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.

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.

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.

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.

MEMO TO MR. HODGKINS
FROM MR. ALVARADO VALDIVIA
DATED 6/3/09

You fuck with me, you fuckin' with the best.