benign

The Untold Ending

If you read my blog from beginning to end, you would realize a huge chunk of my story is missing. I never wrote about leaving the hospital. 

Every time I think of the last 5 days I spent in that jail, I tear up.

I couldn’t write about it. I couldn’t even speak about it.

I couldn’t find the words to express freedom and joy. How do you describe something that is just so damn sweet? How?

For those of you that know me, and even those who do not, you know that I’m very open. However, speaking about leaving the hospital has been something that I’ve kept to myself. It was such an emotional time and I will never be able to explain it perfectly, but I guess this version of it will have to do.

Here goes…

The untold ending that brought a new beginning:

                                        

13 DEC., 2013

It’s been a week since surgery. We haven’t heard a word from the pathologists.

Cool.

                                        

15 DEC., 2013

It’s 6:30 a.m. and there’s a knock at the door. Ah, they’re on time – as usual.

Every single morning at exactly 6:30, two or three of Cerf’s nurses check up on me. It’s SO early and I wish they’d let me get some damn sleep, but I quickly open my eyes hoping to see my man, Dr. Cerfolio, with the rest of his crew (I haven’t seen him since surgery. He went to complete his master’s degree in Orlando, FL, but he’s back – finally!). 

He’s not here though. I feel sorta sad but I get over it quickly. There are greater matters at hand.

“Any word on the pathology?”

Silence.

“Not yet.”

                                        

16 DEC., 2013

It’s noon. There’s a knock. No one walks in or opens the door.

Weird. 

Dad gets up and does the job.

Cerfolio and his ENTIRE team are standing by the door. Casual.

I can’t read his face, and for the first time since I’ve met this handsome, Italian man, he’s not smiling.

“Well… We still don’t know what it is… We will probably never know… But, what I can tell you is that there are no signs of malignancy…”

Dead silence filters the room. We’re just listening to him blabber on… Or hearing would be a better word to use. I pick up faint mumbles but nothing is clear or makes any sense.

Mom nods.

Dad nods.

Aunty Christine nods.

“Teresa,” Cerfolio calls my name and I snap back into reality. “You can leave the hospital tomorrow and continue life as usual.”

I have no words. I just nod.

He swoops me into his arms and whispers, “I love you. You have to tell everyone your story. You have to tell them.”

I nod and I hug him back. He gives me a kiss on the cheek and leaves.

As the door shuts, the silence breaks with mom and dad’s cries. They just tightly embrace each other and cry.

I silently sit and watch them. I don’t know if to smile. I don’t know if to cry. I don’t know what to do with myself. I can’t even move.
There are no words to describe this.
There are no words.

Aunty Christine starts choking back her tears and does a really cute dance…Well, that does the trick.  I begin hysterically crying. Bawling is a more appropriate term.

Dad looks puzzled. “No smiles? You should be smiling!”

I can’t even look him in the eye. I keep crying. I’m struggling to catch my breath.

This feels surreal. Up until minutes ago, I thought I was dying – I genuinely thought there was no hope for me. The past two months have been a complete and total nightmare. A never-ending, dark tunnel. And FINALLY, there is an end to this shit and there’s a light somewhere.

My parents call my grandparents, my uncles, my aunts, my cousins. The phone doesn’t stop ringing. They must have spoken to 30 people so far, and I still haven’t stopped crying.

Relief. Relief. What a freakin’ relief. 

I am crying because I am happy. Happy is an understatement. The fact that I don’t need to count my days is such a relief.

***

I finally catch myself a few hours later.

photo 1 (6)

Dad has taken it upon himself to break the law because, well, why not? This is definitely a valid excuse to drink!

Homeboy thinks he’s cute. He smirks and takes a swigs out of his “Starbucks” cup.

He has everyone laughing, which is liberating – finally, a genuine laugh.

I haven’t felt this relaxed in weeks although you would have never known that I was sick or upset. I had a smile on my face 24/7. I put up a front for the people that loved me the most – my family and Jeff. I couldn’t look weak. I had to be strong for them. I needed to be strong for myself.

photo 5 (2)Every tear I saved over the past two months came rushing out earlier today.
The world is whole again.

I watch mom, dad and aunty Chris laughing. I’m finally able to smile again and actually mean it.

Life is one funny roller-coaster ride.

                                        

17 DEC., 2013

Today’s the big day. I’m moving out.

UAB has been home for 12 days. I have had impeccable care from both my parents and my nurses. I really couldn’t have made it without them. As much as I want to leave, there are so many memories and friends that I have made here. I’m going to miss this place.

Dad comes back from the hotel with my suitcase. I begin packing my things and I’m thinking, “I’m leaving the old Teresa behind and taking the new Teresa with me.”

I’ve changed so much. You can shake your head and be like, “Pshh. Two weeks is nothing. Teresa’s the same girl,” but I would totally disagree. Spending two weeks in the hospital changed my life in ways you could never imagine.

And the waiting game is a bitch. Waiting to hear if you’ll live or not is traumatizing. I’ve had so many emotions bottled up. Will I be able to associate with my friends in the same way I always have? Will I still be bubbly? Will I still be me?

Who can I talk to that can actually understand my situation? Sure, my parents and my aunt were with me, but no one will ever understand what I went through.

Life is no joke. You never know when the big guy up there will call your name. You really have to smile, laugh, fall in love, and enjoy the little things that make life worth living extraordinary. Every single second of every minute of every day.

I hug the nurses, I grab my bags and I’m ready to bounce.

photo 1 (3)

The nurse escorts me out of the hospital (on a wheelchair, that is). As she reaches the door, I glance behind one last time and smile. This place was way too good to me. UAB, you saved me.

But it is time to leave. (YAY!)

I step into the real world and I’m like a pig in shit. Literally.

We take all the little things for granted. My first breath is long, sweet, and filling. Fresh air is a gift from God. It’s a gift that I am even able to breathe with my own lungs.

Mom thinks its too cold and yells at me to get inside the hotel. I totally ignore her and continue taking deep breaths of fresh air.

I’m caught up in my own world. I close my eyes and lose myself in nirvana.

What Christmas Means To A Girl Who Almost Lost Her Life

…. And what it should mean to you too.

I am a Christmas miracle.

During my surgery, the doctor called my parents and said, “If this is cancerous, I’ll have to close her up and send her home.” With a tumor the size of a cantaloupe, there would have been no hope for me – even with chemotherapy.

After being discharged from the hospital and driving back to Florida, I made the decision to stay put. I wasn’t mentally or physically able to fly back to Trinidad just yet.

We were lucky enough to find flights for the rest of my siblings to meet us three days before Christmas. And that is what counts the most.

It’s extremely different. It doesn’t feel like Christmas at all – or at least that’s what I thought.

I planned to build snowmen, put up a tree in my apartment and sing carols all November long to prepare myself for a great Christmas. We all know those plans went down very quickly. And my spirit had been shot after spending so much time in a hospital that only had one wreath hanging.

Usually, at home, I celebrate Christmas with all 100 family members on both sides of the family. There are red decorations, red food, and red everything in every corner.

BUT there’s a hustle and a bustle that I did not miss. Where and when did we lose the meaning of Christmas?

We’re always running around, starting mid-November, looking for gifts for this person and that person. We’re always lying on the floor, looking under the tree, and counting how many gifts have our names on it. Who cares?

That’s not what Christmas is about. Christmas is about being with your family, and most importantly being able to celebrate having your family with you. I’m so blessed to even see another Christmas.

Christmas is also about giving. Sure, we should give to those that we love, but what about the less fortunate? There are so many children that Santa never gets to. There are so many people that don’t even have bread on their tables while we make and eat unnecessary amounts of food.

photo 3 (3)

I kept crying about not being able to go home. I felt guilty and I wanted to be with my grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins more than anything else in the world. They’re my rock. But, there is good in just having my intermediate family here in Florida. We can really understand why Christmas is so important. What happened over the last few weeks should make our love for each other grow so much more and we can really learn to be grateful for having each other. This gives us time to reflect and build upon our experiences.

I am so happy to spend yet another Christmas with the most amazing people I could have ever asked God for.

Also, I finally got the experience of having a real Christmas tree. YAY!

Open Arms and An Open Heart

Bad days tear me down. Maybe I should say moments instead.

My emotions are all over the place. One second, I’m smiling; the second after, I’m crying,

My hormones are also going crazy. I’m just bitching all the time. Maybe it’s because the nurses are weaving me off the heavy drugs, or maybe I’m just sick of the tubes that have been sticking out of my body for the past 12 days.

It’s no fun for anyone – mom and dad are probably so sick of me.

Get me this…
Grab that for me…
Take me here…
Do this… Do that…

Demands are flying left, right and center. It doesn’t stop.

The worst part of it all is having someone take me to the bathroom. I have the weakest bladder ever so I pee very often – this obviously doesn’t work in my favor when I have so many cords attached to me.

I also feel like a woman in menopause when I get hot flashes. I go to bed freezing cold, and I wake up drenched in my own sweat. It really is an issue.

But how dare I complain?! The woman in the room right next to me has been on oxygen for a month. Her cough radiates and echoes in my room. It sounds like a wet dog cough. The nurses say that she may not even make it.

For those who don’t know, this is Pennsatucky.

There’s also another woman on the cardiovascular side of the hospital floor. She has no family with her. Her husband and her mother apparently don’t care. You can tell that this woman has a few loose screws but no one deserves to be unloved. I swear she looks exactly like Pennsatucky from Orange is the New Black, which is appropriate because we are in prison.

She wonders the halls at all hours looking for someone to talk to. She’s lonely.

She passes time by coloring children’s drawings. Her “art” hangs everywhere in the hospital. She gives them to them to the nurses, other patients, and even the cleaning women. She’s the Frida Khalo of UAB.

Her doctors don’t know what they’re going to do with her as yet. She may have open heart surgery, a heart transplant or some other crazy extreme. Her life hangs on uncertainty.

Again, how dare I complain?

Having such a major surgery and having no support is traumatizing. I cannot even imagine how she feels.

I make dad buy her flowers in the gift shop. I take them to her room, and she drowns in her own tears. I give her a tight squeeze and I leave her room sniffling. We shared a special moment.

There are three things this experience taught me:

  1. Don’t judge a book by it’s cover. Everyone goes through life experiences that shapes them to be who they are today. You don’t know what people have been through, so just keep an open heart and wide arms.
  2. I am so lucky to have the support I have. Even though mom, dad, and aunty Christine are the only three people with me, I have an army backing me up at both homes: Syracuse and Trinidad. It’s really important to connect to people who are going through a similar situation to you.
  3. If you can lend a shoulder to lean on, a smile to spread or a listening ear, it can make a huge difference in someone’s life.

The Beginning of the End

When you’re the editor of an on-campus publication and you’re a full-time student taking 18 credits, you’d do almost anything for a break – just one second to breathe. Not me, Sir. 

I love the rush. I love the busy life. Most importantly, I love school.

And, illness took that away.

–––––––––––––––––––––––––

My alarm rings. Obviously, I press snooze 15 times before I actually drag myself out of bed. I stuff my face with cereal, my Keurig brews Starbucks’ best, I grab it and I’m on my way to magazine editing.

It’s 9 a.m. on Nov. 12th – just a regular Tuesday morning, or so I thought.

It’s 11 o’clock. Class is over. I go to Health Services and complain about a persistent dry cough that has lasted for two to three weeks.

At midday, the PA sends me for an x-ray.

Within minutes of doing so, the radiologists rush me into another room for a CT scan. What is going on? I thought, hmmm, maybe I just have bronchitis? Pneumonia? But, that be too simple for my complicated life.

It’s 2:30 now. I anxiously sit in the waiting room.

At 3 p.m., I get a shuttle back to Health Services and my world turns upside down.

“Well, Teresa, you have a mass in your lung. It’s almost the size of a tennis ball. It could be benign; it could be malignant.”

What do you mean? I might have cancer? Right now? But, I’m only 20-years-old. PSH! Teresa, be real, cancer doesn’t give two shits about how old you are.

“Call your mom.” No. 

How is that even possible? How do you tell your parents the worst news you’ve ever heard in your entire life? How do you do that without breaking their hearts?

My life is a movie. Cool. 

“Mom…..”

The PA grabs the phone, explains it all, and mom’s off to book flights and organize doctors appointments.

“If your family doctors are in Florida, you need to be there by tonight. You need to have a biopsy done tomorrow.”

“No, actually, my magazine launches next week. I can’t leave. I have things to do.”

“It doesn’t matter. Your health always comes first”

I know it does, but I still respond, “It really doesn’t….”

There and then, I burst into tears. All I have ever known is work. I pull all nighters as if it’s my primary job, I go above and beyond in every project I do just to stand out, and I stress for no reason – but, I wouldn’t have it any other way. I don’t know life without the hustle.

As the PA said, “It doesn’t matter,” right?  I’ll be off to Florida in the morning whether I like it or not.

I cry, I moan, I scream.

And I cry.

Where did that get me? Nowhere, really, but it’s a bit of an emotional relief.

I watch Keeping Up With The Kardashians for 3 hours, and cry a little more (you would think that their pathetic lives might have made me feel better about mine – that was not the case).

My head is all over the place. This, that, there, then, who, what, where, when, why – “why” really stuck though.

Why me? Why now? Why this? Why, God? WHY? 

My aunt gave me a quote that stuck with me:

“Sometimes when you wonder why you can’t hear God’s voice during your trials, remember the teacher is always quiet during the test.”

So, God is with me. At all times. I just have to believe that his presence and love will be enough to pull me through whatever I have ahead of me.