My previous entry was a false start of sorts. My chemotherapy was mistakenly stopped after the fourth cycle, but my oncologist made an error when he did. So I didn't stop my chemo treatments in October, but I will this coming Friday---unless my white blood cell count is too low to have a treatment this week. That hasn't happened and I don't think it will, so I'm certain that this Friday will be my 12th and final chemo treatment.
Below is a list of the wishes I had in my head, back in early June, before I began my treatments. I don't think my hair will grow back as an afro, unfortunately, but it seems timely to list and share what my wishes were then, now that it's finally ending:
•It’s to be expected that chemo will make my hair fall out. But, I’ve read and heard that it might grow back differently—curly when it was straight, coarse when it was smooth, even a different color (say, red because of Doxorubicin, which looks like dark Kool Aid and will make my pee pinkish, right after chemo). I want it to fall off like a tree’s leaves in autumn so it can grow back as the mightiest afro ever! My lifelong dream of having hair like Jimi Hendrix or Sly Stone would come true—and I would feel like the hottest person I could possibly be!
•That it doesn’t make me too sick and weak and vomity and that it really sticks it to that mean Mr. Hodgkins (what a bad fellow he is!).
•That it doesn’t come between me and Blanca being happy together.
•That it can get rid of Mr. Hodgkins so that Blanquita can finally be with me when I’m not actually sick.
•That it doesn’t make me impotent so that someday, if I want to, I can have kids with someone who loves me (because I’d like to have kids who I can pervert with my ways!).
•That it doesn’t prevent me from riding my bicycle, from creating the joy I get when I ride around my neighborhood, from feeling the exhilaration I feel when I ride down a steep hill in San Francisco (weeeeeeeeee!!!!!!), from feeling the awe and contentment I get when I bicycle beneath the skyscrapers downtown, or when I’m out in nature, gawking at the redwoods, the tranquil beauty around me.
•That it will test me, like never before, and help me become the strongest person I can ever be.
•That it doesn’t make me too sick and weak to stop me from going to school in the fall, like my oncologist said it would. Please. I think that would break my heart because being at school, talking about writing, talking about good stories, about what I love with my classmates and professors who I care about makes me feel excited and happy like I must have felt when my mom dropped me off at preschool and kindergarten.
•That it gets rid of Mr. Hodgkins forever and ever so that I can be with my parents and my sisters for as long as I possibly can.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Friday, September 18, 2009
In the Light
Tomorrow is the 18th of September, 2009, the end of my 4th cycle of chemotherapy; it might be the last chemo treatment I receive. This Monday is when I allowed myself to really think about that—and I can’t help but be a little jubilant about that possibility.
Months ago, after I was diagnosed, after I met with my oncologist for the first time, I tried to foresee myself at the end of the treatment. From what I had read about chemotherapy, from what my oncologist told me—that I shouldn’t count on continuing my part-time work, much less think about returning to school for the Fall semester—I figured I would be beat. Spent. Weaker-me.
I figured I wouldn’t be able to ride my bicycle as much during treatment, let alone near the end when my body, my spirit would be depleted. But this week, I’ve bicycled thirty miles the past three days, managed a little workout at the gym, gone to work and attended my classes right after.
I really thought things were going to be much more bleak at this juncture.
After my class was finished, I zipped back to the Lafayette station to make it back to the city in time for my 6 PM blood draw/weight check—something I must do to make sure I have enough white blood cells to undergo my chemo treatments. When I got to San Francisco General, my shirt was still damp from all the sweating I’ve done today (it’s disgusting how much I sweat! I’ve always been quite the sweaty lad, but I think its easier for me to sweat now—if that’s possible—and I suspect it’s due to my chemo, my body’s way of saying, “Get this shit out of me!”). I was listening to “my 70’s party” playlist on my iPod when Evelyn “Champagne” King’s “You Make My Love Come Down” came on. The hospital lobby was nearly empty, minus the two security officers kicking back behind the information desk and one person hanging out by the front entrance. While waiting for the elevator to go up to 4C (where I get my chemo infusions and go for my “weigh-in”), the only people who passed me were hospital employees in their scrubs. Each one of them had tired but glowing smiles—their day at “the office” through. On the elevator ride up, I began to bob my head, then my shoulders to the song’s jubilant, sexy groove. When the doors opened and I stepped out onto the 4th floor, I saw that I also had this—the floor—to myself. I strutted and pumped my arms to the song when I walked down the hall to the 4C ward, past the area just outside the ICU unit. It felt blasphemous to do so, since almost every time I’ve walked past those doors these past four months—morning, afternoon, or early evening, twice every two weeks—there have been family members, friends, or lovers, crying, their faces awash with fear and worry over their loved one behind those doors, perhaps on the precipice of Life or Death. But there was no one there, no one around, and I would have had to exert energy to not dance and celebrate this moment in my life: I was perhaps going for my last blood draw for my chemotherapy treatments—and the sun was out and shining over the city.
Inside 4C, Connie, the petite Filipina head nurse with the stylish glasses, bob cut and hair dyed platinum red, sat at one of the computers behind the registration desk. I waved to her, already feeling nostalgic for her, for the sweet nurses who have taken care of me these past months. I walked past her to the infusion ward. Marva, the black nurse with the curious accent (I think she’s Jamaican) who calls me “a good boy” and once called me “an angel” because I always read a book during my infusions (until I pass out from the Benadryl), was also behind a computer, typing in some data.
“Hi. I’m here for my 6 o’clock blood lab,” I said.
“Okay, I’ll be right with you,” she replied.
I stood and waited then said, “How are you, Marva?” I said it to let her know that I remember who she is.
“I’m good. Did you work today?”
“Yeah. And I had school today.”
“Oh, that’s good. Well, go ahead and pick your hot seat.”
After she weighed me (I’m tipping over 170 lbs! I actually gained weight this week; unfuckingbelievable considering the quarts of sweat [no exaggeration] I’ve exuded), then took my two blood samples, I left (“See you tomorrow!”) and said bye to Connie. When I left the ward, I laughed, thinking how this hospital ward had come to feel like a place of work, like a second office—a place you’re eager to get away from once your work is done (having cancer and getting rid of it is a job—the top “priority”), but a place with people for whom you feel affection for.
One of the wonderful things about San Francisco General is its location, perched on a hill amongst other hills—Potrero to the east, Bernal Heights to the south, Dolores Heights to the west. Another beautiful touch is that its entrances (thus exits) face west, which feels so right. I have never once had to reason why I’m taking these treatments, why I’m choosing to live, but while sitting during my treatments, or when I’ve walked around the upper floors of the hospital and passed the windows that look out over Potrero Hill or the hills past Dolores Heights, it’s been simple to be reminded of the beauty of this world that I desperately want to continue to be a part of. The sunshine that seeps through those windows, that bath those sterile, emotionless hospital areas in light, has always been like hope manifest. There is always a tomorrow.
When I cycled back home down 22nd Street, I was awash in the sun’s light as it shined just above the hills in the distance. The cars, bicyclists, and pedestrians who crossed the street were silhouettes amidst the golden backdrop. I smiled while my arms glistened beneath the sun’s nourishing warmth. Huascar—the name of the second to last Incan emperor, a Quechua name that means “Sun of Joy”—was what my father wanted to call me before I was born. The name never seemed so fitting to me while I bicycled toward the sun, toward tomorrow, as I imagined myself dissipating into that golden light until I became part of it, shining over all the streets, all the trees, the entire city.
Months ago, after I was diagnosed, after I met with my oncologist for the first time, I tried to foresee myself at the end of the treatment. From what I had read about chemotherapy, from what my oncologist told me—that I shouldn’t count on continuing my part-time work, much less think about returning to school for the Fall semester—I figured I would be beat. Spent. Weaker-me.
I figured I wouldn’t be able to ride my bicycle as much during treatment, let alone near the end when my body, my spirit would be depleted. But this week, I’ve bicycled thirty miles the past three days, managed a little workout at the gym, gone to work and attended my classes right after.
I really thought things were going to be much more bleak at this juncture.
After my class was finished, I zipped back to the Lafayette station to make it back to the city in time for my 6 PM blood draw/weight check—something I must do to make sure I have enough white blood cells to undergo my chemo treatments. When I got to San Francisco General, my shirt was still damp from all the sweating I’ve done today (it’s disgusting how much I sweat! I’ve always been quite the sweaty lad, but I think its easier for me to sweat now—if that’s possible—and I suspect it’s due to my chemo, my body’s way of saying, “Get this shit out of me!”). I was listening to “my 70’s party” playlist on my iPod when Evelyn “Champagne” King’s “You Make My Love Come Down” came on. The hospital lobby was nearly empty, minus the two security officers kicking back behind the information desk and one person hanging out by the front entrance. While waiting for the elevator to go up to 4C (where I get my chemo infusions and go for my “weigh-in”), the only people who passed me were hospital employees in their scrubs. Each one of them had tired but glowing smiles—their day at “the office” through. On the elevator ride up, I began to bob my head, then my shoulders to the song’s jubilant, sexy groove. When the doors opened and I stepped out onto the 4th floor, I saw that I also had this—the floor—to myself. I strutted and pumped my arms to the song when I walked down the hall to the 4C ward, past the area just outside the ICU unit. It felt blasphemous to do so, since almost every time I’ve walked past those doors these past four months—morning, afternoon, or early evening, twice every two weeks—there have been family members, friends, or lovers, crying, their faces awash with fear and worry over their loved one behind those doors, perhaps on the precipice of Life or Death. But there was no one there, no one around, and I would have had to exert energy to not dance and celebrate this moment in my life: I was perhaps going for my last blood draw for my chemotherapy treatments—and the sun was out and shining over the city.
Inside 4C, Connie, the petite Filipina head nurse with the stylish glasses, bob cut and hair dyed platinum red, sat at one of the computers behind the registration desk. I waved to her, already feeling nostalgic for her, for the sweet nurses who have taken care of me these past months. I walked past her to the infusion ward. Marva, the black nurse with the curious accent (I think she’s Jamaican) who calls me “a good boy” and once called me “an angel” because I always read a book during my infusions (until I pass out from the Benadryl), was also behind a computer, typing in some data.
“Hi. I’m here for my 6 o’clock blood lab,” I said.
“Okay, I’ll be right with you,” she replied.
I stood and waited then said, “How are you, Marva?” I said it to let her know that I remember who she is.
“I’m good. Did you work today?”
“Yeah. And I had school today.”
“Oh, that’s good. Well, go ahead and pick your hot seat.”
After she weighed me (I’m tipping over 170 lbs! I actually gained weight this week; unfuckingbelievable considering the quarts of sweat [no exaggeration] I’ve exuded), then took my two blood samples, I left (“See you tomorrow!”) and said bye to Connie. When I left the ward, I laughed, thinking how this hospital ward had come to feel like a place of work, like a second office—a place you’re eager to get away from once your work is done (having cancer and getting rid of it is a job—the top “priority”), but a place with people for whom you feel affection for.
One of the wonderful things about San Francisco General is its location, perched on a hill amongst other hills—Potrero to the east, Bernal Heights to the south, Dolores Heights to the west. Another beautiful touch is that its entrances (thus exits) face west, which feels so right. I have never once had to reason why I’m taking these treatments, why I’m choosing to live, but while sitting during my treatments, or when I’ve walked around the upper floors of the hospital and passed the windows that look out over Potrero Hill or the hills past Dolores Heights, it’s been simple to be reminded of the beauty of this world that I desperately want to continue to be a part of. The sunshine that seeps through those windows, that bath those sterile, emotionless hospital areas in light, has always been like hope manifest. There is always a tomorrow.
When I cycled back home down 22nd Street, I was awash in the sun’s light as it shined just above the hills in the distance. The cars, bicyclists, and pedestrians who crossed the street were silhouettes amidst the golden backdrop. I smiled while my arms glistened beneath the sun’s nourishing warmth. Huascar—the name of the second to last Incan emperor, a Quechua name that means “Sun of Joy”—was what my father wanted to call me before I was born. The name never seemed so fitting to me while I bicycled toward the sun, toward tomorrow, as I imagined myself dissipating into that golden light until I became part of it, shining over all the streets, all the trees, the entire city.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Quien Sabe (Who Knows)
Hodgkin’s. Cancer. Me. 30. Why?
I was diagnosed on April 27, 2009; it was a Monday, the start of a week. Since then, especially the week after I found out, this question inevitably crossed my mind.
Why?
I had probably had Hodgkin’s lymphoma for over a year. My body, our beautiful, wondrous constructions—one that has, in part, turned against itself— first told me that something was awry in late June of 2008 with a swollen lymph node by my left clavicle. An array of medical practitioners—doctors, radiologists, surgeons, pathologists, and pulmonologists—ran a number of tests to try and determine what was wrong with me. During those months, when I arrived to those appointments, lugging my backpack with my bicycle helmet strapped to it, I think I fooled them all, along with my family, friends, and myself. I appeared healthy, strong, displaying none of the “B” symptoms—the more serious ones—and there is no history of cancer in either of my parents’ families. How could I possibly have cancer, though with time, after all the examinations and two biopsies came back “negative” or “non-diagnostic,” it began to make more and more sense?
Hodgkin’s disease, now called Hodgkin’s lymphoma, was first described back in 1832 by Thomas Hodgkin, an English physician. 177 years later, the medical field still has little idea what causes this blood cancer. Though it was comforting to finally know what was wrong with me, especially since it’s a very treatable disease, it has been unsettling, not knowing how it happened—what caused it, so I can know what I need to change.
This hasn’t, however, deterred me from coming up with a slew of theories: could my disease, which is between my lungs and spread to my left chest, have originated from the Teflon plate that was inserted in my body and fused with my chest plate when I was fourteen? Could the electromagnetic radiation emitted from my cell phone somehow have reacted with it in order to create a toxic environment within my chest? Was it from the marijuana I smoked the past few years? From the cigarettes I puffed on occasion? Was my body simply too sensitive to it? Or did I somehow get it from the Nalgene plastic bottle I had for years, the one that had these strange white flecks floating in the water, even after I washed it out—the same bottle the company pulled off the shelves in 2008 because of fears that a chemical used to make them caused cancer and increased the risks of other serious health problems? Was it all those bad leftovers I ate over the years? Should I have refrained from eating scraps of food that fell on the floor? Was the five-second rule a bad one to heed? Was it all those years of chewing my fingernails, even my toenails? Was it from sniffing all those Mr. Sketch and dry-erase markers? Did someone lay a curse on me!?
Or is my mother right—that this is a “test from God”, an opportunity to look up to the sky and acknowledge that He exists? Could there actually be such a sick god—male, female, or hermaphadite—that is so greedy, so in need of my miniscule attention and belief? Could she be right? Am I “wrong” in my atheistic belief, as she says, part of the losing team?
Can’t she see why I don’t want to believe this, that I want to hold out some hope that there might be a God, and that she is just, not wrathful, beautiful, not jealous? Can’t she understand that a part of me, like never before, wants to believe? That sometimes when I see the mural of Jesus, beaming, arms held open before a flock of children on the bus ride to my chemo treatments that I want to be one of those kids, basking from his love? Doesn’t she understand that I want to believe but can’t because my faith in anything must be founded in logic?
Or might my disease—whom I call Mr. Hodgkins (because this conquistador, like all the ones in our collective history, have always been men, not women)— be a masterful concoction, born of the “suicide impulse” that even my girlfriend of five months has already recognized within me? Throughout my adult life there have been times—however fleetingly—when I haven’t cared about living (which is different from wanting to die), when all the destruction and suffering I see, read, and feel from this world is too much, when I’ve seen little point in continuing to be a part of this evolution. Could Mr. Hodgkins have bloomed during one of these moments? Was the rest of my body too weak to fend off this treacherous act?
I no longer ask myself why, though it hasn’t stopped my curiosity. I’m not sure if there is a why. At this point, I think there is only a “who knows”.
The one thing I am certain of, the one thing this “journey” has taught me is: I just want to live so much.
I was diagnosed on April 27, 2009; it was a Monday, the start of a week. Since then, especially the week after I found out, this question inevitably crossed my mind.
Why?
I had probably had Hodgkin’s lymphoma for over a year. My body, our beautiful, wondrous constructions—one that has, in part, turned against itself— first told me that something was awry in late June of 2008 with a swollen lymph node by my left clavicle. An array of medical practitioners—doctors, radiologists, surgeons, pathologists, and pulmonologists—ran a number of tests to try and determine what was wrong with me. During those months, when I arrived to those appointments, lugging my backpack with my bicycle helmet strapped to it, I think I fooled them all, along with my family, friends, and myself. I appeared healthy, strong, displaying none of the “B” symptoms—the more serious ones—and there is no history of cancer in either of my parents’ families. How could I possibly have cancer, though with time, after all the examinations and two biopsies came back “negative” or “non-diagnostic,” it began to make more and more sense?
Hodgkin’s disease, now called Hodgkin’s lymphoma, was first described back in 1832 by Thomas Hodgkin, an English physician. 177 years later, the medical field still has little idea what causes this blood cancer. Though it was comforting to finally know what was wrong with me, especially since it’s a very treatable disease, it has been unsettling, not knowing how it happened—what caused it, so I can know what I need to change.
This hasn’t, however, deterred me from coming up with a slew of theories: could my disease, which is between my lungs and spread to my left chest, have originated from the Teflon plate that was inserted in my body and fused with my chest plate when I was fourteen? Could the electromagnetic radiation emitted from my cell phone somehow have reacted with it in order to create a toxic environment within my chest? Was it from the marijuana I smoked the past few years? From the cigarettes I puffed on occasion? Was my body simply too sensitive to it? Or did I somehow get it from the Nalgene plastic bottle I had for years, the one that had these strange white flecks floating in the water, even after I washed it out—the same bottle the company pulled off the shelves in 2008 because of fears that a chemical used to make them caused cancer and increased the risks of other serious health problems? Was it all those bad leftovers I ate over the years? Should I have refrained from eating scraps of food that fell on the floor? Was the five-second rule a bad one to heed? Was it all those years of chewing my fingernails, even my toenails? Was it from sniffing all those Mr. Sketch and dry-erase markers? Did someone lay a curse on me!?
Or is my mother right—that this is a “test from God”, an opportunity to look up to the sky and acknowledge that He exists? Could there actually be such a sick god—male, female, or hermaphadite—that is so greedy, so in need of my miniscule attention and belief? Could she be right? Am I “wrong” in my atheistic belief, as she says, part of the losing team?
Can’t she see why I don’t want to believe this, that I want to hold out some hope that there might be a God, and that she is just, not wrathful, beautiful, not jealous? Can’t she understand that a part of me, like never before, wants to believe? That sometimes when I see the mural of Jesus, beaming, arms held open before a flock of children on the bus ride to my chemo treatments that I want to be one of those kids, basking from his love? Doesn’t she understand that I want to believe but can’t because my faith in anything must be founded in logic?
Or might my disease—whom I call Mr. Hodgkins (because this conquistador, like all the ones in our collective history, have always been men, not women)— be a masterful concoction, born of the “suicide impulse” that even my girlfriend of five months has already recognized within me? Throughout my adult life there have been times—however fleetingly—when I haven’t cared about living (which is different from wanting to die), when all the destruction and suffering I see, read, and feel from this world is too much, when I’ve seen little point in continuing to be a part of this evolution. Could Mr. Hodgkins have bloomed during one of these moments? Was the rest of my body too weak to fend off this treacherous act?
I no longer ask myself why, though it hasn’t stopped my curiosity. I’m not sure if there is a why. At this point, I think there is only a “who knows”.
The one thing I am certain of, the one thing this “journey” has taught me is: I just want to live so much.
Sunday, July 19, 2009
Someday You'll Be Sorry
INT. BALLROOM – NIGHT
JUAN, dressed in a black suit with red tie, hair cropped, strides into a large ballroom. A thin cloud of smoke wafts in the air from all the people smoking cigarettes and cigars. Couples, elegantly dressed as though they were from the Roaring ‘20s, dance in the middle of the room. They are surrounded by candlelit tables with fine white cloths, champagne bottles and glasses scattered about. The room is softly lit by crystal chandeliers that hang above them.
At one end of the ballroom, facing the crowd, is a jazz band. They are handsomely dressed in suits. The pianist plays the high, almost twinkly intro notes to Louis Armstrong’s “Someday You’ll Be Sorry”, before the band jumps in. Standing front-center beside a vintage microphone, alit by a spotlight, LOUIS ARMSTRONG blows his trumpet. A bassist, trombonist, clarinet player, and drummer accompany them.
Juan makes his way around the tables. He walks toward the Art Deco style-bar, where several gentleman puff on cigars, their backs against the counter while they stare at the band, the dancing couples. Leaning his elbow against the bar, Juan stands and faces MR. HODGKINS, who sits on a stool. He is a pudgy, light-skinned man in his mid-fifties. He wears a white button shirt, black bowtie, and vest beneath his black tuxedo jacket. His derby hat on the bar counter, Mr. Hodgkins stares into his empty martini glass.
JUAN
Hey there.
Without turning to him, Mr. Hodgkins acknowledges him by seeing him out of the corner of his eye before staring dejectedly at the top shelf liquor.
MR. HODGKINS
Hey.
JUAN
We’ll have a drink later, but first, let’s dance.
MR. HODGKINS
Must we.
JUAN
But of course. It’s our song.
MR. HODGKINS
Your song.
JUAN
No, it’s our song. If you hadn’t come into my life, it wouldn’t have meant what it does to me now.
Juan puts his hand on Mr. Hodgkins’ shoulder. He leads him past the crowd to the dance floor. Once they stake a spot, Juan puts an arm around Mr. Hodgkins, their other hands clasped by their hips. They slow dance, hip to hip, beneath a chandelier that gives the smoke around them a soft glow. When Armstrong finishes his trumpet solo and steps to the microphone, Juan leans his cheek to his partner’s. He softly sings the lyrics into his ear while Armstrong sings.
JUAN
Someday, you'll be sorry. The way you treated me was wrong.
His eyes watery, Juan caresses Mr. Hodgkins’ face with his hand before he continues to sing into his ear.
JUAN
I was the one who taught you all you know. Your friends have told you to make me sing another song. So good luck, may be with you. And for the future have no fears. There won't be another to treat you like a brother. Someday you'll be sorry dear.
Arms on their backs, hip to hip, they continue to slow dance with the rest of the crowd.
JUAN
There won't be another to treat you like a brother. Someday you'll be sorry dear.
FADE OUT
JUAN, dressed in a black suit with red tie, hair cropped, strides into a large ballroom. A thin cloud of smoke wafts in the air from all the people smoking cigarettes and cigars. Couples, elegantly dressed as though they were from the Roaring ‘20s, dance in the middle of the room. They are surrounded by candlelit tables with fine white cloths, champagne bottles and glasses scattered about. The room is softly lit by crystal chandeliers that hang above them.
At one end of the ballroom, facing the crowd, is a jazz band. They are handsomely dressed in suits. The pianist plays the high, almost twinkly intro notes to Louis Armstrong’s “Someday You’ll Be Sorry”, before the band jumps in. Standing front-center beside a vintage microphone, alit by a spotlight, LOUIS ARMSTRONG blows his trumpet. A bassist, trombonist, clarinet player, and drummer accompany them.
Juan makes his way around the tables. He walks toward the Art Deco style-bar, where several gentleman puff on cigars, their backs against the counter while they stare at the band, the dancing couples. Leaning his elbow against the bar, Juan stands and faces MR. HODGKINS, who sits on a stool. He is a pudgy, light-skinned man in his mid-fifties. He wears a white button shirt, black bowtie, and vest beneath his black tuxedo jacket. His derby hat on the bar counter, Mr. Hodgkins stares into his empty martini glass.
JUAN
Hey there.
Without turning to him, Mr. Hodgkins acknowledges him by seeing him out of the corner of his eye before staring dejectedly at the top shelf liquor.
MR. HODGKINS
Hey.
JUAN
We’ll have a drink later, but first, let’s dance.
MR. HODGKINS
Must we.
JUAN
But of course. It’s our song.
MR. HODGKINS
Your song.
JUAN
No, it’s our song. If you hadn’t come into my life, it wouldn’t have meant what it does to me now.
Juan puts his hand on Mr. Hodgkins’ shoulder. He leads him past the crowd to the dance floor. Once they stake a spot, Juan puts an arm around Mr. Hodgkins, their other hands clasped by their hips. They slow dance, hip to hip, beneath a chandelier that gives the smoke around them a soft glow. When Armstrong finishes his trumpet solo and steps to the microphone, Juan leans his cheek to his partner’s. He softly sings the lyrics into his ear while Armstrong sings.
JUAN
Someday, you'll be sorry. The way you treated me was wrong.
His eyes watery, Juan caresses Mr. Hodgkins’ face with his hand before he continues to sing into his ear.
JUAN
I was the one who taught you all you know. Your friends have told you to make me sing another song. So good luck, may be with you. And for the future have no fears. There won't be another to treat you like a brother. Someday you'll be sorry dear.
Arms on their backs, hip to hip, they continue to slow dance with the rest of the crowd.
JUAN
There won't be another to treat you like a brother. Someday you'll be sorry dear.
FADE OUT
Monday, July 6, 2009
At Night Sometimes...
At night sometimes Mr. Hodgkins and I dance, to a song I dedicate to him.
We dance, just off the curb, beneath the rain and sky,
the moon glowing on the puddles that lie at our feet.
We dance, hand in hand, swinging and shuffling to Armstrong's "Someday You'll Be Sorry".
After Louis and the trumpet are done, I lean into him and whisper the lyrics into his ear, dancing hip to hip, like lovers almost.
And it sounds a little like this...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vZXU2JhZcwI
We dance, just off the curb, beneath the rain and sky,
the moon glowing on the puddles that lie at our feet.
We dance, hand in hand, swinging and shuffling to Armstrong's "Someday You'll Be Sorry".
After Louis and the trumpet are done, I lean into him and whisper the lyrics into his ear, dancing hip to hip, like lovers almost.
And it sounds a little like this...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vZXU2JhZcwI
Saturday, July 4, 2009
I Have Cancer, Give Me a Discount!
I wish there was a secret bastion of discounts available for people who have cancer or life-threatening diseases (although, depending on an assortment of socio-physical factors, even a walk outside the house can be “life-threatening”). Clearly, I wish this, now that I have cancer. But alas, I’m afraid these discounts do not exist. I don’t know for certain but I suspect so. I’m pretty sure they don’t offer, say, a free ticket or even a discount (is 10% really asking much!?) at Century Theatres nationwide, since I inquired at the twenty-five screen multiplex in Union City a couple of weeks ago. From that, I’m deducing that corporations like Starbucks, Verizon Wireless, or even Quiznos will not have any discounts or offers for being host to a disease that wants to kill me. No free mochas, additional daytime minutes (but communicating with loved ones at this point could really be healthy!), or sandwich condiments for me.
I must say, I’m a little disappointed.
I can’t help but wish our world was like the one portrayed in the Stonecutters episode from The Simpsons, when Homer, for example, was given a Stonecutter ring which he used on the vending machine at the power plant to never have to pay for chips or sodas again, or when he was given a bumper sticker that would ensure he would never get pulled over again, or when he, as a member of the Stonecutters, was taught their official clandestine handshake to prove his membership to other members in order to procure free and better services (like home plumbing). I could make a killing with my disease if savings and free merchandise and services were abound!
Just imagine the possibilities (because I know I can!):
· getting a 20% discount on pot brownies at marijuana dispensaries (“We’re sorry about your dis-ease, man.”)
· 15% discounts on all merchandise at stores like, say, Target (“Hey mom, you wanna do some shopping?”)
· 10% mark-off on sex toys, 25% discount on DVD porn rentals (“Hey baby, you wanna go shopping?”)
· 5% discount plus a free monthly bundle of asparagus from Whole Foods, Rainbow Grocery, or Safeway (“We regret the difficulties you’re currently experiencing Mr. Alvarado, but throughout your chemotherapy treatments, we wish to support you by assuring that you eat healthy.”)
I’m already going to save so much this summer on haircuts alone, thanks to the chemo making my hair fall off, but it can be so much more. : (
I must say, I’m a little disappointed.
I can’t help but wish our world was like the one portrayed in the Stonecutters episode from The Simpsons, when Homer, for example, was given a Stonecutter ring which he used on the vending machine at the power plant to never have to pay for chips or sodas again, or when he was given a bumper sticker that would ensure he would never get pulled over again, or when he, as a member of the Stonecutters, was taught their official clandestine handshake to prove his membership to other members in order to procure free and better services (like home plumbing). I could make a killing with my disease if savings and free merchandise and services were abound!
Just imagine the possibilities (because I know I can!):
· getting a 20% discount on pot brownies at marijuana dispensaries (“We’re sorry about your dis-ease, man.”)
· 15% discounts on all merchandise at stores like, say, Target (“Hey mom, you wanna do some shopping?”)
· 10% mark-off on sex toys, 25% discount on DVD porn rentals (“Hey baby, you wanna go shopping?”)
· 5% discount plus a free monthly bundle of asparagus from Whole Foods, Rainbow Grocery, or Safeway (“We regret the difficulties you’re currently experiencing Mr. Alvarado, but throughout your chemotherapy treatments, we wish to support you by assuring that you eat healthy.”)
I’m already going to save so much this summer on haircuts alone, thanks to the chemo making my hair fall off, but it can be so much more. : (
Monday, June 29, 2009
Alvarado-Valdivia 2 - Mr. Hodgkins 0
The past two weeks have been wild.
A few days after my first chemo treatment on Friday, June 12th, my left arm was suddenly in a lot of pain, for no reason. The pain--right at the elbow, where the arm bends--was constant. It felt like the arm muscles around where the chemo was administered were burning. That first and second night, I couldn't go to sleep without taking Tylenol or a strong sleeping pill because the pain was so bad, no matter how I positioned my motionless arm. One night, I almost broke down and cried in the dark, beside my girlfriend, Blanca, because it hurt so much and I feared I wouldn't be able to sleep.
Thursday afternoon I went to the hospital to have them check it out and they weren't quite sure what was causing it, since it wasn't a clear case of extravasation--when the chemotherapy drugs leak into surrounding tissue to cause damage, often permanent. The pain, along with meeting another UCSF physician earlier that week in which I concluded that I would have to also receive radiation treatment after my chemo, sent my mind into a dark space on Friday night after way too many drinks. After going to the hospital and receiving no immediate aid (I turned down some Vicadin, which I later took up once the Tylenol wasn't enough to allow me to sleep), I turned to drinking in order to numb the pain. My battle with my disease had quickly turned into a more difficult, serious matter (though believe me, it has always been quite serious) and I was really, really frustrated and furious at everything. That Friday night, though I blacked out and don't remember, I vaguely recall that I wanted to take my anger out on something, on someone.
The arm pain, thankfully, slowly dissipated over the weekend. I still feel some discomfort now. It has made me fearful of chemo, though, since they're administering it through the veins in my arms. I do not want that kind of pain again.
Last week, I participated in VONA--a writing workshop for people of color. The workshop--from what I heard from the faculty, organizers, but more importantly, first-time and returning participants--is "one of a kind", nothing like it elsewhere. Fellow writers were coming out from New York, Pennsylvania, Washington D.C., Texas, Miami, even the Midwest, while my commute was merely 3.5 miles from home. The workshop was held, Sunday-Friday (Sunday had a mandatory orientation) at the USF campus. Despite the waning pain in my arm, I bicycled to and from the workshop every day, logging just over 50 miles by the end of the week. When I finally bicycled and marched up the Lone Mountain campus every morning for class, I was a sweaty, sleep-deprived mess (I made the mistake of not reading and commenting on the manuscripts submitted by the other ten writers in my memoir workshop the week before). Each day, when I overlooked the bay, the city as I locked up my bicycle, I told myself how far along I was in the week (Wednesday, my 4th straight day for example, I told myself I was 66% of the way there; etc.), just as I'm doing now with my chemotherapy treatments (finished my first of five probable "cycles" of treatment--one cycle includes two sessions--so I'm 20% of the way through). Once the week was coming to an end, my arm pain decreasing, my legs and lungs getting stronger and stronger, I began to glow with pride at myself. I was showing up, contributing to every workshop, and I was proud of my effort. At the beginning of the week--when I suspected that the initial flare of arm pain was attributed to bicycling--I had seriously considered taking MUNI to get to my workshop; I wasn't confident that I had it in me to bicycle up to the campus every morning.
This past Friday evening at 6 PM, VONA was scheduled to hold a three-hour reading in which every workshop participant got to read something to the entire group and faculty. I had my second session of chemotherapy scheduled that afternoon, right after my workshop was out at 12:30 PM. Going into Friday, I was confident that I would be able to make it, but I wasn't sure how the second go-around would go. Thursday afternoon, when our workshop was through for the day, I told my class that I had Hodgkin's lymphoma, that I was receiving chemotherapy on Friday, which is why I might not be able to attend our reading. I had dropped "the bomb"--as I like calling it--to my Saint Mary's classmates a month before when I explained that there was a chance I wouldn't be back for Fall semester. As I told my VONA memoir workshop class, I was kind of amazed at how easy it had become to share such news in just one month's time. A few of my classmates remarked at how "optimistic" and "nonchalant" I was about it. I don't want to forget how my wonderful, caring, and gracious teacher, Asha Bandele, got teary when I explained that the week we had all shared together had been "the happiest I'd had all year" (she knew before we met that I had cancer since I had sent her in an e-mail, weeks before, apologizing that I would have to miss part of a day to meet with my oncologist). I don't want to forget how my dear Marcela, a fellow writer I bonded with, wrapped her arms around me while I sat in my chair, after telling the class, and she whispered into my ear that I would "kick its ass". I smiled and giggled because for once someone had put it in the exact words, sentiment, I was trying to manifest for myself.
My father was with me at the hospital for the majority of the 4 1/2 hours I was there for chemo. I had told him, earlier in the week, that there was a reading for all the writers that I hoped I would be in shape to attend. When my treatment was done, he carried my bag as we left the hospital. Tired and a lil' woozy but not feeling nauseous, I directed him through the city as we made our way to USF. My pumpkin, Blanca, was already there since a few of her former classmates were also participating in the weeklong workshop.
The lounge where the reading was taking place was already packed, with about 50-70 in attendance--most of the workshop participants, some of their friends, and the faculty. None of the couches were available so my dad and I sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the readers as they stood up to read. In short time, my name was called and I walked up in front of everyone, manuscript in hand. The applause was so wonderful and I can't begin to share how happy, how proud I felt to stand up there. I was going to read a vignette from the piece I had happened to workshop in class; it was about my name, about how my father and mother had decided on it, and I was going to read and dedicate it to him (the piece is titled "How We Got Our Names, Not Pseudonyms", which was previously posted on this blog, though I've made a few changes to it since). It was an extraordinary moment in my life--one of those wondrous moments when the cookie truly crumbles in this seemingly righteous, pristine way--reeking of what we call "fate". I had only read something I'd written to my parents once--at home, late one night two years ago when I was a bit drunk. I'd never read anything in public, let alone before them.
"I know I have my two minutes," I said, putting an arm up in the air as though I were a politician, trying to stifle backlash, "but I want to dedicate this to my dad, who brought me here and is sitting back over there," I said, pointing him out while everyone turned in his direction before applauding. "I also want to dedicate this to my mother who isn't here, because any good I have, any good I create, is because of them."
When I finished, I walked back to my dad and patted him on the thigh before I sat next to him. He was beaming, which is rare. Afterwards, when we took a short break from the reading, a few of the other VONA students I had befriended that week approached my dad and started chatting it up with him! He took a seat among them, in the back of the room, and laughed and smiled to the readings from the remaining writers. It's been a long, long time since I've seen him so happy. He didn't have to tell me--though my mother did the next day after she spoke to him over the phone--but he was very proud of me.
And for that, I thank you, Mr. Hodgkins, because that moment would not have happened without you. If you never manifested within my body and forced me to get chemo, my father would not have insisted on being there after my treatment; I would not have invited him to the reading and standing up there would not have been such a proud moment for me, after all that you've put me and my family through.
A few days after my first chemo treatment on Friday, June 12th, my left arm was suddenly in a lot of pain, for no reason. The pain--right at the elbow, where the arm bends--was constant. It felt like the arm muscles around where the chemo was administered were burning. That first and second night, I couldn't go to sleep without taking Tylenol or a strong sleeping pill because the pain was so bad, no matter how I positioned my motionless arm. One night, I almost broke down and cried in the dark, beside my girlfriend, Blanca, because it hurt so much and I feared I wouldn't be able to sleep.
Thursday afternoon I went to the hospital to have them check it out and they weren't quite sure what was causing it, since it wasn't a clear case of extravasation--when the chemotherapy drugs leak into surrounding tissue to cause damage, often permanent. The pain, along with meeting another UCSF physician earlier that week in which I concluded that I would have to also receive radiation treatment after my chemo, sent my mind into a dark space on Friday night after way too many drinks. After going to the hospital and receiving no immediate aid (I turned down some Vicadin, which I later took up once the Tylenol wasn't enough to allow me to sleep), I turned to drinking in order to numb the pain. My battle with my disease had quickly turned into a more difficult, serious matter (though believe me, it has always been quite serious) and I was really, really frustrated and furious at everything. That Friday night, though I blacked out and don't remember, I vaguely recall that I wanted to take my anger out on something, on someone.
The arm pain, thankfully, slowly dissipated over the weekend. I still feel some discomfort now. It has made me fearful of chemo, though, since they're administering it through the veins in my arms. I do not want that kind of pain again.
Last week, I participated in VONA--a writing workshop for people of color. The workshop--from what I heard from the faculty, organizers, but more importantly, first-time and returning participants--is "one of a kind", nothing like it elsewhere. Fellow writers were coming out from New York, Pennsylvania, Washington D.C., Texas, Miami, even the Midwest, while my commute was merely 3.5 miles from home. The workshop was held, Sunday-Friday (Sunday had a mandatory orientation) at the USF campus. Despite the waning pain in my arm, I bicycled to and from the workshop every day, logging just over 50 miles by the end of the week. When I finally bicycled and marched up the Lone Mountain campus every morning for class, I was a sweaty, sleep-deprived mess (I made the mistake of not reading and commenting on the manuscripts submitted by the other ten writers in my memoir workshop the week before). Each day, when I overlooked the bay, the city as I locked up my bicycle, I told myself how far along I was in the week (Wednesday, my 4th straight day for example, I told myself I was 66% of the way there; etc.), just as I'm doing now with my chemotherapy treatments (finished my first of five probable "cycles" of treatment--one cycle includes two sessions--so I'm 20% of the way through). Once the week was coming to an end, my arm pain decreasing, my legs and lungs getting stronger and stronger, I began to glow with pride at myself. I was showing up, contributing to every workshop, and I was proud of my effort. At the beginning of the week--when I suspected that the initial flare of arm pain was attributed to bicycling--I had seriously considered taking MUNI to get to my workshop; I wasn't confident that I had it in me to bicycle up to the campus every morning.
This past Friday evening at 6 PM, VONA was scheduled to hold a three-hour reading in which every workshop participant got to read something to the entire group and faculty. I had my second session of chemotherapy scheduled that afternoon, right after my workshop was out at 12:30 PM. Going into Friday, I was confident that I would be able to make it, but I wasn't sure how the second go-around would go. Thursday afternoon, when our workshop was through for the day, I told my class that I had Hodgkin's lymphoma, that I was receiving chemotherapy on Friday, which is why I might not be able to attend our reading. I had dropped "the bomb"--as I like calling it--to my Saint Mary's classmates a month before when I explained that there was a chance I wouldn't be back for Fall semester. As I told my VONA memoir workshop class, I was kind of amazed at how easy it had become to share such news in just one month's time. A few of my classmates remarked at how "optimistic" and "nonchalant" I was about it. I don't want to forget how my wonderful, caring, and gracious teacher, Asha Bandele, got teary when I explained that the week we had all shared together had been "the happiest I'd had all year" (she knew before we met that I had cancer since I had sent her in an e-mail, weeks before, apologizing that I would have to miss part of a day to meet with my oncologist). I don't want to forget how my dear Marcela, a fellow writer I bonded with, wrapped her arms around me while I sat in my chair, after telling the class, and she whispered into my ear that I would "kick its ass". I smiled and giggled because for once someone had put it in the exact words, sentiment, I was trying to manifest for myself.
My father was with me at the hospital for the majority of the 4 1/2 hours I was there for chemo. I had told him, earlier in the week, that there was a reading for all the writers that I hoped I would be in shape to attend. When my treatment was done, he carried my bag as we left the hospital. Tired and a lil' woozy but not feeling nauseous, I directed him through the city as we made our way to USF. My pumpkin, Blanca, was already there since a few of her former classmates were also participating in the weeklong workshop.
The lounge where the reading was taking place was already packed, with about 50-70 in attendance--most of the workshop participants, some of their friends, and the faculty. None of the couches were available so my dad and I sat cross-legged on the floor, facing the readers as they stood up to read. In short time, my name was called and I walked up in front of everyone, manuscript in hand. The applause was so wonderful and I can't begin to share how happy, how proud I felt to stand up there. I was going to read a vignette from the piece I had happened to workshop in class; it was about my name, about how my father and mother had decided on it, and I was going to read and dedicate it to him (the piece is titled "How We Got Our Names, Not Pseudonyms", which was previously posted on this blog, though I've made a few changes to it since). It was an extraordinary moment in my life--one of those wondrous moments when the cookie truly crumbles in this seemingly righteous, pristine way--reeking of what we call "fate". I had only read something I'd written to my parents once--at home, late one night two years ago when I was a bit drunk. I'd never read anything in public, let alone before them.
"I know I have my two minutes," I said, putting an arm up in the air as though I were a politician, trying to stifle backlash, "but I want to dedicate this to my dad, who brought me here and is sitting back over there," I said, pointing him out while everyone turned in his direction before applauding. "I also want to dedicate this to my mother who isn't here, because any good I have, any good I create, is because of them."
When I finished, I walked back to my dad and patted him on the thigh before I sat next to him. He was beaming, which is rare. Afterwards, when we took a short break from the reading, a few of the other VONA students I had befriended that week approached my dad and started chatting it up with him! He took a seat among them, in the back of the room, and laughed and smiled to the readings from the remaining writers. It's been a long, long time since I've seen him so happy. He didn't have to tell me--though my mother did the next day after she spoke to him over the phone--but he was very proud of me.
And for that, I thank you, Mr. Hodgkins, because that moment would not have happened without you. If you never manifested within my body and forced me to get chemo, my father would not have insisted on being there after my treatment; I would not have invited him to the reading and standing up there would not have been such a proud moment for me, after all that you've put me and my family through.
Saturday, June 13, 2009
Mr. Hodgkins
Many years ago, I read an article about a man who was terminally ill. His doctors had given him a few months to live. The man—I wish I could remember who he was, or where I read the article—was not deterred by the verdict. Instead, he took up alternative medicines, devoutly practiced yoga, meditated, played lots of cheerful Beatles songs, and tried to laugh as often as he could. He also spoke to his disease as if it were a living being that could be reasoned with. In this way, he tried to understand why his disease existed, and what it wanted from him. Rather than having an antagonistic relationship with his disease, he tried to live with it. By doing so, the man lived far longer than all his doctors anticipated. For some reason, though I never imagined I would have to come to terms with my own disease, I remembered this article, particularly the strength he drew from laughter and from having a relationship with his illness, which his own body, for whatever reason, had manifested.
In a way, I have tried to do the same. Since I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma on April 27, 2009, I have decided to personify my illness by calling him Mr. Hodgkins. I imagine he originated from the large mass of lymph nodes between my lungs—a mass so large in size that the space between my lungs is abnormal. In the 10-12 months that he has lived within my chest, he has spread above my diaphragm. A week ago, I took some sweet tokes of Mary Jane, showered, and felt him perched, behind the top of my chest plate.
A few days ago, I had breakfast with my friends Judy and Carlisle. I told them about Mr. Hodgkins. They thought it was cute that I had personified my disease. We laughed as we imagined what he must be like: a well-dressed man with a white button shirt, vest, pressed black jacket and a derby hat. He drinks dark, dark coffee in the mornings and doesn’t take off his hat when he reads the paper. If he was a living man he would bet his hard-earned pounds on a dog race or two, and he says “Bloody fuck!” whenever he sees tabloid pictures of stunning women like Kim Kardasian or Vanessa Hudgens.
I can’t say that I know why Mr. Hodgkins decided to lodge within me; I’ve thought and thought about it, but not enough (I do have my theories, though). I’m not sure if I’ll ever know why—if there even is a “why”—or what I should learn from him. Somehow or another, my body did manifest him, so I can’t help but think that I must change the way I live and see life unless I want to invite him back again, down the road. And since he’s a greedy guy, a true conquistador, voraciously gobbling the blood cells in my body (after I’ve tried to compromise and promised to give him a permanent share! I’ve been willing to concede ample territory in my chest as long as he agreed to stay within his terrain!), I can’t say that I want him back. It’s either him or me.
In a way, I have tried to do the same. Since I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma on April 27, 2009, I have decided to personify my illness by calling him Mr. Hodgkins. I imagine he originated from the large mass of lymph nodes between my lungs—a mass so large in size that the space between my lungs is abnormal. In the 10-12 months that he has lived within my chest, he has spread above my diaphragm. A week ago, I took some sweet tokes of Mary Jane, showered, and felt him perched, behind the top of my chest plate.
A few days ago, I had breakfast with my friends Judy and Carlisle. I told them about Mr. Hodgkins. They thought it was cute that I had personified my disease. We laughed as we imagined what he must be like: a well-dressed man with a white button shirt, vest, pressed black jacket and a derby hat. He drinks dark, dark coffee in the mornings and doesn’t take off his hat when he reads the paper. If he was a living man he would bet his hard-earned pounds on a dog race or two, and he says “Bloody fuck!” whenever he sees tabloid pictures of stunning women like Kim Kardasian or Vanessa Hudgens.
I can’t say that I know why Mr. Hodgkins decided to lodge within me; I’ve thought and thought about it, but not enough (I do have my theories, though). I’m not sure if I’ll ever know why—if there even is a “why”—or what I should learn from him. Somehow or another, my body did manifest him, so I can’t help but think that I must change the way I live and see life unless I want to invite him back again, down the road. And since he’s a greedy guy, a true conquistador, voraciously gobbling the blood cells in my body (after I’ve tried to compromise and promised to give him a permanent share! I’ve been willing to concede ample territory in my chest as long as he agreed to stay within his terrain!), I can’t say that I want him back. It’s either him or me.
Statement of Purpose
For the rest of this summer, I will try to ensure that every blog entry is cancer-inspired, beginning with “MEMO TO MR. HODGKINS,” which was like my declaration of war (no more occupation!). That is, I will attempt to share experiences and thoughts that I do not think would have arisen in my mind, at this juncture in my life, without the help of Mr. Hodgkins’ (I am on personal terms with my illness; my description of him will come later) temporary residency. In this way, I suppose, you could call these entries a journal of my “cancer journey” (as people within the cancer community like to call this experience that I, like many, many others, am going through). I’m a little hesitant to embrace the term because of the numerous implications the word “journey” has; I admire the correlation between personal life and story (because we are all chapters within chapters of stories bound to other stories) that “journey” entails, but then it also sounds a little hokey, like the way Oprah would describe a novel in her book club; “journey” also almost sounds like a vacation, or an epic odyssey that one willingly takes. I know I am and will be further grateful for what I will take from all of this; I do know I will be stronger when I emerge, but it is not a “journey” that I would sign up for, especially since the specter of cancer will be one that will lurk around me for the rest of my life.
Tuesday, June 9, 2009
What I Think Chemotherapy Must Be Like
Imagine yourself on a beach, standing in waist-high water. A butterfly flutters over the waves and your eyes follow as it soars up into the cloudless sky. When you turn back to the sea, a large wave is rearing at you. You scurry up to dive beneath it, rather than having it crash on you. When you do, you pull a calf, grimace, and flop in the water as the wave crashes on you. While you grab your toes to stretch the knot out of your calf muscle, another wave, a much larger one, ten feet high, comes and crashes on you while you crawl toward the beach, to safety. Put the ocean pulls you further in while another wave builds up, this one even larger than the last. It pummels you, sending you tumbling and rolling out of control in the roiling currents. When the sea pulls back, leaving you coughing on the wet sand, you see another big wave rushing at you. With your tender calf you manage to stand up and limp toward the beach when the wave smacks you, sending you tumbling through the currents again. The ocean, ceaseless and remorseless, pounds you again and again as you lay there helpless, leaving you more exhausted with every wave that seem to grow stronger and darker. After a while, the ocean relents. Though depleted with the breath knocked out of you, you manage to cough and crawl back to dry sand where the ocean cannot beat on you any longer. You lie there, the sound of breaking waves not far behind you, until you’re able to stand and walk away.
This is what I think it will be like (eight sessions minimum, once every two weeks). I'll find out soon how right or wrong I am.
This is what I think it will be like (eight sessions minimum, once every two weeks). I'll find out soon how right or wrong I am.
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Monday, March 2, 2009
When "Being Unique" Goes Wrong
Being raised American, I was taught, again and again, that we’re all unique—like a fluttering snowflake or the fingerprints we have. In our culture, we’re encouraged to embrace, nurture our uniqueness. Well I’m here to tell you: it’s not always so great.
Observe! (with a sweeping hand, like one of The Price Is Right models) :
1) I’m an atheist: in the United States, that means I’m unlike 95% of the entire population. Within my greater family, which has 37 first cousins alone on my mother’s side of the family (that’s not counting those second and third cousins I keep meeting, everytime I go back), and over 30 aunties and uncles, I’m the only non-believer.
2) Within my big family, I’m probably the only one who has ever given vegetarianism a serious run (say, longer than, oh, an hour or a week).
3) I cannot roll my tongue, like an estimated 19-35% of the population. Additionally, I was born with what’s referred to informally as a “pigeon chest”, or Pectus carinatum, which, again, is an anomaly within the population.
4) Besides my primas Lita and Lourdes who live in Europe, I may be the only person within my family who has ever traveled to four continents.
5) And now, at the tender age of 29, I may very well be the first in my entire family to have what’s called a CT-guided needle aspiration of a "lesion" just off my right lung—which basically means that I’m going under a CAT Scan (which is short for Computerized Axial Tomography) in order to have a big needle plunged in and out of my chest to extract a sample for biopsy. In a family with no history of cancer, I maybe the first—at such a young age—to have some form of lymphoma.
Being “unique” isn’t so nifty right now.
Observe! (with a sweeping hand, like one of The Price Is Right models) :
1) I’m an atheist: in the United States, that means I’m unlike 95% of the entire population. Within my greater family, which has 37 first cousins alone on my mother’s side of the family (that’s not counting those second and third cousins I keep meeting, everytime I go back), and over 30 aunties and uncles, I’m the only non-believer.
2) Within my big family, I’m probably the only one who has ever given vegetarianism a serious run (say, longer than, oh, an hour or a week).
3) I cannot roll my tongue, like an estimated 19-35% of the population. Additionally, I was born with what’s referred to informally as a “pigeon chest”, or Pectus carinatum, which, again, is an anomaly within the population.
4) Besides my primas Lita and Lourdes who live in Europe, I may be the only person within my family who has ever traveled to four continents.
5) And now, at the tender age of 29, I may very well be the first in my entire family to have what’s called a CT-guided needle aspiration of a "lesion" just off my right lung—which basically means that I’m going under a CAT Scan (which is short for Computerized Axial Tomography) in order to have a big needle plunged in and out of my chest to extract a sample for biopsy. In a family with no history of cancer, I maybe the first—at such a young age—to have some form of lymphoma.
Being “unique” isn’t so nifty right now.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
How We Got Our Names, Not Pseudonyms
*this is an excerpt from a bigger piece I'm writing about my friendship with my good friend, J.J.
I think our names—first, middle, and last name(s) along with the names that we weren’t ultimately given by our parents—are significant in knowing someone. I’m not considering this from a numerology sense but in a melodic-spirit way. Perhaps it’s our minds, specifically mine, creating yet another distinctly human construct (such as linear time, malice, or God), but I believe people somehow or another end up behaving the way their names sound coupled with the way their faces look. It’s just one of my many unscientific theories of life, something J.J. and I excel in manufacturing. One of my favorite all-time J.J. Theories On Life is that you can’t trust a people, a culture, that lives in a peninsula, eats a form of soup yet doesn’t have some form of eating or soaking utility similar or equivalent to bread or a tortilla.
But back to names, J.J. and I are similar in that we were named after our fathers. It could be argued that we were destined towards a rebellious nature shortly after we were popped out of our mothers’ wombs once we were yawningly named after our dads—like we felt compelled, throughout our pubescence and young adulthood especially, to be that much more different than our spawners.
J.J.’s birth-given first name is Gerald (for his privacy, I won’t put out his full name). Instead of going by Junior, Gerald Jr. or Jerry Jr., his family chose to call him J.J.
My full name is Juan Manuel Alvarado Valdivia. My father, to his credit, did not want to name me after him but wanted to call me Huascar. In Quechua, the language the Incans and their Andean descendents presently use (my family es Peruano), the name means “Sun of Joy”. Huascar was the second to last Incan emperor, dethroned by his half-brother, Atahualpa, in a bloody civil war that occurred when the Spanish conquistadors landed on the empire. Huascar, being the last full-blooded Incan emperor, was said to be the favored ruler by the majority of the Incan peasants. It could be that these reasons were why my father wanted to name me after him. He was talked out of by my mom since it was an unusual name, even in Peru. Plus, my paternal grandfather was also named Juan so there was a sexy line of succession to continue (it ends with me). My cousins tell me I should be thankful because a popular juerga, a slang term in my ancestral homeland, is huasca, which means to be shit-faced drunk.
At times, I believe that even though I wasn’t named after the second to last Incan emperor, that I took and churn within me the spirit that the name would have entailed.
I think our names—first, middle, and last name(s) along with the names that we weren’t ultimately given by our parents—are significant in knowing someone. I’m not considering this from a numerology sense but in a melodic-spirit way. Perhaps it’s our minds, specifically mine, creating yet another distinctly human construct (such as linear time, malice, or God), but I believe people somehow or another end up behaving the way their names sound coupled with the way their faces look. It’s just one of my many unscientific theories of life, something J.J. and I excel in manufacturing. One of my favorite all-time J.J. Theories On Life is that you can’t trust a people, a culture, that lives in a peninsula, eats a form of soup yet doesn’t have some form of eating or soaking utility similar or equivalent to bread or a tortilla.
But back to names, J.J. and I are similar in that we were named after our fathers. It could be argued that we were destined towards a rebellious nature shortly after we were popped out of our mothers’ wombs once we were yawningly named after our dads—like we felt compelled, throughout our pubescence and young adulthood especially, to be that much more different than our spawners.
J.J.’s birth-given first name is Gerald (for his privacy, I won’t put out his full name). Instead of going by Junior, Gerald Jr. or Jerry Jr., his family chose to call him J.J.
My full name is Juan Manuel Alvarado Valdivia. My father, to his credit, did not want to name me after him but wanted to call me Huascar. In Quechua, the language the Incans and their Andean descendents presently use (my family es Peruano), the name means “Sun of Joy”. Huascar was the second to last Incan emperor, dethroned by his half-brother, Atahualpa, in a bloody civil war that occurred when the Spanish conquistadors landed on the empire. Huascar, being the last full-blooded Incan emperor, was said to be the favored ruler by the majority of the Incan peasants. It could be that these reasons were why my father wanted to name me after him. He was talked out of by my mom since it was an unusual name, even in Peru. Plus, my paternal grandfather was also named Juan so there was a sexy line of succession to continue (it ends with me). My cousins tell me I should be thankful because a popular juerga, a slang term in my ancestral homeland, is huasca, which means to be shit-faced drunk.
At times, I believe that even though I wasn’t named after the second to last Incan emperor, that I took and churn within me the spirit that the name would have entailed.
Monday, January 12, 2009
A New Year (or Tangy Titties)
The sun was sheeny past the windows that looked out over Judy and Carlisle’s backyard. The expansive view provided a glimpse of the backyards of at least four Victorians, each a different vibrant hue and picturesque with the clear blue sky behind them. “You’re not done with the tour yet,” Carlisle called out in his thick Southern accent as his shoes thumped on the wooden stairwell that led to the back.
With his gray Fedora hat a la Tom Landry perched on my noggin’, I stopped my petting and cooing of Rosie the pug and stood up from the rug. I stepped out into the sun and descended the steps that ran alongside an orange tree. Past the tree was a tiny fenced off area that appeared to be a forgotten garden, the leaves of some plants sagging and frayed at the ends, small red-orange tomatoes rotting on the lush soil.
Carlisle stood in the middle of the concrete patio beneath the tree. He grinned and held his arms out.
“Not bad, huh?” he asked as we peered up at the tree, its oranges and foliage glimmering in the sunlight.
“I’m gonna have to come out here when I’m high!” I replied.
“It gets better. Check this out,” he said before turning to open a door which led into a low-hanging garage, beneath his new home.
A fluorescent light flicked to life as I followed him in. He walked off to a corner and marched back, his head bent, with a five-foot long pole in hand. At one end was a cone-sized basket of sorts with what looked like a miniature rake protruding out on one side.
We stepped back into the warm blanket of sun as Carlisle turned a knob on the pole to extend it. With both hands firmly grasping it, he tilted it to the heavens. My jaw hung open in wonder as he negotiated an orange within the basket, then reared back to use the rake-part to pull the orange off its branch.
“And there you have an orange,” Carlisle said as he brought the pole down to ground level and allowed the fruit to roll off and onto the pavement. “Normally, you’d have another person on that end, grabbing them, putting them in a basket to speed the picking process.”
“That’s cool, man. What is that thing called?”
“A harvester,” he replied as he set it back against the house.
He walked back beneath the tree, plucked an orange from it and bent over to pick up the one from the ground. He handed them to me and picked one for himself.
We took a step to look out over the garden as Rosie descended the stairs. She took a rest at the bottom, licking her snout and staring at us in a lazy Sunday way. Carlisle told me that he wanted to eventually knock the elfin fence (it was about three feet high) so he wouldn’t feel so separate from it. For the time being, until he and Judy figured out what they were going to do with the space, they were keeping the gate that led out into the garden shut because Rosie would eat those rotting tomatoes. I chuckled since I remembered how fond she was of eating any crap we crossed on the sidewalks of the Mission, whenever I took her for a stroll.
We conversed about school, about how he wanted to cut back on his class load to have “more of a life” in the coming semester. I yacked about how I was trying to make the best of my vacation from classes by giving myself strict deadlines on finishing the books I was reading. While we spoke, Carlisle started to toss and catch his orange over his shoulders like a sideshow clown, his lips puckered and blue eyes bulging goofily. The juggle itch sifted into me and I started to chuck my oranges up in the air. A carnival tune began to toot in my brain. I couldn’t do anything nifty like Carlisle so in a move that recalled my pubescent years, I slipped one then both oranges underneath my Simpsons shirt to create pointy breasts which I would later dub "tangy titties". After I nestled them around for symmetricality, I turned to look up at Carlisle.
“Can you tell I’m sexually frustrated?” I quipped before we started laughing, the giddy sun and blue sky bereft of worry clouds getting to us.
With his gray Fedora hat a la Tom Landry perched on my noggin’, I stopped my petting and cooing of Rosie the pug and stood up from the rug. I stepped out into the sun and descended the steps that ran alongside an orange tree. Past the tree was a tiny fenced off area that appeared to be a forgotten garden, the leaves of some plants sagging and frayed at the ends, small red-orange tomatoes rotting on the lush soil.
Carlisle stood in the middle of the concrete patio beneath the tree. He grinned and held his arms out.
“Not bad, huh?” he asked as we peered up at the tree, its oranges and foliage glimmering in the sunlight.
“I’m gonna have to come out here when I’m high!” I replied.
“It gets better. Check this out,” he said before turning to open a door which led into a low-hanging garage, beneath his new home.
A fluorescent light flicked to life as I followed him in. He walked off to a corner and marched back, his head bent, with a five-foot long pole in hand. At one end was a cone-sized basket of sorts with what looked like a miniature rake protruding out on one side.
We stepped back into the warm blanket of sun as Carlisle turned a knob on the pole to extend it. With both hands firmly grasping it, he tilted it to the heavens. My jaw hung open in wonder as he negotiated an orange within the basket, then reared back to use the rake-part to pull the orange off its branch.
“And there you have an orange,” Carlisle said as he brought the pole down to ground level and allowed the fruit to roll off and onto the pavement. “Normally, you’d have another person on that end, grabbing them, putting them in a basket to speed the picking process.”
“That’s cool, man. What is that thing called?”
“A harvester,” he replied as he set it back against the house.
He walked back beneath the tree, plucked an orange from it and bent over to pick up the one from the ground. He handed them to me and picked one for himself.
We took a step to look out over the garden as Rosie descended the stairs. She took a rest at the bottom, licking her snout and staring at us in a lazy Sunday way. Carlisle told me that he wanted to eventually knock the elfin fence (it was about three feet high) so he wouldn’t feel so separate from it. For the time being, until he and Judy figured out what they were going to do with the space, they were keeping the gate that led out into the garden shut because Rosie would eat those rotting tomatoes. I chuckled since I remembered how fond she was of eating any crap we crossed on the sidewalks of the Mission, whenever I took her for a stroll.
We conversed about school, about how he wanted to cut back on his class load to have “more of a life” in the coming semester. I yacked about how I was trying to make the best of my vacation from classes by giving myself strict deadlines on finishing the books I was reading. While we spoke, Carlisle started to toss and catch his orange over his shoulders like a sideshow clown, his lips puckered and blue eyes bulging goofily. The juggle itch sifted into me and I started to chuck my oranges up in the air. A carnival tune began to toot in my brain. I couldn’t do anything nifty like Carlisle so in a move that recalled my pubescent years, I slipped one then both oranges underneath my Simpsons shirt to create pointy breasts which I would later dub "tangy titties". After I nestled them around for symmetricality, I turned to look up at Carlisle.
“Can you tell I’m sexually frustrated?” I quipped before we started laughing, the giddy sun and blue sky bereft of worry clouds getting to us.
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