just tired

I am just so tired. I don't want to acknowledge the bags under my eyes. I don't want to tell you how much sleep I'm getting, and how that's not enough. The new chemo is kicking my butt in ways I don't even want to discuss. 

I smile because I feel like I have to. Put on the strong face, and never let them see you cry. 

I'm just so tired 

Original poem: Ode to Langston Hughes

Harlem - By Langston Hughes

What happens to a dream deferred?

      Does it dry up

      like a raisin in the sun?

      Or fester like a sore—

      And then run?

      Does it stink like rotten meat?

      Or crust and sugar over—

      like a syrupy sweet?

      Maybe it just sags

      like a heavy load.

      Or does it explode?

My poem:

Ode to Langston Hughes’ “Harlem”

I have a dream

I’m sorry, chemo brain gave me the wrong black history guy

I want to scream

The weight of his words

Falling from the sky

Flittering like birds

Ideas stuck inside of me

My brain is running dry

Can cancer make you not love me?

We carry this shared weight

You and me, and we, and I

Hope seems like cruel bait

The future is a trap

Time just keeps going by

There’s only so much around which my mind can wrap

Langston Hughes infects my memories

Of literature classes gone by

Will my students remember me?

Langston Hughes knew what to do with the words

With the right words, we can fly

I have a dream of being a bird

-         25 March 2020

ImPORTant news

So, cancer update.

I still have cancer. Go figure.

Let's go in order:

• first I had a headache
• then it was a mass
• then I had surgery #1
• Diagnosis Day was the absolute worst
• Then I started phase 1 of standard treatment, but there was a problem

I had an infection, and needed surgery #2 to clean it out.

Back to the list:

• I started round 1 of chemo and radiation
• I finished round 1 of chemo and radiation
• I had a brain scan
• I started round 2 of chemo, phase 2 of standard treatment
• I had another brain scan

Chemo wasn't working, I needed surgery #3. Back to the list again:

• I had another brain scan
• My awesome oncologist decided I need to start phase 3 of standard treatment, which involves both chemo and a non-chemo medicine
• The non-chemo medicine is an infusion, which means that I need a port, which means that tomorrow is surgery #4. 

That's it. I think? That's a lot. Anyway, don't be mad you just found out today, because I just found out today that I'm having that surgery tomorrow. I guess that gives me less time to freak out. Not too happy that The Husband will have to wait in the parking lot, but it's an outpatient procedure, so he'll bring me home tomorrow afternoon, and hopefully I'll be doped to the gills.

Cancer sucks.

Original Poem: The Caregiver's Promise

My writing group had the following prompt a few weeks ago. Here is the poem I wrote.

The Caregiver's Promise
Courage, dear heart

be brave, my love
I know that we will shatter and crumble
but we will figure out what we are made of

Patience, dear heart
let me take the weight of this
I will hold you together
we have a diagnosis, but it doesn't have to consume all of our bliss

Peace, dear heart
sleep, knowing you are safe in my arms
cry if you need to
nestle into me, share my warmth

Courage, dear heart
sob, weep, wail, and moan
I know you fear being a burden
but you will never be alone

- 18 March 2020

Identity crisis: Who even am I?

Guess what.

I'm back!

I want to tell you a story about my identity crisis that I had last night that almost broke me. For those of you who don't know, I am Puerto Rican and Dominican, a mix that is quite rare in the area in which I live. Most of the few Hispanic people in my area are Mexican, which means that dialect and food are different enough that I just don't quite fit in. My local grocery store stopped selling anything Goya (the food of my people) a few years ago; the next closest grocery store only occasionally has the Goya goodness that I need.

Now, I am not what you might call a *good* Latina. I am woefully out of practice with my Spanish, which I understand but barely speak anymore. I only rarely cook Hispanic food, and when I do, I have to call my sister to remind me of the recipes that families never write down.

I do, however, use the seasoning of my people, although it is getting harder and harder to find on a local level

  

Anyway, I tell you all of this, because there is one special beverage from my childhood that holds a place near and very dear to my heart. The single only people I've met who like this stuff are either related to me, or of similar descent.

Ladies and gentlemen, nerds and cool kids alike, I present to you:

Evidently, it is an acquired taste. The Husband doesn't like it. To be honest, I don't know many other people who do. But for me, this drink is the epitome of being Latina, and drinking it brings me such comfort of days gone past that I can barely verbalize how much it means to me.

Like I mentioned, the food (and drink) of my people is hard to find. The second closest grocery store carries a generic version which I've not dared to try, because I grew up only drinking Goya brand, and this is one of those instances where brand loyalty means so much more.

Now, the fifth closest grocery store is about nine miles away from my house. The Husband and I happened to venture over there the other day, because we remembered that this particular grocery store has an actual international section, with options beyond taco kits. This grocery store, carries Goya products!

AND they had Malta!

Y'all. It was the last six pack, on the bottom of the shelf, and I felt myself pulled to it like a magnet in my heart was telling me exactly where to look. The heavens opened up, and I heard the angels sing. Finally, I could have some Malta!

Well, before I tell you anything else, I need to tell you a very important fact about brain surgery, chemo, and radiation. Any or all of the above have the ability to change your palate. Things that you used to like might taste disgusting to you, and things that were repulsive might be just the worst. For example, before all of this happened, although I only rarely drank alcohol, when I did, it was either liquor or wine.

Imagine my (and The Husband's) surprise when one day I decided I wanted a beer.

I don't like beer. 

I've never liked beer.

Even in college, I preferred cheap vodka over beer any day of the week.

Why did I suddenly crave beer? Keep in mind, I can't drink a whole beer, especially with the various medications I'm on, but a sip here or there wouldn't kill me, right? So The Husband had a bottle of Yuengling, and I grabbed the bottle and took a sip, and the beerness and tangy delicious flavor of this beer soothed my bitter soul in the most unexpected way.

I don't like beer. But this beer calls to me. I can drink maybe a third of a bottle before I start to worry about medical interactions, so I'm not a full-on beer drinker yet; however, The Husband now has to deal with Wife tax on his beer (a couple of sips from an ice cold bottle) then I'll leave him be.

Okay, so now you have the background information. The key point is that, although I suddenly like beer (seriously, it's weird), I never thought my palate had changed that much.

Remember that Malta?

Yesterday, I was waiting for dinner to be ready when I decided to crack one open before we ate. I took a biiiiig swig.

I gagged.

My dearest friends, who am I if a swallow of Malta makes me gag? Did the Rockstar Neurosurgeon scoop out the Latina part of my brain?

Maybe I should try another couple of swallows.

Nope. No good. It tasted chocolatey and rancid in all the wrong ways, and I was pretty sure that I was going to vomit. 

The spirits of my ancestors had abandoned me, left me to rot in a Malta-less hell where I didn't know who I was anymore.

So, I dumped out the rest of the bottle and tried not to cry.

The husband could see the distress in my face, and I wanted to lay down on the floor and cry.

Remember how I said it was the last pack on the bottom shelf?

I just remembered that, and took a look at the bottle I had just dumped.

Expiration date - wait for it - July TWO THOUSAND SIXTEEN.

Yeah. For real. The bottle had 07/16 printed on it.

It was not that the Rockstar Neurosurgeon had scooped out the Latina part of my brain, it was that my palate can't handle FOUR-YEAR-OLD Malta!

Whoo! Needless to say, that was roller coaster ride of emotions.

I don't know how I'm going to find non-four-year-old Malta, but my already shaky identity is now slightly more solid. 

Can Malta be mailed?