Thank You, Earth Angels
Jackie Cruz recounts their ways
“You’re Not Alone.” Logo for Pink Ribbons Talk, a platform that supports breast-cancer and hysterectomy survivors through health and wellness coaching. Courtesy Pink Ribbons Talk
EDITORIAL NOTE
In honor of Breast Cancer Awareness Month and National Hispanic Heritage Month, Jackie Cruz presents excerpts from her memoir-in-progress. Also her birthday month, October represents to Cruz a season of harvest, personal transformation, and of deep gratitude for those she calls “earth angels”—people who have traveled by her side through life’s most difficult journeys. Cruz’s own dedication to helping change the lives of those around her includes volunteering as a Cancer Coach for the Roswell Park Comprehensive Cancer Center in Buffalo, New York. In addition to providing health and wellness coaching, she shares her experience as a hysterectomy and two-time breast-cancer survivor via her newly launched website Pink Ribbons Talk. This feature includes Cruz’s artwork, which will be on exhibit in Williamsburg from 3pm-8pm, October 1-31, 2022 at 358 Grand Street, Brooklyn, New York 11249. Ten percent of the proceeds will benefit the Roswell Park Comprehensive Cancer Center. For more information, please contact Jackie Cruz at Pinkribbonstalk@gmail.com.
Ana, Nurse, Blood Donor
“The rooster has sung,” was how Mamá announced my period to the family at the dinner table.
Apparently, it means a lot in our Dominican culture—to everyone except me, then a ten year old.
My periods since had always been long, heavy, and painful. How can this be normal? The thought of forty-something more years to go was too much to understand at the time.
And yet here we are.
I’m forty-six years old, visiting with my gynecologist because the bleeding is unbearable. I thought I’d had a miscarriage, given the palm-sized blood clots. He runs a few tests and discovers that I have a fibroid the size of a roasted Purdue chicken, which was part of my decision to become a vegetarian.
The immediate response from my doctor is to give me blood transfusions—six, to be exact. He can’t understand how I’m still walking. The blood loss explains why I’m always looking so pale, feeling so tired and cold.
Finally, I’m scheduled to get the first blood transfusion, but nothing can prepare you. The male nurse, kind as can be, walks in with a purple bag full of someone else’s blood. Any little bit of strength I have is activated by just looking at that bag. As he prepares my arm, I can’t breathe. I can’t do this. Suddenly, I fold my arm, pull it back, and start to cry. All I can think about is the blood of this stranger waiting for me. The nurse is so patient and allows me to take my time. He assures me that, as soon as the transfusion takes place, I will feel better: “It’s normal to have anxiety.”
I ask my sister Ana, who’s sitting across from me, for my bible. Holding it in my hands, I close my eyes and pray. “God, please help me understand.” Then I randomly open the bible to Matthew 9:18: “A Girl Restored, and a Woman Healed.” The woman in the bible has suffered from bleeding for twelve years. All she wants to do is touch the tassel on Jesus’s robe, because one touch of the tassel will make her well. Jesus turns, sees her, and says, “Have courage, daughter, your faith has made you well.”
A wave of calm comes over me, truly an out-of-body experience. And then I unfold my arm and welcome the transfusion. In less than one hour, I’m feeling better. Just like the male nurse said.
Extremely grateful, I pray for the person who had the heart to donate their blood.
Although I will later lose my ovaries and my breasts within a three-year period, for now, the gift of life has been bestowed upon me.
Thank you, Mamá.
Thank you, Ana.
Thank you, Nurse.
Thank you, Blood Donor.
Thank you, Jesus.
My sister Ana would play sanación during my chemo.
Dr. W
I miss my boobs, my girly girls!
So much has changed since they’ve been gone. For me, reconstructive surgery was about more than just aesthetically looking good—I really needed to feel balanced. I value balance! If a frame is slightly crooked on a wall, I can’t take my eyes off it until I straighten it. So I couldn’t imagine looking at deformed boobs all the time. Though I wasn’t asking for perfection and completely understood that breasts aren’t symmetrical even in their natural state, I wanted them as close to balanced as possible. After all, for over forty years, I’d had both my breasts. Not having them would feel like I were missing a toe, an ear, or an eyeball. This is my body, and I will be living with the scars for the rest of my life.
And this is just a part of the conversation you need to have with your doctor. All the choices made during your cancer journey need to be thoroughly discussed. All aspects—before, during, and after—have to be crystal-clear and feel settled in your spirit. Not a shadow of a doubt. There will be plenty to live with after all has been said and done.
If reconstruction is an option for you, make sure to discuss everything.
What are all the choices you have, and what are the pros and cons of each decision made?
Bring your list of questions for each doctor, leaving a space between questions so that you can write down the answers. No need to try to remember all this information. This will help in comparing notes and making the best decision for your body.
Clarity and comfort during this time is very important because, once your decision is made and reconstruction happens, you will live with the aftermath for the rest of your life.
Reconstructive and cosmetic surgery are two very different ball games: With cosmetic surgery, you work with what you have; with reconstructive surgery, you work with what remains. Even though there are limitations with reconstructive surgery, the outcomes don’t have to be detrimental, and a great doctor will guide you through it and be proud of their work.
Cancer does not have to live past the operating table. Life will adjust itself, as it magically does.
Artwork: Jackie Cruz
“The Canadian Cancer Society first started using daffodils, the first flower of spring, as a symbol at their events in 1956, when volunteers handed out the brightly colored flowers to raise awareness. ‘Daffodil Days’ became a popular fundraiser, with volunteers selling daffodils to raise funds for cancer research. Since then, other organizations including the American Cancer Society have also adopted the daffodil as a totem. Advocates use Daffodil Days as a chance to spread awareness about cancer and help people live longer and healthier lives.”
—National Today for Daffodil Day (March 22)
My breast surgeon Dr. W, however, was not very compassionate.
She was very matter-of-fact about everything. As she was the head breast surgeon of the hospital, I should have felt as if I were in the best of hands. Instead, I was hurt by her lack of empathy and her disconnection with her own femininity.
Any time I asked her about the outcome of the surgery—concerns of mine because, after all, this is my one and only body–her answer was vague.
Dr. W would say, “I’m only going to deal with the infected area.”
And I’d respond: “I understand, Dr. W, but what about the option of getting a double mastectomy, being that my mother is also a survivor?” I was concerned about getting cancer again and really wanted both breasts to be completely removed. I felt strongly about that.
Dr. W stood firmly on her ground. She said there was no reason to do “something so drastic,” being that I only had one breast infected. Every part of my body cringed. But, I thought, she’s the head breast surgeon at the hospital, so what do I know.
I went against my heart and gut, and I went with her lead. Because, for a child growing up with immigrant parents, the rule was to never start trouble or bring attention to yourself. To practically bow down and say ‘yes’ to whomever to death. Don’t create any reason to quarrel. On a few occasions, I witnessed my mom be spoken down to, and I could feel her shame, frustration, and sense of inadequacy by the way she walked, breathed, or pulled my arm to leave wherever we were. Her English accent was strong (but normal to me) and, even though her vocabulary was not extensive, she would try to get her point across or use me as her translator. Her struggles have been real. I’ve learned to imitate my mother, a very strong-willed woman, in a lot of ways.
Thank God I inherited some of that strength, because I needed it now.
Why was Dr. W so detached? I asked myself. Does she not understand her own womanhood? Were her breasts no longer important to her? Although my breasts are very important to me, does she not also hear my fears, that I’m overwhelmed and confused by the lack of her patient connection?
Although I should have gone for a second opinion, my fear of cancer took the better part of my judgment. I felt ashamed to even ask Dr. W about reconstructive surgery so early on. It seemed so vain on my part, because all she talked about was the stage-three cancer I was in. I had been invaded by a monster with the ability to dictate my body’s outcome. This was very scary. What in the world was going to happen? Do I really have a say in all of this?
All of it just felt wrong. And it would cost me dearly.
First surgery is complete.
As I’m coming out of anesthesia, my body starts to feel all the muscle pain and stiffness. I feel swollen and heavy. My throat is raw. I try to cough but can’t get enough air in my chest and choke instead. After getting my breathing back to normal, I’m feeling hot, sweaty, and clammy, I finally get into a position of rest.
Then Dr. W comes into the room. She tells me that she successfully removed all the cancer. My heart is at ease. I look into her eyes, apologize, and thank her for not removing both breasts–she was right. She’d focused on what was important at that moment.
We didn’t see eye-to-eye in the beginning, but we had a successful outcome, and that’s the best news ever. Dr W doesn’t seem so detached, after all.
As the weeks go by, I’m dealing with the drains, keeping everything clean and sanitized until I finally get to the day they will be removed. This will be a great day, and I can’t wait until it’s over so that I can get home to take a good, long shower with no interruptions.
For now, thank you, Dr. W.
Thank you, Jesus.
Artwork: Jackie Cruz
Dr. C and Jaime
Dr. C, my reconstructive surgeon, comes into the room. She doesn’t greet me as her usual self, won’t make eye contact. She puts on her blue rubber gloves, then instructs her assistant to bring my file.
She places her hand gently over my hand and says, “Jackie, I have good news and bad news.”
My eyes open wide with total confusion, and I shake my head. ”What do you mean, Dr. C?”
“The good news, Jackie. is that we’ll take all the drains out today.”
“Okay…”
I nod, still looking at her with confusion. Taking all the drains out–which, by the way, were left in longer than anticipated–is music to my ears, so what can the bad news be?
Dr. C pauses, takes a shallow breath in, holds my hand firmly with tears in her eyes, and says, “We found stage-one cancer cells in your other breast.”
Well now, I lose it. I cry hysterically. I’m shaking, nauseous. The thought of going through all of this again is too much for my stomach to bear, let alone my heart. My world comes crashing down. Everything changes. In one split second, I’m so angry with Dr. W, who made me doubt everything my body knew: I should have gotten a full mastectomy due to my family history. Even Dr. C agreed.
Why did Dr. W not listen to my initial fears or needs? Does she do this to all her patients? My head races—my kids, Dr. W, my husband, Dr. W, myself, Dr. W. Waves of rage come over me. But I have to put myself together, clean myself up, because I still have to tell my family the news.
I ask Dr. C to speak with my husband while I get myself together. All the adrenaline going through my body actually does me the favor. Then I crash and become numb for the rest of the day. I just want to go home and sleep. That delicious shower I craved? No longer a thought. Just take me home and let me sleep.
The first thing my husband does is grab my hand tightly, crossing our fingers with such firmness, as if to say, “I’m not letting you go.” And he doesn’t. He drives all the way home with one hand as I silently cry.
Time is the only thing that crosses my mind.
His sweaty palm tells me that he’s also scared and nervous. Neither one of us says a word, but our silence is its own conversation.
Thank you, Dr. C. Thank you, Jaime.
Thank you, Jesus.
Pastor Taxi Driver
“See you all next week!”
I walk down the corridor, waving goodbye to all my new friends. I take the elevator down and stare at the gleaming floors. In the hospital lobby, there’s the baby grand piano that tugs at my heart every time I walk by it. This time, though, I have the guts to poke at a few keys and fill the lobby with a hint of music, so pretty, so naughty here. I giggle. Lord, not only does it feel good but I feel sexy.
“Hey, play some more!” I hear from afar. With a big smile, I wave goodbye like a celebrity teasing her fans. That’s all the music they’ll get here, because that’s all the music I know how to play. With life but a breath away, playing the piano is on my bucket list.
As I wait for my taxi, the sun is so bright everything looks shiny. What a beautiful summer day. Thank you, God, for letting me see all his glory.
I hop into the taxi and away we go.
“Hello, hello!” says the driver in a heavy Caribbean accent. He leans forward, holding the steering wheel close to his chest, and glimpses into the rearview mirror. ”Haven’t I seen you before? I think I’ve driven you in the past.”
I honestly don’t remember, though his accent isn’t one I would’ve forgotten. Between the sun and his warm welcome, it’s like being on a vacation.
“Were you visiting someone in the hospital today? he asks.
“No, no. I’m just the patient.”
“O, Miss, I’m so, so sorry.”
“No worries, I’m almost at the tail end of my treatments and, you know, I’ve done pretty good. Thank God.”
“Wow.” Again, he looks into the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised. “Amazing how you can say, ‘Thank God.’” After another moment of silence and a deep lungful of breath, he adds, “Not many people going through cancer would feel that way.”
I shrug. “I believe that God has a purpose for me. Deep down in my heart, I know that God is working His plan.”
“Bless you, my dear sister, for putting your faith in Jesus! Can I tell you something?”
“Sure.”
“You see me here, driving this taxi?”
“Yes.”
“This is also God-sent. I get to meet so many people, and it gives me a chance to pray for everyone because I’m also a pastor.”
Now my eyebrows go high. “Hmm, wow, how beautiful. What a gift!”
“May I share a song with you?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Have you ever heard of Shekinah Glory?”
I shake my head.
His hands go up in the air. “Sistah! You’ve never heard of Shekinah Glory?!”
“No,” I say with a giggle.
“Before I play the song, I would like to say a prayer for you--may I?”
“Absolutely!” And I clap my hands with childlike excitement. I bow my head and close my eyes, bringing my clasped hands close to my heart.
“Father God, thank you for your favor, yes, thank you for your favor. Jesus, you said wherever more than one meet, there shall you be. When I see this lady come into me car, I thought I recognized she, but, it’s your favor I see. Your child, Father God, you have claimed victory healing on she. Yes, Father God, she has been healed and will help others heal because You have spared her life so that Your Truth will be seen in Flesh. Amen.”
My eyes are full of tears, my heart bursting with gratitude. This man’s prayer confirms what my spirit has been feeling all along: I am going to be okay. This cancer is more than just a journey, and my Soul knows it.
“Sistah!” He turns and smiles, looking at me and putting his arm behind the passenger’s headrest. “Sistah!! Cry no more. You have been healed!”
And now the music begins to play. Shekinah’s voice makes every goosebump come alive. I don’t have the hairs to prove it but, Lord, if my forearm looks like chicken skin. I sit back and close my eyes, asking him to please raise the volume. Then I sob all the way home. I cry hard and heavy, unashamed. It feels so good to cry. I am so vulnerable, yet not afraid.
He doesn’t feel like a stranger.
I slowly open my eyes.
To my surprise, I am in front of my building.
His smile is so wide, I can count all his perfectly aligned, white teeth. He is so proud of his work, so proud of delivering the message, the Word of the Lord. He is fulfilled, and nothing else matters. His hand reaches out to me, and I firmly shake it goodbye. The knot in my throat doesn’t let me speak, but my eyes and quivering lips are full of immense gratitude. And he knows it.
“God Bless you, sistah.” And away he goes.
I need to go home and take a nap–what in the world just happened?
Wait, I didn’t even get his name. Did God just drive me home? My brain cannot compute.
I walk up the stairs, foot by foot, gripping the rail. I’m not weak, but I’m exhausted. The heavy crying left me feeling like thin air. I get into the elevator and slowly walk down the hall.
No one’s home.
I drop everything on the floor and head to my room. I just need to lay down for a few minutes and let my body regroup from this heavenly, majestic experience—but, not without hearing “Praise is what I do” again, and again and again...
Thank you, Pastor Taxi Driver.
Thank you, Jesus.
Artwork: Jackie Cruz
TC: The Charioteer
September 2022
It’s Friday after midnight, and my eyes are full of thick, unstoppable tears. How can waiting for the elevator to take me down six floors feel like an eternity? It’s agonizing when you live on the 6th floor in New York City public housing. And now, here it is. When the elevator door finally opens, I both inhale in relief and hold my breath. As I go down to the first floor, all I can think about is getting to Bellevue Hospital.
My husband was just in a bicycle accident. He was coming down the Williamsburg Bridge, his usual routine. By the grace of God, one TC was also riding his bike and found my husband Jaime semi unconscious. This TC called the ambulance and, while waiting for the ambulance to take my husband to the hospital, then called me.
It’s late, dark, and I'm tired when I make it out to the streets. I look to my right in search of my taxi, only to see a guy riding his bike towards me like a charioteer. He slows down and gently calls out my name. Do I know him? Should I know him? TC. The Charioteer. He's standing, even while peddling his bike. His left hand holds onto his bike handle while his right hand guides my husband's bike.
Through my tears, I see horses on a chariot.
As my taxi arrives, the TC takes my right hand and gently grips four of my fingers, saying, “He's a bit mangled, but he's going to be alright.” Squeezing ever so gently and curling my fingers, he repeats, “He's gonna be alright, alright?”
And with those words, I get in my taxi and never look back.
He’s brought my husband’s bicycle, along with all of his personal belongings–including his wallet, cash, cards, and gold cross necklace.
If I had to describe TC, I wouldn't know where to begin. But the soothing sound of his voice will be in my ears forever.
Thank you, Tyler.
Thank you, Jesus.
Artwork: Jackie Cruz
Earth angels are all around us. They move like liquid into any shape, size, and form– can literally become anything, from a butterfly to a rock. They communicate peace, protection, and guide our path with a childlike magical touch left behind.
When earth angels are around us, our senses are heightened. For me personally, the hairs on my arms stand on end, a clear communication that angel vibrations are near.
I once heard that we are designated an angel, sometimes two or more, depending on the mission we have been called for. And that God will hand us over to any angel that has the skill to lead us on our journey. I believe this to be true, beginning with family, friends, and strangers alike. There are levels of angelic guides who are standing by, ready to connect and communicate with us.
Thank you, Earth Angels.
Thank you, Jesus.
