It’s 4:00 a.m. and the door opens.

Omg Keanu … Go to sleep!

Since learning how to climb out of his crib and wander around the house like he’s about to buy the place, Keanu — my 3-year-old toddler — has been sleeping in my bed. But I don’t hate it. Just the opposite, really. He tends to interlace his tiny fingers with my (also tiny) fingers and lathers me in kisses. It’s a manipulative effort to stall, mind you, but I don’t care. I much rather him stay with me than creep into the living room in the middle of the night, grab our remote, and whisper into the microphone things like, “Pway Mickey Mouse on Disney Pwus.”

And sure, I did the whole sleep training method when he was a year old, but sleep regression happens. And once he figured out how to ninja his way out of his bed, I didn’t have the energy to start up again. Mainly because, like I said, I love it. Even when his head is digging into my ribs, even when I get the occasional slap to the face or boob, I unequivocally love it. I know it won’t be forever, but I want it to last as long as it can before it gets weird.

Quickly, I gather my bearings and realize it’s not Keanu opening the door. Rather, it’s the night nurse coming in to get my vitals. Something that happens every four hours. Sometimes two if I run a fever. Because, duh, I’m not lying next to the world’s smallest mouth breather. I’m sleeping on a somewhat uncomfortable hospital bed at UF Health Shands in Gainesville, Fla., where on February 23, 2022, I received an autologous stem cell transplant.

Continue reading “Day 12 (Post Transplant)” →

Recurrence. A word every cancer patient hates to hear. A word that steals your breath, and not in a good way. Not in the way Brad Pitt does (to me). It’s a word guised as a marauder, pillaging your mind of anything good, positive, and holy, until you’re left with nothing but the shattered pieces of dread. It’s a word that has arms to choke you with, and legs to kick you while you’re down. And when you think you’ve accepted the reality of the situation, dusted yourself off to fight another day (more like another minute), the dire uncertainty of it all will leave you vying to escape the existential crisis you’ve now been sucked into — a whirlpool of every decision you’ve ever made, leaving you to wonder: Why?

It was September 21st, 2021 — nearly two years from original diagnosis — when I asked why.

I was sitting on the examining table, while my oncologist, Dr. Yeckes, pressed firmly against the lymph nodes under my arms and neck. She had barely spoken to me, barely made eye contact, and I knew something was wrong.

Continue reading “Recurrence” →

In a taupe reclining chair, I sit and wait for my 12th round of drugs. My eyes, which occasionally fill up with happy tears, peer over a face mask that covers virtually everything, including my smile.

It’s my last day of chemo.

I can’t believe I can say that now. I didn’t know what the light at the end of this tumultuous tunnel would look like. I didn’t know what it would really feel like crossing that finish line. And like many of you, I sure as hell didn’t expect to be met with the possibility of another life-threatening disease. But at least it’s the end of this particular Odyssey. One that was with filled woe, self-discovery, faith and triumph. And now I can live to fight another day.

I did it. We did it. Without the waves of support I received throughout this entire process, I would not have remained afloat.

When I first started out, I was a timid toddler taking my first steps across a rugged terrain. Unsettled and afraid, I embarked on a wild journey, but my friends and family gave me the confidence I needed to not only continue but finish strong. Continue reading “Last Day of Chemo” →

Every New Year’s Eve at the stroke of midnight, there’s a Colombian tradition that involves eating 12 grapes. With each tiny berry, you must make a wish, a prayer of sorts, you most strongly desire will come true for the upcoming year. I always have my wishes locked, loaded and ready to fire. It’s a whimsical custom I absolutely love and couldn’t wait for our 4-year-old son, Julian, to partake in. A few minutes before the 2020 countdown began, I explained the ritual to him. He merely nodded in acknowledgement, but when the time came, ate only one. After a few seconds, I encouraged him to continue.

“Keep going, Papi,” I said. “You still have a lot more wishes to make.”

“I already made a wish,” he said, candidly.  “For you to not be sick anymore.”

Gulp. 

A few weeks ago, as I was waiting for my oncologist to come into the room, I was growing anxious. Like a pastry dish baking in the oven, I felt the angst rise slowly and warmly. It was a gradual yet expansive ascension, and it felt like my core temperature was along for the ride. It was getting hot, and my fear was rising like a soufflé.

“So your scan results came back,” my doctor said. Continue reading “Remission” →