10 Minutes
The sky turned pitch black to a somber blue as his stubby fingers held strings of my hair back, I gripped the edges of the toilet. A bright cotton candy mixture swirled around inside the toilet water. My mouth tasted as if I had eaten 20 lemons all at once. My dad, wearing only his briefs, rigorously rubbed my back as he saw me throw up last night’s dinner. My bones clamored together realizing today only marked night one of chemotherapy.
It takes around 10 minutes for someone’s world to turn upside down. At least that’s how long it took for mine. That tiny six letter word still ringed inside my eardrums.
“Cancer.”
The word fell on my lap. A wave, no, a tsunami washed over me with disbelief. A tingling from my toes jolted its way up my spine like an upside down lightening bolt. As I sat on a half cemented wall in the patchy green quad area at my college campus as the trees’ leaves swayed from left to right letting some fly away. I felt my world crashing again but this time, I knew it wasn’t just a possibility but my reality. In one phone call my whole existence suddenly trembled with fear.
Dr. Yolanda’s voice quivered as she said the biopsy which removed a piece of bone marrow out of my hip, had confirmed her suspicions that I had cancer. More specifically, the type of cancer: Non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma stage 2, this word, lymphoma, that I never heard of in my life suddenly awakened every fiber in my body.
She encouraged me to keep a strong attitude and hold my head high. She extended her apologies before excusing herself from that 10-minute phone call. I stared blankly at the cracks in the cement floor.
Just a week ago I pushed around my fork in thick red tomato spaghetti sauce as Josh sat across from me in a candle-lit dinner in Long Beach. His black wrinkle-free button down shirt hugged his body and made his light brown skin sparkle. Just a week ago it was Valentine’s day. Today, I sat touching the lump that laid like a baby orange unpeeled on the left side of my collar bone. It wasn’t too noticeable I thought to myself but it was enough for my mom to pester me around to go see a doctor. I went thinking it would be a complete waste of a Wednesday morning. Turned out it wasn’t.
I wanted to go back in time. Before I knew anything, before Dr. Yolanda stared vaguely into my eyes, before I sat in that air-conditioned windowless room at Kaiser Permanente. I wanted to scream, instead, I dialed my dad. The inner 12-year-old girl in me crumbled wanting to feel some reassurance that everything would be okay. He quickly breezed through his words and told me we’d get through this, not worry, and to meet him at home.
My mind raced through these thoughts until I heard Josh’s voice a mile away in the quad. His black eyebrows raised as he noticed me. I stopped him mid-walk and slowly let out the words. “Oh no…” he dragged out, “Karol, I’m sorry.” I poured myself into his slender brown arms. He let me sob on the gray Star Wars T-shirt he loved. His jet-black eyes trying to find mine. He didn’t say another word and held me firmly as I cried. All the students continued walking around us as they stayed in their own little worlds as we did in ours.
When I finally made that 15 minute drive out of campus to Hacienda Heights, my home, my entire family stood in the living room. My dad’s hazel eyes intently watched over me as he sat on our leather brown couch leaning on his belly for support. My mom’s fiery red curls bounced in place as she constantly repeated for me to, “Pídele a Dios por ayuda.” (“To ask God for help”) My three sisters one at a time dried their eyes with their sleeves or tissues while asking questions I had no real answers to.
I couldn’t help but feel alone even surrounded by family. I hadn’t been in the same room with all five people at the same time in months. We all lived under one roof together but hardly ever managed to see one another. With all their conversations surrounding me, it felt pretty odd. They feverishly passed my name around and individually promised their support.
March 11, 2015, marked the first time I met with my hematologist Dr. Millie Leung. A mild but fast spoken Asian woman with silk black hair who adjusted her glasses every five seconds. She pointed her lengthy fingers to the monitor that outlined my schedule. My mom and dad sat bewildered next to me scanning the screen.
Chemotherapy would be bi-weekly. Every Thursday I’d draw out blood prior to Friday in order to receive treatment. After five months of chemo, I would start radiation therapy for the remainder of the year depending on how my body responded. Every month I’d meet with Dr. Leung to discuss my results and to schedule a PET Scan. I’d have a set of medication handed to me that needed to be refilled every two weeks and dietary rules that couldn’t be left unchecked. My parents assured Dr. Leung that they’d stay on top of everything.
On Fridays, my back felt the eyes of twenty strangers on me. Everyone in the waiting room of the Oncology department ranged from men holding walkers to women’s heads wraped in floral scarves. Beanies and family, the two themes in the room transparently displayed. My parents robustly gripped each of my hands as my arms tingled with goose bumps as we waited. One rule with chemo, only one person allowed per session. Without debate my mom claimed the role as solely hers.
As a nurse in oversized Mickey Mouse scrubs adjusted the stiff seat, I glanced towards my mom. I grew skeptical. I could hear everyone chattering in the background, which only made the silence between us grow louder.
With her sharply cut manicured hands she pulled out her leathery Coach purse. Bursting out of its seams, she could feed a small village with all the assorted snacks. From salted crackers, peanut butter, sprite, almonds, grapes, apples, oranges, m&ms, orange juice, water, and the list could go on.
She meekly smiled at me as the nurses injected the medicine that froze my veins in their route. Small talk devoured most of our time as she’d ask about Josh or school. As the Lego movie played on a small TV monitor connected to my white chair, the movie’s dialogue dissipated into static noise as my mom suddenly talked about herself. How she raced shoeless in the golden corn fields of Honduras. How she once chased a boy who liked her with a wooden stick she found on the ground. How she disliked my dad’s flirtatious and reckless childhood the first time they met.
I sat with open ears as she stacked her adventures and her worries into a three hour chemo session. At arms length of her, her freckled face and baby soft black and white poncho unveiled her. I knew I would never forget this moment. A peak inside my mom’s world, a world I never felt part of, I unawarely gifted access to.
Life repeated like this in the following months. One moment I’d have needles stuck into me to collect purple, blue, and yellow labeled vials of blood. The next I’d be pounded with the aroma of alcohol wipes which always made me flinch with disgust. Before I knew it, I laid on an icy metal panel with only a wool sheet to cover my bare chest. With arms raised over my head with an ambivilance to a machine that beamed a red light for 20 minutes on my neck, I recovered.
September graced my calendar and family as being the month that I beat cancer. An eight month journey that deliberately made me a witness to the unquestionable bond of family.
From my mom rushing from her 10-hour night shift to come with me to chemo, my dad buying a cookbook for healthy recipes for cancer patients, or Josh telling me every day after I lost all my hair that I looked beautiful, and even my sisters sending me text messages to ask how my day went.
Looking back I slipped into a world I never thought I’d be part of. Ten minutes altered my life instantly but that year made me appreciate it. Even though it pushed me to the brink of solitude it taught me that I never stand alone in the abyss that life can be. The darkest days of your life are nothing compared to the light those around you can bring. My family is my light. My strength. I’ll never take that for granted again.
