This article first appeared in the St. Louis Beacon, March 5, 2013 - Guillermo, 65, was diagnosed with stomach cancer and the family was simply at a loss when told the operation would cost 40,000 Lempiras ($2,000), not to mention all the other expenses, tests, medicine, etc., even the instruments for operation itself, right down to the thread!
That’s the way health care in Honduras works, or doesn’t. So I held my breath and sent out a call to friends in the states who responded like a choir of angels.
The operation has been re-scheduled several times. Right now, we’re looking at March 11.
The night before Guillermo and Erlinda headed off to San Pedro Sula, we had a wonderful prayer service at their house. Guillermo cried several times — a hard thing for a Honduran man to do in public — first from grief, even despair, because he felt all day like death, and then, by the end of the evening, from a gratitude and hopefulness beyond words. Next day, he woke up feeling like a new man. "They gotta check me again, I think I’m cured!"
Of course, they did check him again, in San Pedro, and the tumor is still there, but it is as nicely placed as possible, in a sac of some kind, at the base of the stomach, its major threat in virtually closing off the path to the colon. So I guess they just pluck out the ball of bad and close him up! Could it really be that simple?
Now, back to the old news.
My life flashed before my eyes — or maybe it was just the shower of breaking glass. Dodging a speeding cab, I made a great spin move (it was right after the SuperBowl and I actually thought of Ray Lewis), but my right elbow broke the driver's side of the windshield, and I felt the wheel run over the tip of my right foot, as the cab came to a screeching halt, the young driver pointing and gesturing in frustration — like it was MY fault!
It was just a matter of time. Chemo has saved me innumerable times in big cities from getting run over. This time he was waiting across the street in another cab as I delivered 1,500 Lempiras (about $75) to a couple sons of Maria Enemecia, who was in the Hospital Escuela, waiting for an operation for cancer of the liver.
I got across the first 5 or 6 lanes of traffic when the cab came out of nowhere. I saw the tiny shards of glass glistening on my clothes in the bright sun and a couple dots of blood on my elbow. I sort of wondered about my foot, but it barely hurt at all. I spontaneously gave the cabbie 500 Lempiras to "settle" the thing and we hurried on our separate ways.
We had already picked up Chemo's brother Marcos at Colonia Suyapa, where he and his boss had been plying the tourist trade with a roulette wheel during the big Feast of Our Lady of Suyapa. With Marcos, food is always a priority, and we ended up at Pizza Hut again for the umpteenth time. (Marcos loves the wings!) When I finally took off my shoe, there was nothing, not even bruises, on my toes, all in working order, just a little ... squished.
We had come for Chemo's appointment with the Helping Hands for Honduras heart brigade. Just a check-up, and Dr. Mike Carbonari of New Jersey gave Chemo a big thumbs up, come back in a year. It was over so fast, and Ron Roll, in charge of Helping Hands, was running around, we barely even had time for a quick photo with his wife, Alba. Then, lots more eating.
And shopping. We had to find a uniform for Chemo. Nothing in Las Vegas was big enough, for his (now) rather wide bottom and short legs. We tried local stores, but, well, only Walmart could fit him. (And even at that, Dora had to shorten the pants.) After a couple days, we were ready to dispatch Marcos back to his dangerous colonia, and head home.
School was starting Monday! In fact, the kids had been doing cleanup and such, so Chemo was already behind. And, believe me, it was touch-and-go until he walked out the door at 6:30 a.m. whether he would really go or not. I had left all possibilities open, and somehow, miraculously, he finally opted for this one.
But, "I’m going alone!" he declared, as I followed him out to the street. "No, no, I’m just going up to the church," I assured him. But we both knew I couldn’t miss his entry into seventh grade; I was so thrilled, I had to pinch myself. I greeted the Principal Profe Flor, and his four teachers and thanked them all for everything and anything I could think of. And then I did go up to the church, a little devotion I’ve assigned myself for Lent. But I do have much to pray about.
For Chemo, school is still touch-and-go. Some classmates who are, like, 12 years old, make fun of how "big" Chemo is at 18. The middle-school syndrome is universal, I guess. And the homework. "They write too fast, I can’t keep up." On the whiteboard, he means. With virtually no textbooks, a lot of the "subject matter" comes off the board into your notebooks, and Chemo is very undexterous — handicapped, almost — in his writing. When he was up till 1a.m. recently, copying the notes of a classmate, he announced, "I’m not going to school today, I’m too tired." But when 6 o’clock came around, I enlisted the help of Dora, who’s been getting kids up for school for 20 years. She came over and had the magic touch. Soon I heard Chemo in the shower.
As soon as the quizzes and tests begin, however, the writing may be on the wall. Supposedly, the government has tamed the curriculum this year, making it a little more user-friendly. Indeed, there are two sections of seventh grade, 35 students each; there’s just one section of eighth grade, about 32, and about half that again in ninth grade. So you see what happens. What are the chances of Chemo being one of the survivors? I had already decided in my own mind to spend all the time necessary helping him with his homework, but he’s doing so well, he meets with his little group every day to work together. So I have time to write this newsletter!
The gangs were getting to Marcos. He called me to say a couple tough guys wanted 500 Lempiras to leave him alone. I sent him the money and, for now, that seems to have ended the threats. But I keep telling him, "Tell Peludo [his boss’ nickname] to get you outta there!" They are due to follow the sun, as it were, to the Next Big Thing, wherever another crop of cornpones can be fleeced.
Dulis, just 18, was shot and killed up in the mountains. For some reason, no one’s death has scared me more, and not just because around here folks pronounce my name "Dulis."
Back before I met Chemo, when Pablito and Chepito slept here while their dad Leon was in jail and they were still going to school, Dulis and his big brother Selvin were also in school, and they slept here, too, because their family was in the mountains.
Those were some good days. I’d get breakfast, I’d do the wash, we’d do homework, I’d make dinner! We’d pray every night, I’d have to flash the lights a few times to get them quiet enough to sleep, but I really loved their fun. They’re all clever, quick-witted, but Dulis was the natural comedian. I loved setting him up for punchlines.
There are rumors flying as to why he was killed, but I’m ignoring them. His aunt’s house here immediately filled up with mourners when his body was brought down. Selvin’s catatonia did not break for three days. Finally, he could talk and even relax a bit. He’s 20, but he started calling me "hermanito" (little brother), a term of affection unimaginable from him before this.
Vicenta, at 98, was 80 years older than Dulis, but her husband, Pedro, was as lost as Romeo without his Juliet when she quietly slipped away after a final illness. He’s very deaf, but that only means we HAD to express our sympathy physically with hugs and kisses. We did the novenario, nine days of mourning prayer, and when he saw folks standing up and moving around, he’d say, "Is the prayer over?" He doesn’t stop praying.
And Maria Enemecia’s cancer had spread uncontrollably, so blessedly they brought her back home from the hospital in Tegucigalpa to Terrero Blanco to die in the arms of her children. She was 53. How do you figure this? Her husband is the infamous drunk Renan, husband in name only, since his only loyalty is to the bottle. He’s fine, he’s gonna live forever; his wife dies of liver cancer! We thought he might take a turn to sobriety in the wake of his loss; he only took a U-turn.
Santos, Alba, and their children, Joel, Chila, Mirna, Reina, Albita, and their dog Peluche, returned to Las Vegas after two months of coffee picking in the mountains of Comayagua. The whole migrant enterprise was crippled this year by a raging epidemic of La Roya, a fungus that chokes the coffee tree. A lot of folks spent more time planting new trees than picking the few healthy ones, and the new seedlings won’t yield a crop for at least three years. Reina, 10, immediately started school, advancing to third grade. But she’s the only one "in the mix," you might say.
While you are getting layer cakes of snow, we are in the throes of summer here, ripe, sun-hot days, unrelieved by any rains. Everything is bone dry. Folks love the cold water I keep on hand.
But nothing is more refreshing than your friendship! You send my roots rain!
Miguel Dulick has lived in Las Vegas, Honduras since 2003. For years he has been sending reports back to friends and family in St. Louis. The Beacon is proud to become a part of his circle.