These were wishes I jotted down in the summer of 2009 when I was midway through chemotherapy:
- That my hair will fall off like a autumn leaves so it can grow back as the mightiest afro ever. (My lifelong dream of having hair like Jimi Hendrix or Sly Stone would come true!)
- That my cancer won’t come between the joy I feel alongside Paola. (Like sitting next to each other at a café, months or years down this road, reading or writing together.)
- That the chemo will rid my body of Mr. Hodgkins so that I can kiss her and hold her hand when we walk around the city and—for once—not be sick.
- That it won't make me sterile so that someday, if I want, I can have kids with someone I love (and who loves me).
- That the chemo doesn’t stop me from riding my bicycle around the Mission on a sunshiny day, or from cycling beneath the skyscrapers (our urban redwoods) in downtown at night.
- That this ordeal will help me become the strongest, kindest, most beautiful person I can be. (Humble like dirt, compassionate like a Buddhist monk yet fierce and indomitable like the scorching guitar riff during the beginning of Kirk Hammett’s solo on Metallica’s “Holier Than Thou.”)
- That it doesn’t stop me from going to grad school in the fall like my oncologist said it would.
- That it gets rid of Mr. Hodgkins forever and ever so that I can be with my parents and sisters for as long as I can.