December

dark curtain rises
sooner as winter takes hold,
the leaves are falling.

Chemo—Hung-the-fuck-over

this is an excerpt from my memoir

In retrospect, I suppose this says a lot about me then, but before I began chemo, I had a thought: it wouldn’t be a good idea to do this hungover.

Boy was I fucking right.


That Friday morning, I awoke in a state of painful wonderment from the moment my cell phone alarm startled me. My eyes looked around my bedroom, my temples were throbbing as I crawled out of bed and reached for my phone, which I had left—as I always did when the alarm was set—a few feet away on the floor. At that moment, hanging halfway out of my bed, I probably didn’t look altogether different than Mike Tyson when he got knocked down in Tokyo: googly-eyed, crawling on the canvas, desperately reaching for his mouthpiece.

Oh shit, I have to get ready for chemo.
How did I get here?
Oh gawd oh gawd oh gawd oh gawd—what the FUCK did I do last night?

Before I dragged myself into the shower, I noticed that my shoulder bag was not in my room. Also missing in action was the jacket that Blanca had given me for my birthday. I must have left them at the coat check at the club. So I hoped.

Since my mom was back in the country, she wanted to be there for my 5th infusion. She and Dad had asked if they could pick me up that morning to take me to the hospital. Thank gawd I had agreed because that bus ride on the 48 to the hospital would have been abominable in my hungover state.

At 4C, I was seated in one of the reclining chairs right in front of the entrance. If it wasn’t bad enough that my parents were standing by the doorway, looking over me, anyone could have peered in and seen me, hanging my head from pain. From shame. After I sat down, I immediately took off my shoes, reclined the chair, and accepted a blanket from Vilma, my attending nurse. This was uncharacteristic of me. Until then, I usually sat in my chair for the first hour or two, reading, eating my apple and banana and drinking some water.

I set my left arm on the armrest like an offering (insert hopefully-life-saving toxins in here) and turned away from my parents. I tried to bury my face from their sight. The red eyes, the bags beneath them—the incriminating evidence. Although I did not know at that point what I had done the night before, I had this sick, sick feeling—on top of the sour gut I had—that something terrible had happened.

If being hung-the-fuck-over during chemo wasn’t bad enough, the veins on my left arm had decided to revolt. They were tight like cords if I ran my fingers over them—and they were tired, tired, tired! of intruders. Vilma sat on a stool beside me and poked into three spots on my forearm without finding a vein that would take an IV. Getting that needle set up was always the most unnerving part of the entire infusion, so by the time she punctured into a vein by my wrist, I wanted to wail in a disgusting display of self-pity. For the pain my dumbfuck-ass had put myself in. For being so stupid to have drunk so much—yet again. For fucking up, yet again—in all likelihood—a good thing in my life.

Instead, I closed my eyes and kept my face turned away from my parents throughout treatment. In between sleep, I squinted and looked around at the room which seemed too bleachy-bright: at my mom or dad, standing nearby against the wall with these blank, worried faces; at Vilma, her glasses on, a medical mask covering her nose and mouth as she hovered over my arm and slowly injected a syringe full of chemo into my IV. I couldn’t look at my parents in the eye so I drifted back to sleep, where this nightmare would temporarily cease.

When we got to our home in Fremont, the bony top of my hand wrapped with a bandage (Vilma found a tiny vein there that took one for the team), I slept most of the day away. I had called and texted Blanca, imploring her to tell me what had happened the night before. Once she called back, she reluctantly told me that I had lost control. Went crazy. Had to leave the club after I got “really aggressive” on the dance floor. Had to be taken away in a cab.

When I persisted in asking exactly what I did, she told me that she didn’t want to talk about it. And that’s when I dropped my questions, hung my head, and apologized further.

Whatever I’d done, it was that bad.

Thanksgiving in the Post-Cancer World

It had been nearly a year since I was last there. December 4, 2009: my twelfth and final chemo treatment. If other cancer survivors are like me—at least those who also received chemotherapy—then they remember that date. Just like we will always remember the day we were diagnosed. I was going back to 4C—San Francisco General Hospital’s infusion ward—to give my nurses some love, minute tokens of gratitude for the care they gave me, for saving my life, in the form of some yummy See’s Candies boxes and a Hallmark card.

It was just after 5 pm on the Tuesday before Thanksgiving. I knew it would be empty at that time. The year before, I would stroll into the nurse-run ward at that time, or even later in the evening, for my bi-weekly pre-chemo ritual. “The weigh-in,” as I called it, which consisted of a blood draw and weight check two or three days before my scheduled infusion. The 4C nurses had to take it in order to assure that my blood cell counts were high enough to handle treatment; my weight was taken in order for the pharmacist to calculate—in accordance with my height—the exact chemotherapy dosage for my Friday morning treatments. If the doses were too high, it could seriously fuck me up. My chemotherapy regimen was particularly rough on the heart and lungs. That’s why two nurses conducted a “chemo check” before my infusions began, when I was already sitting in a reclining chair with an IV pricked into my arm. The chemo check was like reviewing a packing list; one nurse would sift through the large Ziploc-like bag that contained my four chemotherapy infusions, the accompanying anti-nausea drugs, and saline bags that comprised my “treatment.” She would call them out along with their measurement: “Benedryl 25,” “Anzemet, 10,” “Bleomycin, 18, push”—which meant that the drug was contained in a syringe that my nurse would have to slowly inject into my bloodstream through the IV (my nurse would do this by sitting on a stool next to me, while I was usually unconscious, woozy from the anti-nausea drugs and lack of sleep the night before). The other nurse would repeat aloud that same item from the list while crossing it off.

But back to 4C for my Thanksgiving return.

I put my shoulder bag up on a counter right next to the cold, sterile-lit waiting room where my parents used to wait through my treatments. “Purgatory” is what I’ve always thought of that room—all the weary faces sitting in those chairs. My bicycle helmet, which was tied around the bag’s strap, clanged against the plastic counter. Instead of locking it with my bicycle in the hospital lobby, I decided to bring it so the nurses could see it: to refresh their memories in case they didn’t recognize me with my thick beard and big poofy-curly hair, bundled up in my black pea coat over the gray slacks and loafers I wore to work.

Throughout the six months I visited 4C on a consistent basis, I often walked into that ward with my bicycle helmet strapped onto my backpack. The entire time I was a temporary resident of Cancer World—the oncology clinic, the infusion ward, the cancer support group I briefly attended, the radiation center at UCSF, the various hospital departments I had to go to get my body checked on (PET scans, pulmonary function tests, blood labs, etc.)—I never saw anyone else rocking a bicycle helmet. It was a tactful choice on my part. The helmet—which looks like a fighter pilot helmet ala Top Gun with red and blue stripes splitting down its middle, adorned on the sides with white stars—is a readily noticeable object that anyone: my doctors, caregivers, and fellow cancer patients could see. I wanted them all to know that although I had cancer and was receiving treatment, it wasn’t keeping me from bicycling around the city, from trying to be physically strong.

I took out the bag of See’s Candies and the card I’d tucked into a folder. I walked past the unattended registration desk where I had to check in for my treatments, verify my identity before receiving a yellow wristband with my name and medical record number stamped on it (which used to make me laugh on the occasions I was cranky. Who would want to be me at that point in my life? Who would steal my hospital ID to willingly receive chemotherapy? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!)

Past the desk, I turned right toward the infusion rooms. My eyes strayed to the walls, marveled at the blue doors, at the warm blue trim at the top of the white walls. I made a mental note: the doors in 4C are blue. I had forgotten, figured this information might be handy in describing the ward in my memoir.

With the See’s Candies bag in hand, I stopped at my familiar waiting spot outside the two doors that led into the main infusion room, next to the scale where the patients are weighed. I heard someone conversing inside. After I stood there for about ten seconds without seeing any nurse step out into the hallway, I leaned to the side to peek inside. At the end of the room, by the big windows that looked out over the city, Bernal Heights in the distance, I saw a bespectacled woman in her mid to late fifties. She was sitting in a reclining chair with an IV in her arm. She appeared to be Latina, didn’t see me before I quickly ducked out of vision. After all I’d gone through the year before, I still felt like seeing someone receive chemotherapy was a big intrusion.

Moments later, staring off at the ceiling, I heard someone step out into the hallway. I turned and saw Doreen, the first 4C nurse I met a year and a half ago, when I still hadn’t been diagnosed. She’s a healthily slender white woman in her late fifties with short curly gray hair.

“Oh, I haven’t seen you in a while,” she said in a disarmingly casual manner.

I took a step toward her as she continued walking to me. I could feel a big smile come over me like when you see a dear friend for the first time in ages.

“Well, I just came by to say hi and drop off some stuff,” I said.

“You’re not coming back, are you?”

“No, no! Thank god I’m not!”

“Well good! It’s good to see you,” she said, opening up her arms. Her face was a bit more colored then I last remembered. It looked like she’d recently gotten some sun. Doreen was always one of the most chipper nurses at 4C but she was smiling in a way I’d never seen before.

We hugged. It was a pleasant surprise. The only nurse at 4C I ever hugged was Vilma, a short, light-skinned Filipina nurse who was my mother’s age. We only hugged on my last day of treatment when I was wobbling out of the ward, after she read the card I wrote for her and all the other nurses, thanking them for all the care they gave me, for all the difficult work they did every day.

“You’re looking good. Everything turned out all right? How are you doing?” Doreen asked.

I looked down at the ground, shook my head while I was smiling. I’m not sure if I was blushing. This was the oh-shucks expression I’ve had since I was a kid, the look I’d get when my elementary school teachers would commend me on how smart I was or how well I did something.

“I’m…doing good!” I said.

“Are you still in school?”

“I already graduated, back in May,” I said with a big grin. I felt like a proud son.

“Come on over,” Doreen said, nodding toward the nurse’s lounge, her hand on my back.

Within seconds, Connie stepped out into the hallway.

“Oh look who’s here!” she said. Consuelo’s a petite Filipina nurse who dyes her bobbed hair a platinum red color. Then Marva, the middle-aged black nurse with the vaguely Caribbean accent stepped out into the hallway. She was the nurse who took care of me for my first treatment. She was the one who loved to tell my parents, while they stood and watched over me during my treatments, that I was such a “good boy,” always reading my books.

The 4C reunion hugfest was on.

Connie and Marva didn’t hesitate to give me hugs either. Dolores, a thin Asian nurse in her late forties, walked by. She must have been looking at me quizzically because Connie said, “Don’t you remember him? He got Hodgkin lymphoma treatment last year.”

“I used to have a lot less hair, and didn’t have this,” I said to Dolores, stroking my beard.

She mumbled something on her way to the nurse’s lounge. I can’t remember what she said because I was beaming and bubbly and fuzzy-faced excited from standing in that spotlight between Doreen, Connie, and Marva. They were all smiling at me.

All I could do was smile back at them and ask, “How are you doing?” even though I’d already asked them.

“What brings you here?” Marva asked.

“Oh, you know, I just brought a card and some chocolates for all of you. Just a small, small way of saying thanks,” I said, lifting the bag.

They thanked me, told me I didn’t have to.

“So what are you doing now?” Doreen asked, all three of their eyes rapt on me.

I told them I was back to working full-time between both of my part-time jobs, still chipping away at the cancer memoir.

“I’ve written about 165 pages, and I think I’m a third of the way through. So it’s going to take a while!” I said.

“Bring us a copy when it’s out,” Doreen said, as if it was an inevitable matter.

“I will, I will,” I said. I was tempted to get mushy, tell them that my goal continued to be to get it published so I could dedicate the book to all of them, right after I dedicated it to my parents. But I’d already written that in the card I gave them on my last day of treatment, figured I didn’t have to say it again. I’d rather bottle that vow inside so it could continue to drive me.

And just like that, we knew it was time to say goodbye. I handed Doreen the card, gave the bag of chocolates to Connie. While I took turns giving each of them a goodbye hug, hearing them tell me “it was good to see you” and “keep healthy,” Connie took a step back, looked up at me with this proud look on her face and deemed me a “success story,” which almost made me laugh. It reminded me that not everyone makes it out of that ward.

“Well, I certainly don’t miss the chemo, but I miss you guys,” I said to them, just before Marva walked past me, down the hallway.

I turned to leave the ward while Doreen and Connie went back into the infusion room to take care of their patients. One or perhaps all of them would be there on Thursday. Their line of work can’t close its doors for a holiday.

On my way past the double doors that led out of 4C—the place that still felt like some sort of home—I caught up to Marva who was a few strides in front of me.

“You still reading your books?” she asked, turning her head back as she continued to walk down the hospital’s bright white hallway.

“Uh huh,” I said with a chipper tone.

“That’s good,” she said with a grin as she turned right at the hallway juncture while I headed left toward the elevators. “Always with your books.”

I complimented her short bob haircut, said “take care” before I stepped into the elevator. On the way down to the lobby, I was tempted to bust out my camera to take a picture of the elevator’s shiny metal interior, in case I needed to describe it for the memoir. But I know I’ll be back someday soon, either Mother’s Day or next Thanksgiving. This is a yearly pilgrimage I hope to keep until the day I die.

half moon wilderness wandering

te extrano, carino,
en noches como esta,
la luz de la luna
pasando como sueno
por los brazos de los arboles,
iluminando las hojas del otoño
que han caido, muertos,
listos a sobrevivir en otra forma.
este camino, sin luz, sin ti.

barroom poetry

Those slurry words,
her lips, humming
shades of red
into your ear,
your hands grasping like the
blind in the bar’s dark.
And when they clasp
it’s magic, you feel
grander in those fleeting moments,
something other than just yourself.

Drive-ThruLandia

L.A.—Drive-ThruLandia,
movie-sized billboards,
tender flesh abound;
dashboard hamburgers,
lefts on reds.

Seventy-one suburbs of
palm tree promise,
beach cruiser serenity
amid tremulous faults.

Concrete ribbons of abyss
over barren land,
where people are a pitch, an angle,
and sunglasses are suggested pool attire.

Everything is grander here, and
everyone is in your way,
drive-thru is philosophy of life,
impermanence is majesty here.

L.A.,
where you can dress like a star to
buy grocery condiments,
L.A., where bus stops are
safe zones for crazies,
L.A., the land of dreams,
where the sun serves as daily reminder
that everything, everything, fades.

bicycle poem #1 (poems about bicycling while bicycling)

I am poet-jedi beneath these streetlights,
knifing through wind and cars, two-wheel style,
hugging each turn with pristine grace;
if only the other barrios of my life could be this easy,
namely, love

How To Ruin Relations With Your Girlfriend’s Siblings (in one weekend)

1) When you arrive in Seattle on a Thursday night in late September, four months into chemotherapy treatment, go out to a college bar during karaoke night with your girlfriend, her brother, and his two former frat brothers. Once there, when a drunken undergrad is singing the Nine Inch Nails “Closer” as if she was the hottest woman alive, ready to bang two guys in the nearest available toilet stall (I want to fuck you like an animal), stalk over to the bar without saying a word to your girlfriend and knock back a shot and brood after it becomes apparent that her brother and his friends don’t want to leave this bar (months later, you realize you should never drink when you’re upset; drinking has never made a bad situation better).

2) Once you do leave and hit up a bar that is much more to your liking (i.e. not a place where you have to worry about the Girls Gone Wild crew showing up), drink excessively even though you really shouldn’t be drinking while undergoing chemotherapy.

3) When you’re leaving the bar and your stomach feels uh-oh-queasy, step between two parked cars and vomit, with some of it splattering on the sides of your Chuck Taylor shoes. When the brother’s annoying friend guffaws and says, “Oh dude, you drunk too much!” keep your mouth shut and allow that anger to boil inside of you instead of telling him, “I have cancer and I’m doing chemo—and my body can’t handle alcohol like it usually does.” You don’t tell him this because your girlfriend, during the flight, asked you for one thing—not to mention to her siblings that you have cancer (even though, you will find out later, after you break up, that they knew then because your girlfriend’s mother had told them, but her siblings never spoke to you or your girlfriend about it).

4) On the way over to a convenience store—your girlfriend in the passenger seat, her brother driving—smack the back of her seat after she says something trivial, which allows the brother's friends to jokingly chide her. Smack the back of her seat in an entirely passive-aggressive way and say, "Yeah, what were you thinking!" Look away when the brother whips his head back to glare at you.

5) In the convenience store parking lot, after checking your wallet for change, walk off to the Air & Water machine to see if it runs for free in Washington so that you can rinse the vomit off of your shoes. When it isn’t, since it requires fifty cents, stalk back to the car where your girlfriend and her brother are sitting. When she asks, “Were you trying to get it to work?” respond: “What does it fucking look like I was trying to do?”

6) The next day, apologize to your girlfriend but fail to apologize, that entire weekend, to her brother. Fail to recognize, until you break up that following Monday, how it must have felt for him to see his sister’s boyfriend do and say those things. Fail to see how much of an asshole you must have come across to him. Fail to understand how you would have been steaming pissed at yourself if you were in his position. Fail to understand the ramifications of all this for your relationship.

7) Even after you understand this, do not send him an e-mail apologizing for your actions until seven months later when your relationship is finally mending from that initial breakup, moving past those difficulties you had during those first months. Send that e-mail only after your girlfriend’s sister visits and you can tell she really, really dislikes you because she won’t even look at you when you’re trying to converse with her. Send that e-mail to your girlfriend’s brother and sister after you can’t find the time or place to apologize to her in person on the one night you’re hanging out together. Send those e-mails after your girlfriend’s sister and mother both yell and criticize your girlfriend for being with you, which makes her really upset, putting her in a terrible bind, straining your relationship. Send those apologies when it is much too late. By then, even though it is sincere, full of regret, your apology to her brother seems hollow—and you can’t blame him for thinking that.

The Two Things I've Learned This Year

If you're ever in need of a free drink, just tell people:

1) that you beat cancer, or
2) that you just finished grad school!

love (a vantage)

love is a lie that some of us are good at telling ourselves, again and again and again