncertainty, there was one desirable outcome I was also afraid of getting: remission.

It seems so silly and wildly ungrateful to be apprehensive of something that I — and so many of my loved ones — have been praying for so fervently. But I was.

I have said it countless times before, having cancer was something I never thought would happen. Especially not at this age. Sure it happens, but you never think it will happen to you. Many nights, I would lie awake and I, like a broken record stuck on one lyric, would quietly repeat, “I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it.”

But somewhere along the way, I did believe, accept and deal with it. It had become a part of my life and my identity. Diverting from that now would be … strange.

What had me nervous, however, was not remission itself. No, it was what that would mean for the rest of my life. The new modifications it would entail. But worse, the coup de grâce of fears in terms of being cancer free: The possibility of going back, the possibility of recurrence.

As I type, I can hear my best friend, Anastasia, saying, “Why borrow worry, doodle.” She’s right, of course. I know there are so many unknowns I can’t dwell on or control, but sometimes the mind, like a toddler, can wander off.

A while back, while sitting in the waiting room, I met an elderly couple. Wendy, an 80-year-old woman, and her husband, whose name I did not catch. They were digging for a pen in the multiple handbags they carried in tow. You can always tell who’s there for treatment. They usually bring an arsenal of personal affections: blankets, books, travel size coolers, laptops, iPad’s, Kindle’s, anything that’ll help pass the time.

“Chemo day?” I asked, as I handed her my pen. She nodded, accepted it and through light conversation began to tell me her story.

She had been diagnosed with rectal cancer in 2018. For months she had known something was wrong. In fact, she told me that she had been constipated for an unearthly amount of time. But doctor after doctor turned her away, until finally one was able to confirm that, yes, she did have cancer and it was more than 2 inches deep.

“I had chemo everyday fooor … ever,” she said.

Personally, I have chemo every other week, and the days that follow can be hell, so I cannot fathom what it would be like to get it every day. Someone once asked me if having cancer is what I imagined it would be, or, if it was much worse. I imagine for Wendy, it was much, much worse.

After chemo, she underwent aggressive radiation.

“It was a real pain in the ass,” Her husband said, chuckling. “No pun intended.”

In jest, she slapped him on the arm.

“I wish I had it,” he continued. Wendy’s subtle smile had vanished and she slapped him again.

“No, I do,” he said, gravely. Then he looked at me. “I had my esophagus removed 20 years ago after hitting the sauce for 37 years. I have been in AA and sober ever since, but I was the one that damaged my body and I should be the one having to go through this.”

I swallowed a lump in my throat. You know the one that feels like it must be filled with its own tears because, well, why else does it hurt?

“But how is that possible?” I asked, trying to stay on track. “How can your esophagus be removed?”

He explained that he had a piece of his stomach surgically implanted where his esophagus once was.

Unable to fully picture it and really not knowing what else to say, I asked, “Do you get full easily?”

“Oh yeah, he’s a real party trick,” Wendy said. “If he bends over right after he eats, it all comes spilling out.”

They both laughed. They were such a sweet couple and in relatively good spirits, considering. But I couldn’t help wonder … If Wendy had completed her full treatment, why was she still here?

As if reading my mind, she answered. The rectal cancer was indeed gone, but during her 3-month routine checkup, they discovered the disease was now running rampant in her liver. And it was terminal.

“If I survive this,” she said. “I already told my doctor that I am going to start drinking and smoking.”

I’d be lying to myself if I didn’t recognize the dread I feel when I think of a recurrence. What if I make one wrong move that would lead me back here? But, of course, that’s me just borrowing worry, again.

And then there’s the feeling of guilt that comes with good news. I thought maybe I was the only one that felt this way, that is, until I spoke with Crystal, a 47-year old, mother of six, who had just completed her breast cancer treatment.

Crystal had become a person I loved seeing around our second home: Hematology Oncology Of The Treasure Coast. She was upbeat, friendly, a great listener, and yet always had so much to impart. The last day I saw her, however, she seemed uneasy.

“I thought you had your last treatment,” I said to her. “What are you getting done today?”

“I start my immunotherapy,” she replied. She then sat closer to me and in an almost whisper said, “I kind of feel guilty that I’m done.” She wiped a couple of tears that escaped the corners of her eyes. “I know it’s dumb, but I can’t help how I feel.”

“I know'” I nodded. “God, do I know.”

Listen, I know I’m dissecting my emotions, nitpicking each fine hair of my mental state. Ultimately, and without self-reproach, having no evidence of cancer is the one thing I have wanted, despite anything I’ve just said. It’s the best-case scenario, and I very much want it to be my best-case scenario. And so, all I can do is repeat my mantra and live in the present, which for the purposes of this stream of consciousness story, is back in the room with my oncologist.

“It was clear,” Dr. Yeckes-Rodin said about my scan. My mom and I just looked at each other, tears blurring our eyesight.

“This is what we wanted to see,” my doc said. She handed us tissues and gave me a high five. “You’re in remission.”

And just like that, layered in poetic beauty, I was able to tell Julian that his first wish for the New Year had come true.

What’s New and What’s Next 

• I have four treatments left. I had asked my oncologist, “If the scan is showing clear, then why the need to continue?” She replied, “Studies show that 6 cycles (12 treatments) have proven to eradicate the disease in places the scan isn’t showing.” So I’m trucking along.
• I am down to three bags vs. four. One of them was affecting my breathing, so it was removed from my treatment.
• I have another scan scheduled Feb. 13th.
• As previously mentioned, I am losing more of my hair, which is fun on windy days. At one point, I really thought I wasn’t going to lose it, but then bald patches that could rival my husband’s head started appearing. So, hats it is!
• Luckily, and by the grace of God, I don’t have to undergo radiation.
• Not cancer related, but I like throwing this in there … Julian has started Jujitsu and Keanu has started taking his first steps. They’re both bigger boys, so lugging those curvy bodies around, I’m sure, is no easy feat.
• And finally, I just want to saturate your eyes with a thousand more thank you’s. Everyone who has thought of me, prayed for me, and have sent me acts of kindness, whether it was in the form of monetary or tangible gifts, I thank you wholeheartedly. It has allayed an otherwise awful time in our lives. I love you.