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.