Sat the 18th of Jul - Like sands through the hourglass…

So are the days of our lives.

What ever happened to little Chiara? The toddler who displayed such a keen interested in my laptop? Or to young Venezuelan Pedro? The teenager who seemed more eager to update his facebook status than to chat with us. And to Gianfranco? My neighbor who had some kind of seizure a couple of months back?

And to so many others. Rosa’s daughter. Rita and Rocco’s son. Vincenzo’s daugther. Ukrainian Marta. Cristina’s Dad. They all have their stories.

We all share the hardship of watching our loved ones endure months of incertitude. We find solace in that we are not alone. Inevitably our lives are entwined; we are comforted and strengthened by each other. We enquire about the health of our loved ones just as naturally as if we were discussing the weather. Sooner or later we are all pulled down the same path. Quickly we become Veterans sharing our experiences and encouraging those who have yet to follow.

Young Pedro is ahead of Mar. He had the transplant 4 or 5 weeks ago. He just got out of his prison cell looking very pale, very thin, very beat up but very alive. He walks around with a head and mouth cap. His Mom Jenny, who hasn’t left his bedside since the transplant, is finally smiling. Pedro’s Dad always carried the Venezuelan sun in his eyes and never seemed to doubt his son would recover. It’s been rough but he’s out! They give me so much hope and courage. Every symptom Mara suffers from, young Pedro had. “Nausea? Don’t worry, “mi amor” (my love), it’s normal. Nose bleed? Been there. It’ll pass. Diarrhea? Done that. All three at once? Sure. Got the green, red and brown T-shirt!” Throw in some yellow for the sensitive bladder that makes Mar go to the bathroom every hour of the day. Chemotherapy may be devastating but, hey, think of how colorful it gets.

Little toddler Chiara had her transplant in February. Due to the genetic nature of her illness, neither one of her parents could be her donor. Apparently a perfect match was found in an Australian person through the International databank. The little girl is doing very well. She was discharged from the hospital and now comes in every 2 weeks for a check up. When I see her, she looks very alert and as happy as any 3 year old could be. She no longer wears a mouth cap. Her hair is starting to grow and she has beautiful light brown curls. This time, it’s my phone that mesmerizes her and she confiscates it. It isn’t until her Mom intervenes - “Chiara, what did I tell you about other people’s phones? You can’t take them” - that it is returned to me. I predict a brilliant career in technology for this little girl if her infatuation with electronic devices continues.

My neighbor Gianfranco just got out this week. I didn’t recognize him at first because he lost so much weight. He also wears a head and mouth cap. The day he was taken to the hospital by ambulance, some cells had entered his brain. Don’t ask me what that means. Suffice to say, it wasn’t good. He was due to start the transplant process (radio, chemo and then transplant) but that development delayed it until now. It took him back one step where he had to first undergo chemo to clear the bad cells in his brain before moving on to the actual transplant. As he put it, this leukemia was a gift from treatment undergone 5 years ago against a different cancer. This man went through 7 rounds of treatment. He lost one testicle, an abscess was removed from his buttocks and he suffers from countless other side effects. One might think that these details are too freely shared and might make one blush. But we find ourselves in unique circumstances where such matters are more easily disclosed. This man’s will to live is exceptional. Giving up is just not an option. In spite of everything, Gianfranco’s life goes on. He is married and has 3 children. 2 came after the cancer. His apartment is always full of friends and family and through our thin walls, we hear laughter. Yesterday his wife, Annalisa told me the leukemic blasts are back. There is very little hope for him yet he won’t give up. After barely one week of freedom, he’ll need to be re-admitted for emergency chemo, yet again. This time experimental, in the hope it’ll clear the leukemia before moving on to the transplant. The end isn’t yet in sight for Gianfranco. And I wonder: is that good or bad?