Please RSVP

You’ve made the RSVP list. You know just who you want at your 34th birthday celebration and to be honest, it’s quite the particular list if you will. As you’ve gotten older, “less is more” and yes, “quality over quantity” is no cliché, but now somewhat a part of the golden rules of your life. You decided this right after you decided that adding more folic acid to your diet and chugging green smoothies for breakfast was part of the new regime you called “life in your 30s.”

Please pray; Heaven forbid we run out of satin napkins or even worse, pink balloons.

You’d arranged it so that your best friend would sit at your table, alongside your other good friends; while your family sat at the table alongside that one, for they tend to get a bit loud and sometimes, most of the time, the somber music of weeping, crying and even a couple times, wailing, gave you a headache. You prepped for runny mascara and an over the top lip stain that almost always ended up everywhere but on your lips. Make-up could be such a drag, yet you needed to look your best for days like these. Days like today came but once in a lifetime, remember? Two months away from your birthday yet this day, it was vital that it be celebrated today because, well, it was the rain on the parade that came around to do such things; like take the bride’s spotlight or the birthday girl’s thunder or the mom to be’s time to shine. The big C was a selfish one indeed; never asking permission, always impeding and never taking the courtesy to RSVP.

The biggest party of a person’s existence, their LIFE, yet the selfish and inconsiderate C word, or in my case, Metastatic Breast Cancer, which so very rudely took over the microphone a la’ Kanye West on Taylor Swift style, as the decision to simply just show up uninvited seemed like a perfectly suitable one. A 34 year old, busy woman with a career and plans, plans that would now include being the Executive Director of a Non-Profit Organization helping other women in similar situations, situation like my own, survive day to day, and not forget to breath. This was no exception to being the victim of a typical, “rain on your parade” guest whom did not RSVP and would never RSVP but instead crash the party called life of women just like me, women whom had very many oher celebrations to plan.

By the time 37 came around, the second boot dropped. The year 2020 and the results of quarterly scans pressing my worry button as the the realization funds would have to be placed on hold as the Executive Director and campaign manager as well as our outreach specialist, which all happened to be the same person; myself was again diagnosed with another case of the nosey, self inviting, selfish MBC that crashed my party two years before had once again re-invited itself.

This time though, the witch brought her friends, depression and anxiety. Even then, I continued to work hard with the other women like myself, six others to be exact, all members of Vie Artiste, our NPO, was now a vital part in getting through life with our serious and terminal form of the big C.

Yoga, acupuncture, counseling, reiki and professional massage was all free to these women thanks only to our private, and so very caring as well as unselfish contributors. My oversight managed our funding and fairly distributed what we had to work with amongst the warrior women fighting the good fight, wanting to live, not ready for their party to be over. Sadly, I felt I’d have to make the dreaded announcement that it might just very well have to be placed on hold, for I was to go back into full time chemotherapy treatment along with a new bone treatment added as the terrible and uninvited guest had waltzed its way into my bones; bone metz they call it, and it was only a matter of time until it chose it’s next “friend” to bring to my party.

Fear and even more anxiety set in, panic stricken I lived. I didn’t want to give up, especially on the cause of the mission of my NPO but this treatment was no joke, and funding was slowly but surely dissipating and soon there wouldn’t be any left to continue the wonderful work of Vie Artiste; the ONE organization I’d vowed would not ever charge a cent to women in treatment and promised would always be around when needed; I felt like a failure and no amount of anti-anxiety meds was going to change that, I know, because my system had become immune to benzos by now, and all that was left was prayer and hope dangling from the very heartstrings being pulled daily by the thoughts of my failure.

“Well, well, well…” I thought to myself as I shook my head in disbelief picking up the long forgotten little black book of picture bios I’d stashed away in the very same teal colored box I’d placed it in over a year ago, more than likely so “I wouldn’t forget where I placed it.”

Spring cleaning was the goal; finding the Little Black Book was like finding a treasure at the end of a rainbow. A million emotions ran up and inside me. I felt extremely happy, then sad, then delighted, then full of dread. Had I failed my non-profit? Had I failed these tough women who had placed at least a bit of confidence I me?

I scratched my bald head, feeling tiny little prickly hairs attempting to make their way out of my scalp. Confused, yet somewhat excited, I played a quick clip of what once was and could have still been had I not gotten sick again. Had the Big C stayed away, I’d still be helping at least triple the number of women whom were just like me, living day to day with this debilitating disease. The intrusive thoughts of how I was still 4 treatments away from even thinking about going back to submitting proposals to charitable companies crushed me, yet, I felt something else flow against the grain this time. A combativeness came over my being and before I knew it I’d been staring at the little black book while jotting down re-edits to a new proposal; one that included myself. For not only would I be of help to my warrior women fighting this fight, but I’d be their leader, fighting with and next to them. Holding their hand and together attempting to turn a six person, grassroots NPO into a full blown, city wide project that helped not six, but as many women affected with MBC as possible.

These familiar faces staring back at me from photos glued onto my leather moleskin black book I’d luckily ran into, without even the tiniest thought of looking for it, had set my soul on fire yet again. Pictures really are worth a thousand words, and at least half of those words began to chant softly in the back of my head; “together, we can walk through the fire. Together, we’ll win this war.”

The beautiful faces of these MBC warriors that were at once clients of mine, these kindred souls, inside this little black book, seemed to be staring back at me, wondering where I’d gone. Had I really let the fact I was not in remission any longer stop me from practicing what I preached? Did I really stick this little book in a hideaway and begin to feel sorry for myself and my reoccurring diagnosis? How could I? How dare I? Cancer hasn’t won, nor will it.

I flipped the pages to the very end, stopping at the nine different company and private numbers I’d saved over a year ago. The very contributable people so generously donated almost $8,000 dollars all together, giving me the opportunity to begin my very own non-profit aka promise to these women, that they would not endure this journey alone. I stared at the writing for what seemed to be ages.

“I’m sorry.” I whispered into the book before allowing it to close on my lips, tears streaming down my cheeks. “I’ve let you down but I will make it up.” I vowed to get myself together, on treatment and all, and get back in contact with all the women I’d been distant with, with all the pages of pretty faces whom at one time I promised would never have to go about the good fight on their own. It was time to get back on track. Time again to make solid on my promises.

Thanks to my trusty little black book and my handy bio work, I was able to reach all but one. I was also able to resend my proposal and mission statement to my wonderful group of donors and together we worked to bring back our funding. The motivation: the smiling faces I flipped through daily. Soon, we reunited. A month of days of hard work and our most charitable donor promised us $5,000 and a huge billboard sign. Vie’ Artiste was back. Three months in and we had 11 women we were currently able to help at zero cost to them, all thanks to the big hearts of those whom responded to our cause as well as the inspiration lighting up the entire project; the MBC warriors from San Antonio, Texas.

Once a tiny, just barely above water NPO, now a prospering organization with much to give women who’d otherwise not be able to afford its services, the power of love and a leather bound book; the solidarity in a group made up of faith and hope and the generous contributions of small businesses, (as well as a couple private donors) and the courage of a woman undergoing treatment for the chance to acquire whatever and however much more time was to be gifted to her by a higher power no matter the situation she was in, or the cards she’d been dealt, she’d do what she could with what she had. That woman grew wiser, stronger and made sure she kept her promises. That woman was me. That woman is me.

My name is Desireah Rodriguez and I am a Stage 4, MBC warrior. There is no cure for my type of Cancer, but there is hope. I’m once again making myself, as well as the women I work with a promise and that’s to keep every word of my 27pg proposal. To help them fight the good fight and most importantly, to spread awareness. There are days that are easier than others. There are days that are not easy at all. But there are still days…days I get to either complain or brag or mope or cheer or wallow or…you get it. The big thing here are the words “I get to…” Because there are so very many that do not get to do any of the above. So many that wake up not knowing it’ll be the last time they do so. My name is Desireah Rodriguez and I’m the Executive Director of Vie’ Artiste for MBC. You can call me Dez. I live with MBC everyday as do one in every 12 women and those stats are hard to swallow. But here we are, here I am, and everyday is a chance, a challenge to do our best and a choice to live the best life we can, one day, one step and one mindful venture at a time.

Real World Women from my Moleskin Little Black Book: