A journal I wish I had written 20 years ago

But none of it would have been possible—after all, in improbability lies the essence of a wish; no amount of flailing to reach the sky from the ground, it’s like that. Yet, because the past hardly ever locks us in, almost exactly the same wish somehow pops up.

The setting, characters, and circumstances have been replaced though—in this wish-journal, the main character, cancer, has returned not to haunt me with the death of my parents, its victims, but a chance to wish again, were that they had been better armed to wrestle with its claws.

And just as it crept deviously sideways, like thecrab with which it has been personified, into our lives—an evening on a visit with my husband from a novena Mass for the La Naval Virgin, in my mother’s case, and at dinner on his birthday, my father’s, this time it crawled in on a humid Manhattan summer morning.

I’ve just been here a week for a visit with plans to take the Amtrak to Niagara Falls, when from a consultation/checkup, Ellen with whom I’m staying, announced she’s being sent to a specialist at Mt. Sinai Roosevelt West Hospital on 59th St. and 10th Ave. Her lower back pain complaint turned out not related to her tail bone, as she had thought, but a swarm of cells gone berserk, splitting non-stop in her cervix.

Today, she received her first of six chemo infusions—two hours of hydration with drugs to stave off side effects before the one-hour chemo, followed by another three hours of more hydration, which made her walk to the bathroom frequently. It took a whole day, but unlike Mama’s at St. Luke’s Hospital, not a grim one; my father wouldn’t even have one—lung cancer had vanquished his very being.

A sun-and-cheer-blasted place, the infusion suite seats patients within watch of the nurses and deputy doctors, and fellow patients within reach of each other for a chat, if desired. One of them, even had a brief jazz performance. As well, patients and their visitors could snack from a fridge. In fact, before I arrived with Ellen’s lunch of bistik, she already had a turkey sandwich and cranberry juice.

Her appetite remains good though she has complained about how papaya has turned bitter (how mild compared to Mama’s cravings, which stopped at two spoonfuls from Day One of her diagnosis). From here, we went down to the Lower Level for Ellen’s fourth of minimum 30 radiation treatments—her body has been tattooed (invisible to the naked eye) for precision—done in less than 15 minutes though she waited an hour for her turn among other ambulant patients.

More readings on the treatments warned us about a weakening of Ellen’s immune system (Mama’s first left her bed ridden). Fortunately, we talked to her assigned nurse, who said that the beginning of a three-week cycle like today, would be her strongest; she can still take the #1 train.

So far, side effects have been minimal. She vomited just once from one of the pain killers, which her doctor had changed to a prescription strength Acetaminophen. Pain, indeed, as expected swirls in waves; aside from the pills, she also uses cold and hot compress.

She’s still pretty much managing her treatment, discussing with her oncologist, what to expect, which has made my role as health proxy rather minimal—Ellen and I have been like family since 55 years ago in school. Apparently, one could call her treatment, “just for Ellen,” having factored in multiples of information from her vitals, blood count, MRI, PET/Scan, x-ray results, as well as pre-treatment and post-assessments.

Witnessing the advances since made to end the grimness, like a death sentence for someone diagnosed with cancer, how prayerful I’ve grown and thankful as I live through it all with Ellen, what I would have wished for my parents and hundreds of others.