Unfortunate News

By December of 2020, the world had started to feel like it was waking up again. My TikTok was doing really well. People were listening, asking questions, following along. I had started making sales funnel content, trying to build something sustainable from this strange, new momentum. I’d also picked up a consulting job, which gave me a sense of normalcy again.

I continued to text with Enrique here and there. It was a pleasant distraction, a nice flirtation. Sometimes, though, it was hard to talk to him. It always came with Christian, like they were a dual package. Still, it was nice to chat. I wasn’t really thinking about it that deeply.

Then she told me about her shoulder.

It started small. Just some pain, something about a nerve. She said she had a doctor’s appointment coming up to get it checked out. I remember the conversation. I wanted her to feel better, but I didn’t think much of it. It was one of those things you assume will sort itself out.

She didn’t tell anyone what she learned at first. When she finally did, none of us were prepared for it. It was cancer.

I can’t even tell you what I felt because I didn’t feel anything. The word just hung there. We texted each other, me and my brothers, but no one knew what to say. None of us had ever been through this before. None of us had a map for what to do next.

I didn’t know it yet, but everything was about to change again.

Within a week, my brothers and I spoke. My older brother was married, with kids and a job. My younger brother had a girlfriend and a full-time job he still had to go to every day. And I knew what was coming before anyone said it. I had to go up and take care of her.

Of course I would. I didn’t have a problem with it. But I was scared. I didn’t know what being a caretaker meant. I didn’t know anyone who had gone through cancer before. I didn’t know what to expect. But of course, I said yes.

They encouraged me to celebrate the new year before heading up. My older brother even gave me money for it. “You’re going to need it,” he said. “At least have one good night before this starts.”

So I stayed in Queens through New Year’s, tried to enjoy it, tried to forget what was waiting. Then, on January 3rd, I packed up my bags again. Another Airbnb emptied, another Uber ride scheduled.

Technically, it was a new year now—2021—but I couldn’t believe how much had changed in less than one year. On January 3rd of 2020, I had been on the beaches of Cartagena, planning a beautiful life with Christian, making plans to move to Colombia and start something new. And now here I was, not having spoken to him in months, flirting casually with the guy I met the night I confessed my feelings, and heading back up to my mom’s house.

The same house where, nine months earlier, we had just survived the first wave of the pandemic together. Except this time, I was going back to take care of her while she faced something much worse.

When I got there, she looked like herself. Strong, smiling, ready to fight. The table was covered with cards and mugs that said things like, “You’ve got this,” and “Cancer’s a bitch, but you’re a bigger one.” She believed she was going to beat it. We all did.

We sat together that night, talking about what was coming. None of us really knew what that meant. I told myself it would just be a few months, that she’d get through it, that I’d go back to whatever life was waiting for me.