Cancer Therapy: Breakfast Shots With Carlos
“To another day on this beautiful planet,” our waiter Carlos said as our small glasses clinked and we threw back the best tequila in the joint (Sauza, it was Bill’s Cafe after all). It felt good. Not the tequila. That was mediocre at best. Celebrating just a simple, light moment with my wife and a perfect stranger. That felt human.
Alicia and I were engaged in a tradition we started when she was diagnosed with Hairy Cell Leukemia (HCL). After her major procedures or appointments, we sit down for a bite to eat, maybe a drink, to just hit pause and be together before returning to the craziness of our life. This time it was her second bone marrow biopsy.
This was essentially a “post-test” that followed the “pre-test” she took when this crazy journey started. The first bone drill was to provide 100% confirmation of the HCL diagnosis and determine how far the cancer progressed. The second drilling session assesses the effectiveness of the chemotherapy. It will tell us if she’s in full or partial remission, or worst case, we have to go to alternative treatments to attack the cancer.
The first time we gathered over breakfast was in this same location following her first CT scans in October 2021, which marked the beginning of her cancer fight. As much as it was the same this time, it was also different. The world, both the big world and our little world, were different.
Last year, on a cold October morning, we shivered on the outside patio of Bill’s as we drank Irish coffees and sopped up a plate of biscuits and gravy. There was no indoor seating due to COVID. We went through three layers of temperature checks and clearances at the San Jose Kaiser Hospital. I was not allowed to accompany Alicia to her scan because of COVID. This time, we strolled into her appointment, no one tried to stop me from coming in, and we grabbed a cozy booth inside Bill’s to take down the biscuits and gravy.
But the experience was also the same in too many ways. As with our first trip, we both were overcome with emotion. We both were drained. And we both were in this weird kind of fog you get into when you’re pulled from “normal” life back into cancer life. It’s almost like when your 5-year-old wakes you when you’re in deep REM sleep, and your brain can’t piece together where you are, or even who you are (I’m not saying the 5-year old did that this morning).
There I was, in the same procedure room, sitting in the same chair (far enough away from the table that if I faint, I am not a risk to the doctor or patient), with my head pressed up against the same wall as I watched her oncologist twist and twist his long metal screw deeper and deeper into my wife’s pelvis. There I was watching her handle the pain, guarded by only Lidocaine and mental toughness. Watching carefully to see if her stomach was moving up and down so I would know when to tell her to remember to breathe. Because as I sit in the adult’s equivalent of a timeout chair, that shitty advice is really all I have in my toolbox.
There I was, watching her cry, as my eyes welled up with tears that seemed like they just couldn’t fall.
It didn’t matter that this was essentially a “good” appointment, signaling the end of her treatment. It had been about three months since we set foot on the hospital campus. Life was gradually returning to normal. Alicia told me she was slowly forgetting she had cancer. Then, cold exam rooms, long needles, and even longer bone marrow probes, and we’re mentally and emotionally right back at it again. Shit.
It was a sobering reminder that no matter what the tests say, Alicia will always have HCL. It means we’ll always have at least one foot, or even just a big toe, over the cancer door threshold. That likely means we will never be fully at ease. This is especially true for her. Your mind won’t let you forget the hell your body went through, no matter how you try to mask it.
This is why we will always treasure Carlos’ tequila shots. As he watched in amusement as we ordered elaborate breakfast cocktails on a Thursday morning, I made an off-hand comment about Alicia needing something much stronger for her pain. Carlos made a gentle inquiry, and Alicia told him about the procedure and how it was a good thing (conclusion of cancer treatment). Despite our smiles, wisecracks, and optimism, it would be hard for anyone with empathy to miss our heaviness.
Without skipping a beat, Carlos tells us he’s buying us a round of shots to kill Alicia’s pain and celebrate. “Not without you,” Alicia insisted. Sure enough, three salted tequila shots appeared on our breakfast table, and Carlos led the toast. It was a simple gesture, but one filled with kindness and compassion, done in a way that didn’t scream charity or pity. Just, I see you.
Throughout Alicia’s journey, we’ve gone many days feeling invisible. Cancer, no cancer, all of us go many days without being seen. To be recognized, like Carlos recognized us, means to be accepted and valued, if even in a small way.
We thanked Carlos for the drinks, and he replied, “No problem, and if you have to come back, I’ll be right here. Promise.”
Salud.
This article originally appeared in The Good Men Project.
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