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“Hola Valentina. Soy la doctora Ramirez. ¿Prefieres español?”
“English is fine.”
Dr. Ramirez smiles with what seems like relief. “Good. I’m Dr. Carolina Ramirez. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she says. Her amber eyes hold my gaze, and I can’t help but smile back. I’m already at ease.
Dr. Ramirez grabs the chair in the corner and rolls it over to sit in front of me. “I’ve gone over your chart, and it sounds like your case is an excellent fit for the trial,” she says.
I let out a breath, feeling more reassured that I have done the right thing by coming here and seeking her out.
She finishes my physical exam and pelvic exam, and I sit up to close the gown once again. I wrap myself in the flimsy cloth that does nothing to warm my skin.
“We’re retaking some images. So long as there is no change, we will be able to start treatment this week as part of the trial.”
What she means by ‘change’ is if the cancer has progressed further. There’s still a chance this could go the other way, but I nod because Dr. Ramirez’s presence is somehow reassuring, and I’m feeling calmer than I thought I would.
“It’s part of the trial protocol, but I have to ask again,” she says. “Are you sure you understand the trial treatment is more aggressive than the standard of care, which is still an option for you at this point? This trial will take a toll on you.”
“I know, doctor. I want to be as aggressive as humanly possible.”
“There’s one last concern I have,” she says. “I’m sorry, I must insist, you are so young and with no children. You understand the radiation will more than likely render you unable to conceive naturally?”
“Yes. Mandy went over all my pre-trial plan options.”
“I’m willing to wait a few weeks if you want to freeze your eggs.”
“Won’t we risk the cancer spreading further?”
“That is a risk. Yes. But if having children at some point is important to you, I want to make sure I’m also advocating for what you’ll need to have a happy life.”
I smile. She wants to make sure that if she saves my life, she’s not leaving me with a miserable one. “Look,” I say. “I’ve never given any thought to children. I may one day want children, but I don’t need that child to be biological. There are many children in the world in need of good parents.” I don’t say that I have chosen family I love more than bloodline family. “I’ll be very happy with adoption if children ever become important.”
“Okay, then. Let’s do this.”
Four hours of waiting and several scans later, I finally get to leave the hospital. It was all cold metal, shivering, and waiting in exam rooms, but it’s not my first rodeo. I already went through all of this in Mexico when I first received my diagnosis.
I stand in front of the hospital, unsure of my next steps. Less than twenty-four hours in Kansas City, and for what is probably the first time in my adult life, I don’t have a schedule to keep.
Pulling out my phone, I call a car with my car service app. I ask the driver to take me to any street with multiple car dealerships, and he drops me off in front of a Ford dealership. I look down the busy boulevard, flanked by dealerships, feeling daunted at all the options. I shrug.When in Rome . . . or in this case, America. I walk into the Ford dealership, and a nice old man hooks me up with a used but reliable Ford sedan. I could probably afford new, but I don’t want to take advantage.
I had ordered furniture to be delivered to my apartment, but it won’t show up until tomorrow. Realizing I need essentials, I pull up the navigation app on my phone and roll away in my new pre-owned car. The salesman was adamant it isn’t ‘used.’
After shopping, it takes three trips to get all of my supplies into my new barren apartment. I was shocked at how expensive rent is in the U.S., but being close to the hospital was a priority. I opted for a two-bedroom, thinking if it came to it, I could rent out one of the rooms to offset some of my expenses. I could only ask my sister for so much money before she got suspicious. Not that she wouldn’t give it in a heartbeat if I told her what was going on, but I’m not ready to tell her.
I plop on the cream duvet over the white carpet, not sure I will be able to sleep on the floor—first time for everything, I guess. Once chemo and radiation start, wine will be off-limits, so I went to town at the grocery store’s liquor section.
Uncorking the bottle of merlot, I sip straight from the bottle as I sit in my dark apartment. On the second floor, the apartment faces the busier side of the street. Two restaurants and a small used bookshop sit directly below, and I wonder if they call the books ‘pre-owned’ too.
The coolness of the glass in the floor-to-ceiling windows soothes my skin as I press my arm against it to look down the street. There are a few bars, and it’s late enough that people are starting to go inside with broad smiles and flirty looks.
It’s a beautiful city, and I wish I had come here under different circumstances. Now all I will have as souvenirs will be the bitter memories of cancer treatment.
I take a long pull from the bottle of wine, not caring when some of it spills from the corners of my mouth and down my chin, splattering over the white duvet. I’ll get a new one tomorrow. I press my forehead to the glass and hug the bottle to my body while I look at the lights of the city night.
My phone is on silent mode, so I don’t hear it when it rings, but the bright glow in the dark apartment signals the incoming call. I block the light with one hand as I grab the phone with the other.Piliis displayed on the screen—my nickname for my older sister Pilar. I’ve called her Pili since I was four-years-old, and she’s hated it ever since.
“Tini?” I hear on the other end when I pick up. I hate her nickname for me as much as she hates mine for her. We would both benefit from a truce, but we are both too stubborn.
I roll my eyes. “Hi, Pili. How are you?”
