City of Hope

October 24th, 2010

What a Joke. I thought I was done with this fucking blog. I secretly hoped that there were going to be no more treatments for my cancer, except for my surveillance. I thought I was going to adapt to my new body. Hell, I even thought that I could become a better man after going through all this. What a fucking Joke!

My timeline is a bit scrambled since this past summer and fall, but there was more to this ugliness than I thought. Initially, I was told by my medical oncologist that I had to go through another surgery sometime mid-summer. Considering how casually he announced it to me, it seemed like it was nothing bigger than a small slit on the side to remove some lymph nodes, nothing like what I’ve already experienced. He discussed his concerns regarding some of the suspicions they had with my recent CT Scans, and they were basing their decisions on preventative measures. I already went through two other surgeries this year, and I managed to recover with ease. I figured that the worse was already behind me, and I was ready to go through the surgery on behalf of preventing my cancer from returning.

I haven’t allowed myself to be angry this year. I figured it was a waste of energy to allow anger and depression to set in. It wasn’t until I talked to my surgeon about my operation that I finally let loose. The surgery to remove my lymph nodes was more invasive than I anticipated. The nodes are located in the back of my abdominal region that intertwine with some of the nerves that align with my spinal cord. The complexity of the operation could not have been done through a microscopic procedure, so the path of entry was through my stomach, suspending any organs that were in the way and dissect the nodes. The risks that I was told endangered my ability to have sex and I would have to be in recovery for a very long time. I got all this information in a matter of 20 minutes without any time to ask questions. Reason being that my surgeon was being called into the OR after my consultation.

There was a lot to take in for this surgery. There were times were wanted to scream and just drive away, but all that came out were tears in the shower. I was ashamed that I chose to take this optional surgery for preventative measures. It’s irrational to feel this under such circumstances, but there’s no explanation to these emotions. I’m actually seeking help through an Existential Psychiatrist to help me understand some of the emotions I feel during this process. It is unusual to feel so humiliated during this times, but there’s no way for me to understand why I still do. It’s actually been the reason why I’ve been so hesitant to post my surgery on this blog.

It has been stressful the past few months, and I needed to change that. Whenever the month of October was brought to me or my family’s attention, it was a downer because October 20th was the date of my surgery. There was nothing going on for that month, and I would always shy away whenever there was conversations regarding Halloween plans (Halloween was always a fun time of the year for me because it usually gives me a chance to get as naked as I legally can be in public). I needed to change that so I dragged my family out to go skydiving the weekend before my surgery. Most of us had the experience of a lifetime, while some of us vowed to never do it again. Needless to say, it was a big success. All of us were still on a high from jumping out of a plane when I was in the Pre-OP room, and I think it has become one of our family’s greatest moments together.

I’ve never had a serious surgery before in my life. The extent of my time in the operating room was a half hour to get my testicle removed. This was the biggest procedure that has happened to me, and I wish I was better prepared for it. Thankfully enough, the operation did not take as long as they anticipated and they did not have to suspend any of my organs. The time they had reserved me in the OR was anywhere between 7 to 11 hours. They only needed 2 hours and 45 minutes (it pays to have little body fat), and there was no need for me to be in the ICU department afterwards. I was able to walk around a few hours after I woke up from the anesthesia. 

I have to admit that coming out of Anesthesia this time around was one of the worse experiences I have encountered. From what I remember, there was a lot of flashing lights as if my eyes were seeing through an over-exposed film, and hearing a lot of screaming in my head. My entire body was in pain, and I could feel every dimple on the floor through my bed as they rolled me across the hospital. I also remember telling everybody to leave the room and crying at my brother’s side. I could only imagine that this is what it must feel like when you’re first born.

July 19, 2010 [End]

After my last treatment of chemotherapy, I would expect answers to questions that I could not think of. With that approach, every visit with my oncologist would be disappointing because I was expecting him to say, ‘You’re cured, you’re not welcome back into this hospital. Ever!’ Of coarse not. Why would he? Even if he did say something that outlandish, I wouldn’t believe him. But for some reason, I just wanted to hear those words. With each discussion that we had in person, over the phone, or through e-mail, my blood work was showing better news as if it were its own infinite variable that would never cross the normal threshold. Being biologically normal was its own limit. Outside the numbers and graphs, I’ve never felt so healthy in my life. I’m back to my usual routine with a refreshing attitude: practicing architecture as a means for having a creative outlet, working out everyday to celebrate health, and enjoying the company of friends and family, because if it wasn’t for everybody, I would not have taken this past year so easily.

Today was a big day. I just had my CT scans last week, and there has been more than enough time for a whole line of specialists to interpret my images. My oncologist’s tone was very serious, and he was annotating every piece of information that was discovered in my body. He was addressing his concerns about the different levels of scarring that are inside my body from the impacts of both the cancer and the chemo. However, everything that he was saying did not concern me. Even with my questionnaire to extract every piece of information regarding the current state of my cancer, there’s was nothing frightening.

My father asks the question that was on everybody’s mind, “Does this mean he’s in remission?”

“Yeah, sure.”

That’s when I knew I was right to trust this man with my life. He shares the same attitude as me. Remission is not a cure. His point is that the surveillance after treatment is as serious as the staging of the cancer, as well as the chemotherapy. There is no finality to this disease, but at least we know that we’ve done everything that we could do at this time of age. It’s too bad that there is no last hurray for no more worrying. As I’m writing this now, I’ve got a gnarly cough that I can’t get rid of, and I can’t help but think that this is another form of cancer that has metastasized in me. My life has changed into a greater paranoia, but it has also changed for the better. Flexing my mind and body has been such a great exercise for me now. Food has never tasted so much better, and life is too boring not to try. I’m still willing to achieve my previous goals to graduate from UCLA, and to get my architectural license, and I’m still willing to strive for my new goals for completing a triathlon, and getting more involved with charities.

In terms of strategies to prevent the cancer from returning to my life, its unknown. There’s a lot of research out there with contradicting results. I can’t help but to believe that Health is a part of one’s lifestyles that are parallel to one’s religion and politics. There’s a lot of ways to be considered healthy, but you could easily run through endless loops trying to satisfy them all through supplements, dieting, exercising, mental stimulation, etc. As long as you create your own foundation on what’s considered healthy, and you stick by it, that’s all you can do. I know that physical exercise will do nothing for cancer prevention, but I believe that it will make the treatments less harsh on yourself if it is to return. 

This has been a lot of jargon being written down, but I’m very satisfied that I was able to track all of my thoughts. Reading back on some of my previous entries, I can’t remember ever writing this stuff down. The medication I had to go through was so severe, that I’m still unsure who visited me in the hospital. Either way, there’s no point in looking in the past, and its time to move on.

I really hope that this is the last post for this blog.

June 15, 2010

Looks like things are in the clear now. I won’t know for sure until my next doctor’s appointment in a few weeks, but I’m confident that I’ll be getting good news. Worse case scenario: additional surgeries will take place to remove any growth that the chemo did not get rid of. After dealing with my last cycle, surgery does not scare me.

To be honest, I still feel vulnerable even with my blood test showing that there’s nothing to worry about. Throughout this entire process, I did not allow myself to get angry. I’m more frustrated now by trying to continue my life from where I left it. It’s a form of denial that I have not seen in my life. I don’t even know how to answer such simple questions as ‘How are you?” I catch myself being dishonest by stating that everything is fine. I’m sick of being labelled as a victim of cancer. Perhaps that is where my exhaustion comes from; the index of labels that others have branded on me: being a Mexican-American, an Atheist, an Academic, and now a Cancer Survivor. It’s all a stigma that I’ve been fighting against to keep an open perspective to allow the world to influence me. This and all of the other predictable health concerns that are on my mind have left me paranoid to pretend that I am comfortable in this world.

I know I seem incredibly ungrateful, but after dealing with 2 surgeries and 12 hard weeks of treatment, I expect something to come out of this. Anything, like a better understanding of life, a correction for my bad habits, a breeze of mental cleansing. Perhaps it’s the medication that that is causing this anxiety. I’m still losing hair after a month past my last treatment.

May 14, 2010

When enduring with physical pain, I meditated on the semantics of hurting. I would try to figure out the mechanics of the feeling that was throbbing from my wound. I would try to narrate the sensation without using words ‘hurt’ or ‘pain.’ It was a process that helped create a tolerance throughout my life from something as small as a knee burn to fracturing both my heels. That form of meditation was my earliest knowledge that helped me understand the relationship between my body and mind.

My body is a wreck. A piece of junk found in the scrap yard. It’s not mine. It’s a mere vessel that is part of a survey for cancer treatment. If it were mine, I would not have ever left it in this condition. There is no muscle tone, fat is starting to sag in areas for the first time, and purple rings are starting to circle my eyes. It is much worse from what I described on March 19th. Last week, a schism was developed between my mind and body. The past nine days have been the sickest I have ever felt in my life. I recently read through my previous symptoms during my first couple of weeks in chemotherapy and I laugh at how sorry I felt for myself. For nine days, I was crippled physically and mentally. There were times where I could not travel pass my bed because of the headaches, nausea, and alternating body temperatures. And there were days where I was incapable of thinking. It was frightening to experience the chemical unbalance that prevented me from any rational thought. I remember not comprehending any movie that was in front of me, nor was I able to pick up a book and read. My attempts at my imagination translated into a migraine that left me numb. It was difficult to engage in conversation, because listening and speaking require at least the smallest bit of thought. There were only a few things that i was able to do: listen to music, and look out the window. No acts of meditation. It was simply looking at colors without creating a narrative or interpretation in your mind. Simply listening without any attempts to understand melody or rhythm. I was sick. I never felt so disconnected from my body.

I have never been so true to the present until that time. Beforehand, my mind would always wonder to future plans, lifetime goals, accomplishments in the past, etc. This quote regarding an exhibition that was curated on collective designs in today’s world, has helped me comprehend my experience from those past nine days.

“The big bang theory and the theory of evolution, for those of us who subscribe, insist that at some point all feelings - love, envy, heartbreak, chocolate ecstasy- were new. First there was matter, then human life, then hot fudge; somewhere along the line, each of our feelings emerged for the first time. Yet, that only argues that all of our current feelings were new at some time; what suggests that new feelings keep coming on line?”
- Jeffrey Kipnis, ‘Mood River’

Mid way through last week’s hospital visit, my brother stayed the night with me as I was being infused with chemotherapy. I remember crying all night, because I knew this was finally my breaking point. At the time, I couldn’t harness the dialogue to help him understand what I meant when I told him that I might change from all of this. My persona before cancer was shaped by my experiences - my pride, my jealousy, my heartbreaks, etc. It was all chocolate fudge; a fashion of the new that seems to be artificial from modern living. The infusions of chemotherapy and other medications made me aware of the mechanics behind emotions that enabled me to have a pure biological experience. After walking out of those nine days, I feel as if my dreams have fallen out of grasp. There is this new appreciation for health. Before, I would roll my eyes after hearing ‘at least you’re in good health.’ Now I appreciate my ability to think rationally, more than my attendance at a top university. I hate admitting this, but my dreams are gone. Not to say that I’m planning to drop out of grad school and abandon my practice in architecture to fully commit myself to clean, healthy living. Though, my original desires does not excite me anymore.

I hope this is not permanent. As act to rehabilitate myself, the first plan after my last day of chemotherapy is to reclaim my body. I’m not sure how this will evolve, but I need to restore my body with my mind to continue to live in this modern world.

May 6th, 2010

First week of the last cycle of chemotherapy. Still standing…..oddly, but still standing. Visitors still check in with me to celebrate my most recent good news, but there’s still doubt in my heart. My oncologist notified me the other day that there’s higher count on one of my original markers that decreased my success rate when I was initially staged. They’re unsure what the results will appear when I get my CT scan after finishing my chemotherapy in a week and a half. The rise of the marker can be a sign that the cancer has been eliminated and this is the exhaust of whatever is left, or it could mean that disease is alive and inactive. Either way, time is irrelevant to me. The only thing that I can care about is whatever is happening right now. If the worse case scenario becomes a reality, additional surgeries will need to take place to remove the remains.

As ironic as it is, additional treatment after chemotherapy does not worry me, even after my strong awareness of my mortality facing me in the mirror every morning.

On Monday, I had a conversation with my nurse whom I seemed to startle before meeting her. She admitted the awkwardness when we introduced ourselves, but she confessed her slight discomfort treating a patient who had the same birth year as she did. This was her first job after graduation, and was finding it difficult to not be too attached to her patients. However, she couldn’t relate to my experience in the hospital bed considering that we just finished our undergraduate a little over year ago. To my response, “It fucking sucks. Both of us are in our early twenties, and our ambitions strive for whatever is ahead of us the next 5 or 10 ten years: career goals, the search for place to call home, the start of a new family extension, achieving your ideal salary. Any way of pursuing happiness that we were told was possible since our earliest memory, this was the time to start that pursuit. Not me. Everything is questionable again: the ideal professional architect that I wanted to become, the importance of extending a family now that my fertility is threatened, the need to create intangible places for graduate school at UCLA, etc.”

What’s so damn difficult in this fourth cycle is that I can’t distinguish my own thoughts from the medication that creates a chemical imbalance in my head. I knew that this experience was going to change me. I was afraid that I was was going to reach my breaking point. The other day on my way over to the hospital, the car in front of me blew a heavy exhaust that pissed me off. Thankfully, my Da was driving, because I would have pulled next to him, calling the driver an asshole, ‘change your fucking car or I will smash your window.’ I have to bottle these emotions all day because I know that is not me. It leaves me sobbing every night whenever this happens.

I’ve said it before, I am a different person now compared to the time before I had cancer. I’ve always acted on the romantic notion to starting fresh: attending a high school where I hardly knew any incoming students, moving out of state for my undergraduate, traveling to remote countries where there was no immediate contact from home. This time, it is more challenging. How the hell am I going to reconstruct a normal life after cancer. Returning to graduate school seems irrelevant compared to my new awareness in life. The frustrations from my damaged body is motivating me to train for a triathlon in the near future, but it’s only a selfish gesture to prove that I still have control over my body after cancer. My mentality is still fragile. I can’t find any stimulation these days to continue the life that I had before cancer. My friends and family can see this change within me, but nobody can relate. This is proof for me that individuality is difficult to embrace. I could have gone to church to believe in the power of preyer. My answers would have been convincing from the unknown power from above. I could have read Lance Armstrong’s book like everybody recommended to me to believe that him and I are one and the same person. If he can do it, so can I! The fact is, there is no sense of fulfillment to follow other people’s footsteps for me.

When I was first diagnose, there were two sayings that two of my friends said that I’ve kept in my doubtful mind.

“You have a mature and peaceful soul. You will find your way through this. I think you will see your strength manifest itself as you move through this process.” -Adam Levine (February 9, 2010)

“I don’t have to tell you to stay strong, because I know you will. It’s part of the make-up of a cancer patient …. You will be stronger than you ever imagined you could be.” -Danielle Maurer (April 12, 2010)

I won’t truly understand these words until I figure out myself in this new life

April 18, 2010

This week has developed an emotional landscape I have ever experienced. Before I was admitted to the hospital last week, I had a growing concern regarding my treatment. All the horrors of cancer and chemotherapy did not carry through my body. My oncologist lazily says, “You’re an exceptional patient. You’re doing very well,” leaving me suspicious that the treatment was not working. Well, every week I’m admitted to the City of Hope, I only look forward to one thing: my lab results. They check my blood through two tests called Tumor Markers to determine the growth of the cancer. Sometime after May 17th, the last day of chemotherapy, I would get a CT scan to get an image of the cancer. If all three appears normal, I’m in remission. One step at a time. It’s Wednesday when my oncologist walked into my room. He’s wearing a surgical mask for my sake, and I can tell he’s smiling through his eyes. “I’ve got great news. Both tumor markers show that your count is normal. There’s more to life ahead of you.” Of all the things I’ve felt in life, nothing compares to that kiss. This chemotherapy took only six weeks to get rid of my cancer. I’m looking forward to running in the fields that I’ve been dreaming about the past couple of months.

My oncologist and I agree that for preventative measures, I should finish the chemotherapy for another five weeks. Why not… my body shows that I can handle a harsh treatment. Push the limits to make sure I did all that I could to get rid of my cancer.

Thursday morning arrives and my nightmares of chemotherapy become a reality. The first thing I witnessed are my hands. Pale and translucent. Dried and cracked. I get up from my bed, and find myself lost in nausea. I am one ungrateful son of a bitch. I can’t even celebrate my most recent success. My body is in trauma. Before, I was incapable of doing most of the things I could have done, but now I’m even more limited. Every once in a while, I’ll be in a state of consciousness, and take advantage of the feeling before I relapse. This entry is actually one of the few things I can do in my state of normality. I refrain myself from walking around the hospital floor, which I typically do. That, coincidentally leaves me in a bed long enough for my legs to be incapable of supporting my weight. I’m not the same person right now. I feel incredibly inhumane for not celebrating my lab results. I thought I took advantage of every little opportunity to enjoy the sun. I’m now trapped in a bed with my head filled with pessimistic thoughts. I hate this person I’m becoming now with this adversity.

March 29, 2010

The hospital is getting too familiar now at this point. Through the front doors past the desk is a long, white hallway. Make a left and you’re in the old hospital where the patients  stay the night. Make a right and you’re at the hematology department and urgent care. Go up a floor and you’re at the examination rooms and the doctors’ office. The third floor is pediatrics and infusion rooms. I could go on throughout the rest of this campus. With all my time spent here, my memory is starting to fade. The days are a routine. I can’t distinguish Tuesdays from Thursdays, especially when I have to stay in the hospital for a week.

However, prior to my treatment on Monday was unusual. I don’t know the words to describe my experience in the waiting room. I was in a conversation with a woman who was in her mid-sixties, diagnosed with breast cancer. Listening in to our conversation was a five year old child, also being treated for cancer. There in the waiting room were three generations of patients being treated for cancer. All three of us had a common projection with our missing hair, but we still had our distinct differences in our physical scars. She was dependent on her wheelchair, I was covered by my surgical mask, and the child had a limp eye. She spoke out of line to talk about the truth of our treatments. “The moment you hear that you have that fucking ‘C’ word, you just don’t give a shit anymore. You don’t care about your work, your car, or even your money. All you want to do is sit outside and breathe in and out.”  To an extent, she’s right. But her tone made me realize where I stand with my disease. The way she spoke implied that she lived her life where she was content. This cancer was not going to control her. On the other hand, I have embraced this experience to shape me in a way I feel is better. The kid had a confused expression through his eyes and jaw line, but he was very interested in what we had to say. He was the first one to be called in for his treatment, so he went bouncing through the hallways with his parents following. Though I won’t understand entirety on the true differences between each generation of cancer patients, but I did realize where I stand apart.

This is absurd, but I can’t help but feel very fortunate to have this cancer, along with the incredible team of doctors and nurses by my side. When I was first diagnosed with this, every person I saw complaining about anything would irritate me. “At least you don’t have cancer, asshole!” Things are different now. At this point, this is not life threatening. I have been given a chance to reflect on my  life and breathe for the first time. Before this scare began, my orientation was always aiming towards the benefit of my career though high school, college, and graduate school. My success was always measured in an academic field, and work that initiated my career an architect. I’ve sacrificed so much to get where I was at: I’ve lost contacts with close friends in the past; I’ve ignored my health by drinking more coffee than water and sleeping five nights a week; I’ve chosen work over any woman I was dating at the time. It’s amazing how much stress distracts us from the reality of our actions. Now I’m given a chance to open my eyes a bit wider and re-prioritize myself. At the same time, this is a chance for me to find my faith. Though I still find myself uncomfortable in prayer, I’m starting to understand myself a bit better. 

There is something that still frightens me. I keep hearing people say it’s unfortunate that this sort of thing happens to good people. God’s actions are unexplainable. Life is unfair. What if they’re wrong, or perhaps, misguided. What if I deserve everything that has happened to me. There is a purpose for all the little details, but they’re followed by consequences. This burden could be a cause from something I did. I’m not sure what the hell it is. After next Monday, I should be half way through me treatment if all goes well. If all goes well, and I’m in remission after May 17th, I have to live in fear for the next five years to find out if I’m cured. I can’t scream loud enough to express how horrible that sounds.