Sunday, February 17, 2014. 12 midnight. Playas de Tijuana, Mexico. Week #2 of immunotherapy for Grade 4 glioblastoma, a.k.a. The Terminator.
Directly beneath us in a courtyard, a mariachi band was in full swing. Guitars, accordions, drums and a few dozen drunker revelers in the yard below were playing and singing so loudly that we could barely think, let alone sleep. Even a few dogs seemed to join in. “¡ARRIBA!”
It had been going on for four hours and it felt like it would go on for four hours more.
The drums and festivities were building toward a crescendo. The walls of the apartment we’d rented were so thin that they stopped not a single decibel.
We were on the verge of complete insanity.
And now we had a second entity on top of a fever vaccine to produce fitful dreams.
A few hours later that morning, as we stumbled wearily into the clinic, we asked how often we could expect this. The nurse chuckled and smiled.
Resistance was futile. We would be part of the celebración, like it or not.
Wasn’t it well known that Mariachi music was a potent killer of cancer cells?
It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.
It was The Mariachi Year.
This reminds me of my first nights in Barbados. I arrived there to start a new job working for Big Oil... my temporary hotel was in a tourist area, with a karaoke bar downstairs. Sleep was not an option. I will forever associate that place with horrible renditions of Kenny Rogers' The Gambler. I cannot imagine this on top of dealing with cancer treatment, though... bless you both.