Cancer Man IV

Jeez. I know it's been a while, but a lot of shit has transpired since the last time I actually wrote in this diary and, honestly, haven't felt the need to share. But I'm listening to the Xanadu soundtrack right now and I got all toasty inside.

Join me?

The last time I wrote anything regarding my health situation was June 2018, and things were pretty much stable. Continuing my ongoing pill-popping routine of Xalkori & Keppra. Things were swell as swell as they can be with swollen ankles, blurry vision and fatigue. But amazingly, I was successful in establishing a routine while under this particular targeted treatment. Easily fitting back into the normal life of a typical American male pursuing the American dream: a job, a home, a 401K, a life... It was sweet to stress again about normal things.

Regaining my focus and dusting off some old life goals with the expectation that I may fucking be able to beat this thing. But, as with all people with a plan, God laughs.

About nine months into Xalkori I got another scan and brain MRI. Our old friend in the brain showed continued improvement though there was a small speck in another side that warranted further investigation. In addition, the CT scan of my chest demonstrated a familiar stain that has appeared before. I figured what was coming and just told my Oncologist to schedule the PET scan. It’s a standard thing for me to receive radioactive material every quarter just to check my innards. 

Thank goodness that my in$$$urance pays for these damned things as they are not a standardized method of cancer detection. Let alone outside of the U$ where PET $$$cans are not given, even in areas where “socialized” healthcare is available including Canada (at least that’s what one Kanuck with cancer told me).

Yet, these $$$cans are the ones that have been most successful in detecting my tumor activity with immediate results. However, it does take technicians a couple of days to read the images, which now leads us too:

November 5th, 2018:
Onc: “Your PET scan results show potential mild metabolic activity”
Me: “Is the cancer back?”
Onc: “not too sure since the scan tech also said to not rule out infection in your lung”
Me: “well, what about the spec in my brain”
Onc: “nothing to worry about now, we can wait to see if it progresses and then we can treat”.
Me: “wait til it progresses...? You mean grow!?
Onc: “Yes. Or we can give you brain radiation again, but just that spot.”
Me: “Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucccccccccckkkkkkkkk”

Onc: “You’ll probably have to stop taking your current medication. But there are clinical trials you can apply too”.
Me: “Fuck doc, so I’m at the end of my rope for cancer meds?
Onc: “Don’t be discouraged. There are some good alternatives”
Me: “where? Alaska?”
Onc: “Actually Huntington Beach”

In the end no brain radiation was needed, plus I lucked out and got on the tail end of a clinical trial that has shown great promise in treating the body and the brain.

But there are the side effects. Always the side effects. I’ve been on it for six weeks and will get scans early 2019 to check how things are going. And yep, I am scared. And scarred too.

I often wonder if it’s best to live a long life dealing with miserable side effects or a short happy life that unfolds naturally. There are days when sunsets seem logical.
Meanwhile...

Cancer Man III

I continued to evolve my artistic voice as the years rolled on. Lucky enough to finally get my parent's blessing, and their funding, to attending Graphic Design classes in Mexico. Painting on walls was not considered the fine art it is now thanks to the likes of Fairey, Basquiat and Banksy. Yet, I figured I would give my art spirit the voice it desired by enrolling in something where I can secure a professional degree, and in a sense, give a degree of comfort to my folks in that I could potentially make a living out of this.


I sucked at it. Graphic Design had its unique sense of discipline and it was not what I expected. There were a lot of rules that an artist needed to adhere too that made the craft sterile. I didn't get that overwhelming sense of God-like satisfaction when creating something as I did when tagging those walls. But I ventured on, ultimately becoming a mediocre designer that ended up creating advertisement layouts for newspapers at a boutique agency in TJ. My daily routine would begin with a cup of coffee and a Marlboro red at my desk where I would write copy, print it, cut it down to size with an x-acto and paste it on an art board. Advertising is a fast paced environment where we were always under the gun to get the layouts approved by the client, then hand delivered to the newspapers that would run them. Deadlines always loomed over us and we looked for ways of cutting corners to increase our production. One of these was to use 3M spray adhesive (instead of rubber cement) on a make-shift cardboard backing where we would place the images that would eventually be pasted on the layout, never really thinking about wearing protective gear like a mask, glasses or gloves.



Every designer in the studio used this method, freely spraying a shit load of glue chemicals throughout the office without consideration. Breathing it all in without thinking of the consequences...



Oh Fuck.






tbc

Cancer Man II

Looking back at my life I realize that I've lived like a pinball. Not really having a destined path as I rolled around, but ultimately being propelled in a certain direction after "bumping" on a circumstance that came across my way. Subsequently reacting to this event and adapting as best as I could to flourish. To succeed. But I guess this is what's called evolving. Maturing. Growing a pair.



As a young kid in Mexico I've always dreamed of working with art in whatever capacity it would be. But this was a huge pipe dream and really did not expect this to happen. My parents were practical minded, and for them art was just not an endeavor that would take me anywhere. Much less making a living out of it. I buried this pipe dream and took a safe approach by studying Accounting where I eventually worked in a bank for several months. I wound up quitting this shit show as I hated it, but still needed to make some legal tender. So, I started cleaning engine parts in my Dad's forklift shop. I went from suit & tie to dirty overalls overnight. Yet, the art spirit kept pestering me. And as much as I attempted to drown it out I finally succumbed to it by finding an offbeat outlet from which it can express itself.



Early in my teens I was exposed to graffiti art and was fascinated by the creativity that was being done in New York. It lit a certain fire within me where I realized that art wasn't just limited to paintings hanging in museums. All the more surprising was realizing that these artists were not paid for their work. It was simply their deliberate sense of giving expression to what they had conceived within their mind. A temporary record of their thought that ultimately would disappear behind a power-wash. I began to sketch during my breaks and after a while started tagging the shop's walls. Originally, I did this to impress a cute girl that lived across the street, but this was a defining moment for me.



Adding color to that cinder block wall was an awakening. The creative spirit took over me with an overwhelming sense of peace, calm, and happiness. Time stopped. Nothing else mattered. I wept silent tears of joy upon realizing what defined me at my core. Creativity & Expression.



This eventually faded once my break time was over and it was back to cleaning parts for the day. And, as the weeks/months rolled by this dream was buried again. Power-washed by my sense of duty in needing to be realistic when it comes to a job.



Yet, my pinball continued to roll...



tbc

Cancer Man Part I

Some of the hardest moments during this journey is dealing with my family. The burden of being a family man of two young kids while battling cancer can be overwhelming at times. And not just due to the side effects, but to the daily stress of having to satisfy their needs while I try to meet my own. Also, having my wife stuck in the middle of this whole thing adds to the grind. I feel an unending sense of escape. The desire to leave my home so that I can meet my needs as they come. To go out and heal, or die, on my own.



But I stay. Perpetually building my endurance in tolerating the ever increasing struggles that comes with family life. The brutal grind that defines every American male seeking the American dream. Shit, my life-long dreams seem to not matter when compared to the ultimate goal of surviving this disease. We are told that cancer is a major pain in the ass, but it's not until we personally undergo it that we really know where the pressure points are.



It is a general boiler plate experience when dealing with chemo and radiation. All of the side effects that come associated with them is just a normal physiological response of your body, so you just deal with it. But when it comes to the mindset: that deep-down bedrock you eventually reach when you undergo cancer can thin out your layers of self-identity. And that in itself is scary as you peek behind the curtain to see what is revealed. A black hole of emptiness as you realize that much of your life was lived behind masks. Like Frankenstein's monster, much of my psyche was made up of different identities that I used to hide my true self. Or perhaps this is my true self: a chameleon. A self preserving creature that blends into its surroundings, adapting as it moves from one environment to another. Or maybe I am the cancer. Ultimately evolving into the mutation that will eradicate these masks by condensing them into the single, burnt-out version that I am.



Fuck, that sounds depressing...

A dear friend of mine asked me last week what makes me happy. I couldn't answer her.

tbc

Donuts with Sprinkles

Growing up Catholic meant growing up with guilt. A person would be born still bearing the "original sin" and carry the burden of unworthiness. At least that's how it was for me. I often felt that my existence was only validated when I would sacrifice my desires for the wellness of others. That I should focus on the well-being of my neighbor before my own. Being the perpetual good-guy in spite of the shit that would be thrown my way. In essence, turning the other cheek.

Now, I'm not attempting to get a rise out of those who are religious. After all, I studied some Theology at age 19 when I enrolled in the Seminary. But, as a kid attending St. Mary's elementary this message had a huge impact on my life. The guilt that was bestowed upon me by my moral educators had a profound effect on how I would approach life as I developed into a Man.

A simple example of this was a moment during Junior High with a group of friends. One of them had offered a choice of pastries he had just purchased. It was three donuts: one plain, one glazed, and one with sprinkles. As I was reaching for my favorite multi-colored pastry the pangs of self-guilt began to ring throughout my mind. My thought was that I was unworthy of having my desired choice and that my other friends were more deserving of this deliciousness. I opted to grab the plain donut, eating it in silent misery as I saw my friends enjoy the others.

Yes, it seems pretty lame but this sensibility echoed throughout much of my young life into adulthood. I would voluntarily step back and allow others to reap my desired rewards, regardless of whether they would reciprocate or not. A deep feeling of resentment  began to grow within me, causing a bitterness that lead to a bad self-image. This is important to take note of since it's this awareness that I initially faced Cancer with.



When I was first diagnosed there were the immediate questions of "why me", followed by questions of "why not me". The overwhelming sense of deserving the cancer permeated my thoughts. That this was my punishment for not following thru with my Catholic upbringing in sacrificing for others. This really sucked as I felt beaten before I even gave myself the chance to fight for my life.
 

Realizing that I did not want to put my family & friends thru grief I had opted on leaving LA and hospice myself in a discreet location where no one can see me wither and die. But, as time continued to unfold I began to dig deep into the cause of these feelings of unworthiness. Analyzing all the moments of my life where I would give up my feelings in "service to others":

-Giving up the little league team since I was a horrible player.
-Taking the blame for breaking a window at school.
-Making up bad-deeds so that I had something to confess at Mass.
-The donut incident.
-Doing someone else's art homework.
-Taking the blame for the stolen porno tape shown during a Xmas party.
-Being Duckie.
-Giving up a good lead for the job I wanted.
-Helping a friend get the girl I liked.



It was quite an interesting road to relive and identify all the times that felt I cheated myself. But more importantly, realizing that the actions I committed during these events were more than just doctrine instilled by clerics. They came as heartfelt gestures and my natural sense of servitude towards others. And it was nice to finally come to terms with being what I've always been: a good-guy.


The scales of guilt peeled off soon after that and I gave myself permission to heal. To accept the help of my friends when offered. To accept the love of my family. To be the Hero to my daughters. And that, in itself, is accepting that Sprinkled donut and eating it with a child-like delight.

Luv