Dear Facebook,
I am closing out 2022 and will be ringing into 2023 from a hospital bed. I spent Thanksgiving here as well. I have been diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s diffuse large B cell, double hit, stage 4, high-grade lymphoma.

Mine is very aggressive yet also treatable with good results. I have been told I am lucky. If I had to have cancer, then this was the one to get. So, I have the lucky cancer. HUH.  When I was told I had cancer I was blind-sided.  It wasn’t even on my radar of what was causing me to be so ill. I became so seriously ill where I couldn’t keep food in my body. I won’t go into the gross details though.
Procedures & amp; tests I have had: a lot of blood tests; 2 transfusions; a brain CAT scan; MRIs; CT scans of various body parts; X-rays of a few body parts; a full body PET scan in which I lite up. Bing crooning “It’s a White Christmas”; biopsies of small intestines, lungs, bone marrow & pancreas; a bone puncture; a scope down my esophagus to the top portion of my small intestines; ECGs; EKGs; a Smart Port installed into my chest (and let me tell you that hurt like a mother fucker. I’m NOT going to lie); 1 R-CHOP chemo; 5 DA-EPOCH-R chemos; lumbar punctures into my spine EACH AND EVERY TIME.  I had chemo treatments 1) to draw cerebral spinal fluid (or CSF for short) to test for cancer in my brain and 2) to inject Methotrexate, a different type of chemo, into my CSF to protect my brain (don’t move, breath, don’t move or bad things will happen); etcetera and so on…!!

Side effects I have had from cancer and chemo: Well pain has been a big one.  Lost hair. Although a typical Hollywood movie or tv “give us money for cancer patients” commercials show bald headed people with cancer, there is more to it than that. I lost my nose hair. Didn’t see that one in the “You’ve Got Cancer” manual. A warning would have been nice.  It would have saved a bowl of soup from post nasal drip the first time around.  Eye brows, eyelashes, ear hair, body hair, and pubs all gone. I
made you read about pubs {LMFAO!!} Night sweats, extreme fatigue, vomiting, constipation, explosive diarrhea, dimmed sight due to meds, loss of muscle mass as well as loss of mobility, etcetera and so forth. My homegrown, non-genetic, out of control B cells almost killed me. Stupid bastards!

I would like to thank my mom for taping my ears to my head due to them sticking out so much when I was a baby. If she had not, I would be sporting a Dumbo the Elephant look now. Thanks mom!

Some of my friends and family on here have had cancer, are cancer survivors, require blood transfusions or have other serious medical issues some of whom have/are posting about your experiences. I will not add your names here. You know who you are and those are your stories to tell or not tell. I do want to thank you for your courage in sharing your experiences. Without you I most likely would not be sharing what I am going thru now.  I understand how difficult it can be knowing what to say and hoping you don’t say the wrong thing. I really do. Feel free to post, text or call me or none at all. Any is okay with me.

Much Love, Ruthe
P.S. My latest PET scan results just came back. I am cancer free…

#CancerSucks
#CancerIsPartOfMyJourneyButNotMyDestination
​#curtainupcancerfoundation
#cancerchronicles

I acknowledge that this message may sound like a cliche, a cliche being an idea, expression or action that has been overused to the point of it becoming boring and unoriginal.  But to that notion I say if I have heard this message many times before, then it must speak some Truth, and with that said how can the Truth ever be boring or unoriginal? And so with my message and acknowledgement in mind, I want to share with all of you a specific event that occurred the day when my bride, Tracy, shared her diagnosis with me.

We were sitting at the restaurant Pappadeaux, like we had many times before, when the gravity of what my wife was going through hit me.  I have been affected by many things in my life, but only one other time have I felt the way that I felt on the day that Cancer entered the scene.  

It was the fall of 1999, and I can remember the exact moment when I became aware of my depression.  The recognition started from the top of my head and made its way to the tip of my toes.  I recall, sitting in my black Nissan Sentra that had a manual transmission, smoking a cigarette at the intersection of Mulberry and 281, waiting to turn left, when I looked out my left window and noticed dry brown grass blowing to the left because of the wind, when the feeling started.  For days, no matter what I did, I could not shake the feeling.  As I worked through my depression, I found the source to be trauma perpetrated upon me in my youth.  Unfortunately, before I could heal, my wife at the time took my children to NYC and abandoned me.  When I became better, I vowed to never treat someone the way I was treated in my time of need.  

During my reflection for this writing, I came across this image created by a professor from the University of Northern Iowa named F Echeverria that spoke to me.

“The seed in the ground that rots first, but becomes a beautiful, fruit giving tree at the end”.

​The seed that rotted in 1999 is exactly what needed to be so that I could be what Tracy required 23 years later.  In numerology, 23 signifies new beginnings, revolution, and transformation. 

Sitting at Pappadeaux was a new beginning and the second most consequential day in my life.  I knew it was a big deal because my senses were heightened just like in 1999.  When the weight of the diagnosis hit, the tablecloth at the restaurant was whiter than I ever observed, the bread crumbs were more noticeable and the swirls in the butter seemed to capture what was going on.
The feelings that came over me were twofold: a concern for the future and regret for a past that I squandered with my wife.

With tears in my eyes, I apologized to my bride for not appreciating our relationship more when there was no cancer.  I told her that I wished I had that time back, and I vowed to take care of her.
​
While our future looks good, for the most part; I just wish that my sense of urgency for the for the relationship with my wife was as pronounced before the cancer as it is now.  

​I am Healthy . . . . for My Age
I grew up a tall and very, very thin child in a not so tall, not so thin family. My mother would take me to our family doctor to find out why I wasn't gaining weight. And after examining me and running tests, the doctor said that, although he agreed that I was very thin, I was otherwise healthy. So to appease my mother, he sent me home with vitamins and iron pills to see if they would help. They didn't. And to this day I can still remember the awful taste of those pills and syrups.

In my 20 and 30s I had good health insurance but seldom used it except for the years I
remembered to schedule annual checkups. Then in my mid 30s, the first breast lump
appeared. I had surgery. It was benign. Great. After that, I remembered to schedule yearly
mammograms. And it wasn't long before fluid filled cysts in both breasts started appearing. I was given the option to either just monitor them or to have the fluid removed with needle aspirations. I opted for the latter not knowing it would become an annual ritual for about 15 years. Sometimes the cysts in my breasts totaled up to 25, if not more. My doctors were amazed. Doctors said my cysts were fueled by estrogen and they would probably stop with menopause. That did turn out to be true. When they found calcifications, they said they seldom turned into cancer. This turned out to be true for many years.

In April 2012, I had a mammogram and was notified that all was clear or in their terms the
results was "uneventful". Then in October of that same year while reaching with my left hand to turn on a lamp, I felt a strange sensation on my left breast. I did a self exam and felt a small lump. This started me on my trajectory into the land of cancer, a strange foreign land. When I told my primary doctor about my cancer diagnosis, she put her hand on my shoulder and said, "I have high hopes for you because you are very healthy." I really hoped that was true.

After three horrible appointments with what I felt was a brash, uncaring and unsympathetic
young female doctor, my family doctor recommended I switch to a surgeon who had recently operated on her mother. As it turned out, he was one of the many surgeons who had treated me for cysts while he was part of another medical practice.
Even though he confirmed the previous surgeon's diagnosis and treatment options, he added the caring support and calm demeaner that I so very much needed at that time.
With my long history with breast cysts, I felt it was best to have a double mastectomy. The
surgery on my cancer breast went smoothly but it did not on my non-cancer breast. Due to continued infections, I had to undergo about 4 outpatient procedures until all was resolved nearly 12 months after my initial cancer surgery.

Since that time I have been trying to educate myself on cancers, the language of cancers and both current and future treatment options. I may never need to know this but who knows. Maybe yes. Maybe no. Oh God, I hope not. So now, as I am approaching 10 years since that day I was told "It's cancer", I go to as many follow up appointments with my doctors as they and my insurance will allow. I attend as many women and cancer health fairs as I can and do all the free screenings. When WellMed calls me in every year to do additional screenings, I always say yes. Friends and family just shake they heads as they think I have gone completely overboard with all the testing. Maybe they're right.
WellMed assures me that they send all my extra test results to my primary doctor but she says she never gets them. The WellMed doctors take time with me and are very patient, even asking, "Anything else you want to talk about before you leave leave?" Finally I have found a place that understands my need to know.

Recently I saw a new doctor to discuss my latest blood work. After listening to my concerns and discussing them with me, she patted my hand and said "I have high hopes for you because you are very healthy . . . for your age."

Some girls 
get quinceañeras 
to mark the moment 
between girlhood and womanhood.

Not me.

No poofy dress.
No goofy dance.
No playlist of the times.

Instead, on my birthday, 
I was gifted a battle-weary 44-year-old mother, 
Graciela Garza De León, 
in a hospital bed, 
woozy from surgery, 
breast removed.

That day, tíos y tías, primas y primos, 
they all stood next to her, 
a clump of well-meaning 
words and 
gazes and 
sobaditas. 

I heard someone say she was lucky to be alive.
Did I imagine it?
Did she hear it?

I stood to the side.
Hoping to hide,
to disappear into my personal brand of emotional paralysis.

In the weeks leading up to that moment, 
between diagnosis and Incision Day, 
I’d watched my avoidant father, brother, and sister from a distance. 
Morose. Forlorn.

Not me.

I told myself that my family needed 
my light, 
my strength.

I tried.
Except I lied by pretending 
I could stay dry 
through the tempest.

Turns out, 
I was always more transparent 
than I thought. 

No poofy dress.
Just a cotton t-shirt and denim shorts.

No goofy dance.
Just a shrinking violet frozen against the wall.

No playlist of the times.
Just my mother ignoring
the fawning of her family
and putting the spotlight on me.

“Mija, ¿cómo te sientes?”

In asking me how I was, 
in posing such a simple question, 
my mother’s voice became a squeeze of lemon 
on a cold sore.

Turns out, 
I was never as invisible as I thought.

In front of the whole family, 
I splattered into the thousand oceans below us 
into a sorrow 
that could now fully consume me.

I was a sobbing mess, finally.

Tía María, the house of fortitude, persuaded me to sit.
The nurse came into the room.

My tía pointed to my drowning body and told her,
“She’s a very smart girl.”

The nurse nodded sympathetically at me. “I can tell.”

My throat swelled. 
My capillaries churned. 
My brain waves buzzed.

You don’t know me.
I should have shoved the hurt in deeper.
If I had just been a better daughter, God would let me keep her. 

I can still savor the salt on my cheeks from that day.
I can still feel the coarse texture of cheap tissues on my nostrils.
I can still hear the soft brush of family members putting their fragile hands in their pockets.

In the years following– 
   confusion, 
   anger, 
   guilt. 
The tangle of inevitable role reversals.
The visits of family members who adored her before she was a wife.
The inflamed arc from mother and back to child before the last silence.

Nearly two decades later, 
my mother’s magnetism remains. 
She is here 
with me
when a hummingbird looks through my window.
When I put my hands in my lap.
When the clock strikes 10:21.

And also, when I play my Rocío Dúrcal playlist.
When I do goofy dances while I clean.
When I put on a va-va-voom dress 
and her shape looks back at me 
in the mirror.

If I stay really still,
I can time travel 
to that birthday 
and put my arms around teenage Violeta:

“You don’t need to bargain with God.
You don’t even need to be a pristine daughter.
You just need to love your mother, learn from her.
And if you’re gonna challenge her, do so with respect and curiosity for her side of the story.
Above all, thank her 
for the kindest versions of her
and the most cacophonous.

Cos loving the most 

appalling, 
frustrating, 
unpredictable 

versions of your mother is how you learn to love the same versions of yourself.”

Here’s to healing. 
Here’s to balance.
Here’s to growth in illness.
Here's to not hiding anymore.
Here's to making space
for the dark and the light,
the calm and the bite,
within the inner child and 
inner mother in all of us.

Don’t take it from me, but you might want to
put on your comfy clothes.
Play that cozy song.
Let your inner blood fam
break out dance moves from decades ago.


I mean, who’s really watching anyway?


BIO:

Violeta (vee-oh-LET-uh) Garza is a multilingual poet, weaver, and artist from the Historic West Side of San Antonio, Texas. Her mother passed away from breast cancer in 2005 after a 9-year-battle. Violeta can still feel her mother’s presence while playing cheesy Mexican love ballads from the 1980s.

​

“You have cancer"; three words that make your heart stop.
To tell our love story I need to go back to 1994 when Ruben and I first started dating.
We were in our early 20s and planned for a beautiful future together. What we couldn’t have known was that Ruben would be diagnosed with polycystic kidney disease shortly after we began dating. Ruben’s doctors informed him that one day he might need to be placed on dialysis or need a kidney transplant. We were devastated but we went on with our lives and got married October 10 th of 1998. Eight years after his diagnosis Ruben’s doctors informed him that he was getting close to being placed on dialysis and we should start looking for possible kidney donors.

As Ruben was being tested, to see if he was a good candidate for a transplant, the
search was on for a kidney donor. Ruben’s brother was tested because the possibility of
a good match is usually greater with siblings. Unfortunately, his brother was eliminated
as a donor candidate halfway through the process.

An unexpected but perfect match was what I was referred to. I went through all the
necessary physical and emotional pre-transplant screenings. Once I was cleared and
approved as a donor the date was set. December of 2003 I gave Ruben the gift of life
by donating my kidney to him.

After the kidney transplant we were elated to discover our new normal. We did face
some challenges with Ruben's health but through it all we seem to find that in some
ways our new normal was more rewarding and gratifying. We felt better equipped to handle anything life brought our way. Until Labor Day weekend 2019 when we heard those three words, “You have Cancer”.
Our whole world came to a complete stop. We were devastated, in shock, and fearful of
the unknown. I asked God, “Why my Ruben? Had he not already been through
enough?” I felt helpless but not hopeless because Ruben made me promise to never
give up hope. When the doctors informed me that he may not survive my Ruben asked
me to look into his eyes and he said, “Laura I need to see that you have not given up
hope that I will get better”.

We had our whole lives ahead of us but sadly on January 14, 2020 my Ruben took his
last breath.

When we took our vows we truly meant “to have and to hold from this day forward, for
better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish,
until death do us part.” I choose you Ruben and I would choose you over and over again. Without pause,
without doubt, in a heartbeat I would always choose you. You will forever be my always
until my last breath.

​I thank God for bringing us together and for allowing us to experience the most amazing
love. A love that was so deep that it makes this loss hurt so much.

I miss Ruben Noriega every day and I talk about him all the time. I often think back to
the person I was before Ruben passed away. She and I have very little in common
anymore. I think of the hurdles she had to jump, the mountains she climbed, and the
cliffs she fell over. She’s been knocked down, and risen many times; and at least a
dozen in her lifetime. I can see her in my memory so clearly, but I can’t feel her
anymore. She lived a different life than I do; with, different dreams, and a radically
different daily life.

I wish I could tell anyone who is grieving that there is a formula to get through grief but
there is literally no way around grief, you just have to let it take you under, drown you,
and then you have to let it change you. It’s hard and exhausting, but worth the work (I
promise).

Although life doesn't last forever, love is eternal. Cancer has not separated my heart
from yours my Ruben. I will honor you all the days of my life. Cancer you will never win
because true love will always prevail.

My story has been both a blessing and a curse. But, my story is a success story. In my
kaleidoscope journey of breast cancer, I' ve grown beautiful wings and I've become a
beautiful creature. I have gracefully fluttered from one garden of breast cancer
survivors to another relying on their sweet nectar of love and support. And, I am
thankful for their kindness and generosity.
 
Diagnosis #1: 2007
"You have Lobular Breast Cancer", I was told by the Radiologist. I could not comprehend
what I was hearing. I sat in my car in the parking garage. Where should I go? What is
going to happen? Who do I contact first and what do I even say?
 
I called my two daughters, Marilyn and Barbara, and we came up with a plan.
 
After we processed this frightening diagnosis, I contacted a recommended Breast
Surgeon and Oncologist. I opted for a Bilateral Mastectomy, with Breast Reconstruction
Expanders and Silicone Implants. My surgery and chemotherapy were a success. And
soon thereafter, I made the decision to retire from a local Telecommunications
Corporation with 29 years of loyal service.
 
I did not adjust well to retirement. So, I studied and became a Certified Prosthetic
Fitter. I derived great personal satisfaction from fitting other breast cancer survivors in
beautiful and supportive specialty bras and post-mastectomy prostheses. It was also
very rewarding for me to fit them with stylish wigs and hairpieces. I enjoyed helping
them on their journeys, and helping them feel healthy and confident.
 
Diagnosis #2: 2013
 
Once again, the curse of breast cancer descended upon me. In 2013, I was diagnosed
with Stage 4 Metastatic Breast Cancer. And I started again with more rounds of
Chemotherapy, Radiation, Hair Loss, and Side Effects. My Oncologist thought I still had
another good 5 years, or more, ahead of me. But my life would depend on Herceptin
infusions, once every three weeks, for the rest of my life. I was devastated, hopeful, and
very scared.
 
I immersed myself into the San Antonio Breast Cancer Community, volunteering for
many local and national breast cancer organizations, foundations, fundraisers, and
telethons. For my service to the local breast cancer community, I was featured in SA
Women magazine.
 

Because of my recurring breast cancer and my Stage 4 classification, my life and
metamorphosis journey have more meaning and more value. I don't waste time. I look
for beauty. And, I search for strength, love, and support from my breast cancer
community.
 
Diagnosis #3: 2022
 
I had no idea when I registered to participate in the Cancer Chronicles that the curse of
breast cancer would descend on me for yet a third time.
 
But, I'm m still looking for beauty. And I am blessed …
 
"How do you become a Butterfly"  Betsy asked.
 
"You must want to fly so much that you're willing to give up being a caterpillar "
 
 
BIOGRAPHY: BETSY ACHILLES
1. I am Betsy Achilles. I am a three-time breast cancer survivor and thriver.
2. I am a strong and clever woman. And, I am thankful for my amazing life and all
of those who have been a part of my life.
3. My beautiful daughters, Marilyn and Barbara, are my pride and joy. They, too,
are strong and clever women who encourage me every day in my colorful,
kaleidoscope journey.