Mas largo de lo que pensaba
I was living a bi-national existence, dividing my life between my wife and daughter in Mexico City and my work in Los Angeles. The day my serious illness alarm went off I was out cold on the sidewalk of Mexico City’s airport, waiting for my wife to pick me up from a business trip. My face looked as if a taxi had run over it.
My Mexican doctor’s advice was to get an MRI. It showed several tumors adjacent to my thalamus, and third hovering above those. The oncologist suggested I get started on ruthlessly shrinking them down. Radiation and chemo. Start now.
But I decided to take my images to the U.S. to get another opinion. Having reviewed everything, my oncologist there, the chairman of his department, insisted on using the descriptive “malignant” and suggested a chemo regime so as to “live as long as possible.” “Look,” he added, “these are going to take your life. Radiation therapy would deplete your energy level and wouldn’t make much of a difference.”
But two months of chemo, and then more images, it was clear nothing was really happening.
Back in Mexico City, my doctors, already perplexed if not insulted by my stand-offish behavior, again politely insisted that radiation and chemo together would make a difference. What are you waiting for? Best to get moving. This time I listened.
Several months later, I’m down to two infinitesimally small tumors, which are being described as “benign.”
I have longer than I thought. Much longer.