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.