ESTA ES SU CASA--APRIL 2013
The Beacon version of my last newsletter is a gem:
https://www.stlbeacon.org/#!/content/29683/voices_dulick_cancer_030413
TO LIFE
About 10 days ago, I sent a separate update on Guillermo’s successful operation (and posted on FACEBOOK), and he continues to improve. I am anxious every time I call his wife Erlinda, fearing any setbacks, but it’s been good, and better, news each day. Within a couple days or so he was taking little walks, taking baths, enjoying a liquid diet, a nice step up from intravenous. A week later, he was ready to check out of the hospital, to stay with his daughter MariCruz and her husband, who live in a quiet little neighborhood of simple houses on the outskirts of San Pedro Sula, with a diet of mostly fruit and vegetables. His digestive system has resumed its regular functions, as Erlinda happily reported in somewhat simpler terms. Erlinda laughed when a I mentioned “carne” (red meat), and of course I was kidding. That’s way down the line! Talking with Guillermo himself is a delight, he is just so grateful for his new lease on life. “It’s just like a miracle, Miguel. I thank EVERYBODY! Please tell your friends that.” Now they await results of the biopsy, to see if they got it all or if Guillermo will need more treatment, such as chemotherapy. So don’t cancel your dance card just yet!
Let me give a little account of your very generous donations. I didn’t want to send any money on to Erlinda before the operation, for fear it wouldn’t last, but with all the postponements, they really did need as much as they could get, just for Guillermo’s medications, not to mention paying for all the utensils, including blood, BEFORE the operation. Since they managed to wrangle a deal at the public Catarino Rivas Hospital, the operation was a lot cheaper, so it balanced out. The public hospitals are swamped with emergencies--shootings, stabbings, bloody car wrecks, etc.--and so they often keep postponing these “elective” surgeries till the patient finally dies, as may be the case with my next-door neighbor Pichin, with prostate cancer, after three fruitless trips already to the same Catarino Rivas Hospital. So Guillermo’s success IS a miracle!
But things are never simple. While Guillermo was still waiting for his operation, his granddaughter, little Mariana Teresa (“Marite”), 3, suddenly puffed up again, her kidneys apparently failing, so I presumed your permission to “spread the wealth” around, to help her mom Maricela rush her to Tegucigalpa, if such a grueling 7-hour trip can ever be a “rush.” The doctor had taken Marite off Prednisone at her last appointment a couple months ago--too soon, it seems. Maricela was beside herself, and a couple days later her husband Juan Blas joined her in Tegus, to keep things under control. Marite, in fact, began to improve in Tegus the same day Guillermo emerged successfully from his operation in San Pedro Sula. I hope it’s OK: you paid a lot of phone calls! And then there was Fausto, an orphan raised by Guillermo and Erlinda since he was an infant, stuck by himself here in Las Vegas, watching the house, and looking for help with some groceries. He also made a trip to San Pedro to see his “papa,” again thanks to you. As Erlinda said, “Miguel, they can’t stand to be separated!”
And as I am writing this, Elba, 21, from Pueblo Nuevo, came to show me the results of her exams for ovarian cancer. I had paid her way to Tegucigalpa for the tests. There’s a nasty tumor there, all right. Her operation is scheduled for April 15 at San Felipe Hospital in Tegucigalpa. What can I say? I guess together you and I can send her off with a little “got your back”...? Donaldo her husband, scared to death, will go, too, while grandma Chila takes care of their two little girls.
I’m sorry that these newsletters sound like a litany of “bring out your dead.” It just seems there’s another Guillermo every week.... I guess I reached out to you all in his case because maybe I panicked; the sinkhole seemed to open up so suddenly and I didn’t have even a patch. And your love overwhelmed us!
Guess who’s the new president of the Parent-Teacher Association. As we sweltered in the heat at the meeting to elect the new board, I kept my head down, but as the minutes wore on, I decided I would accept the position if they asked me. Finally, somebody “nominated” me, someone else seconded, and that was that. I did it for Chemo! I thought, they can’t flunk the son of the president, can they?
But I was desperate, you see, after Chemo had missed almost a week of class. We had timed an appointment in Tegucigalpa to renew his passport with a visit from Andy Kwok (Parkway North 2003), who came down with a group from his church in Michigan to help poor kids with health care. Andy visited us in Las Vegas in 2010, and we didn’t want to miss this opportunity. The group had a “rest” day, so we tagged along, to the Picacho, where the giant statue of Jesus overlooks the city in a big, beautiful park. We had already hooked up with Chemo’s brother Marcos again, and everyone played soccer. These folks were amazing! They treated us like best friends, including sharing their lunch with us, and giving us a ride back to our hotel.
By the way, I doubt Chemo’s ever going to use that passport. We got it originally 5 years ago, when it looked as if he would have his heart operation in the U.S. I thought we might as well renew it, just in case. I have to say the chief Migration agent Maritza went out of her way to accommodate us; at first, Chemo seemed to be in no-man’s land. Because he is under 21, they could not renew it without his parents (“But he’s an orphan!” I explained) or without adoption papers (“He WAS my son, until he turned 18”). After a lengthy “consultation,” they made an “exception,” a bureaucratic miracle. Alejandra, who actually processed the passport, including an “interview,” treated him like a visiting dignitary!
We got back to Las Vegas just in time for one of the wildest events you’re ever gonna see, the dog and cat vaccinations. Folks brought their animals, all brimming with excitement till they found themselves gagged with a rope looped through a tree root and pinned to the ground while big, bad Elvin grabbed a hind leg and jabbed them with the serum. Every owner got a little tag, some 3 or 4, as proof of protection. The line seemed endless, at least 250 “pets.” The kids even got off early from school, for the round-up.
Speaking of animals, we worked like dogs hauling rocks and sand for the projected wall around the church. I threw myself into the task, and almost as quickly threw myself out of it. You know, somebody had to take pictures! This is how they built the pyramids, I guess. Mostly teens helped with the rocks, forming a hand-to-hand line-up to Elvin’s big, bad truck; and mostly men with shovels got the sand in motion with the help of three pick-ups. But they had been shamed into it when the ladies of the Legion of Mary started carrying the sand in cooking pots up the hill on foot.
In Honduras, Father’s Day is celebrated on March 19, the feast of St. Joseph, husband of Jesus’ mother Mary. You may have seen a headline from the new Pope Francis’ inaugural Mass on that day, where he said of St. Joseph that we should not be afraid of “tenderness.” The school celebrated us dads with a special event including the marvelous marimba players and presentations from every grade. Some of the seventh-graders did a folk-dance, and I would have loved to see Chemo participating; he does dance all over the house, when his rap music is loud enough.
The last of the coffee-pickers wandered home by the middle of March. It was a hard year of work stuffed into a couple or three months, endless and mostly fruitless, since the coffee crop was so sparse this year. But Marcos, Dania, and their three little ones were glad to be home, even without much to show for their sojourn. The family returned in time to celebrate Damaris’ 14th birthday, which we did in pretty simple style, cold sodas and cookies. I promised her we’d do better next year when she turns 15, the special time for a young lady. I kept trying to compliment her on her dimples, but I forgot the Spanish word; we played Password for about 5 minutes till someone finally figured out what I was trying to say, “chocayos.”
Holy Week was unseasonably cold, that is, below 70 degrees, even with a little rain, so that may have kept the drunks in check somewhat. Meanwhile, the religious side of it was somehow more moving than ever, Good Friday in particular. The teens surprised me when they dusted off the little scripts I had written for the Stations of the Cross years ago. I felt so dumb, I was tearing up at my own words! We wandered all over town, 14 different houses, each of which had prepared a little altar decorated with flowers and pictures, and some with carpets of pine needles on the ground. And Holy Saturday, the church ablaze with candles.
My ancient neighbor Santos passed away as Holy Week began. At 95, he had long been blind and deaf, but so good-hearted that he carried on a conversation with you just by guessing what you were saying. He would have been a whiz at FACEBOOK! We prayed his novenario, nine days of mourning, as a fitting backdrop to Jesus’ last days. Despite a face as monumental as the rock and sand we hauled, he was as playful as a kitten.
Thank you for filling us with life!
Love, Miguel
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