The January Edit
For quite a while, I’ve been sitting here in front of this blank page, trying to share the past few months of life adventures. Oh hey, Maca, you can do this, I said to myself – it’s about time you, and I have some time to chat, right friends?
Let’s start with a 2024 recap as one of the hardest years I’ve experienced in my adult life, starting with closing the doors of my dream Hey Maca studio and the Hey Maca shop. Then, realizing I couldn’t finish my home renovation on time (hello, unfinished exterior – yes, I’m talking to you). And on top of everything, my dad had his first cancer recurrence in the exact same spot plus a terrible addition – he is officially stage 4 with metastases to the entire abdomen, peritoneum, and lymph nodes.
Anything else, universe? May I ask?
I’ve read somewhere that the hardest, darkest times are the ones that teach you how to be a resilient human. Let me confirm that it does.
Despite all these sour moments happening one right after the other, I chose to lift my spirits, focus on solutions, and take action instead of staying in the oh-so-usual-overthinking-era that characterized the old Maca before all this started.
I said to myself that in a way, the cancer, the construction, the panic attacks, and the reality of being a company owner during the 2024 economic recession just made me real strong.
One thing I haven’t shared around here is the full story of my dad’s cancer and how much it has changed me over these two years. But today, I’m willing to share my story in this little corner of the internet to show you that sometimes what seems impossible is really possible – or maybe to show you that you can fight as hard as me, for love.
Just so you can understand the state I was in when I heard the news: I’ve been an anxious cat mama since I can remember, and funny enough, I’ve been obsessed with the fact that one day I’ll be the next one in my family saying, “Oh yes, I have cancer.” Did you read this story?
Picture my brain: headache? Of course I have brain cancer. Little stomach ache? I’m terminal with colon cancer. And oh, so many harmless symptoms over the years that I spent my little free time learning everything I could possibly know about why cancer exists, how we can avoid it, and how to train my body not to win that bad luck lottery ticket.
Little did I know that my dad had the same obsession I have (maybe I got the memo from him? Who knows?)
…until it hit us.
One sunny day back home in Venezuela, he turned yellow. How frigging scary is it to see yourself yellow in the mirror? Eyes, skin, everything. But wait, before I jump into this crazy story, you have to know that he is the healthiest, kindest, strongest human I’ve met. Smoker? No way. Heavy drinker? You bet he wasn’t. Always asking, “Is that too fatty? I prefer the lean option, gracias.” Obviously.
So, yes, shocked and confused to see him over a tiny screen yellow, he was immediately diagnosed with a very rare cancer called Cholangiocarcinoma. It is so rare that only 400 Canadians are diagnosed with this disease, and it is considered one of the deadliest liver cancers humans know to date.
I’ll never forget the call I received that morning from my sister in December 2022:
“Daddy has a tumour. It is unresectable, and he only has six months to live. We can’t do much.”
Six months? Hell no. I’ve already lost so many close friends and family to this horrible disease; I couldn’t accept it was my dad’s turn now.
…and then, magically, this story started with the number 3.
They arrived in Canada on December 13, 2022, with the diagnosis. He was hospitalized with sepsis on January 3rd. Our room was #3 in the hospital. After many IV antibiotic rounds, still septic, he got his surgery on the 3rd floor OR where the doctors made an exception, letting me hug him at the door, telling him he’d be okay (but scared to death). Of course, he was treated by three amazing surgeons. I received a call at 3:33 PM from the OR telling us that everything was successful. His infected tumour was 3 cm. He was declared stage 3. They removed three lymph nodes.
Believe me, in this exact moment after that call, I learned how powerful life is, showing me that in numerology the number 333 is one of the luckiest alignments, and it means growth, motivating you to “dream big.”
And he recovered. Learned how to walk again, got stronger, started eating, had another sepsis episode that left us in the hospital for almost two months, went home with IV antibiotics for almost six months, started eight cycles of chemotherapy and immunotherapy, rang the bell, and killed this impossible-to-kill rare cancer.
Crazy enough, the number 3 was following me everywhere: license plates right in front of me, clocks, messages, random invoices, room numbers, pretty much at every corner. But wait, when? JUST when I felt lost, discouraged, when I said to myself I couldn’t do it anymore, a magical sign appeared. It was MY sign that things somehow were going to be fine.
A year passed, and the cancer came back. The mix of emotions I felt when I heard the words, “We have a very challenging and tough conversation today” from his oncologist broke me once again.
As his primary caregiver, translator, joke master, life assistant, and everything you can imagine, my heart was shattered. I couldn’t hear or see the doctors around me in the state of shock I was, scared this beast came back full force invading many areas using the dreadful: “I’m so sorry, it’s a very aggressive cancer and it is metastatic stage 4.”
After a solid week of sadness, I dried my tears, wore my best outfit and shoes, and said to myself: Fuck you, cancer. This isn’t your time now. This is war.
I joined every Cholangiocarcinoma Facebook group you can think of, contacted the Cholangiocarcinoma foundation, spent entire nights browsing for solutions and new cancer treatments, and came back with a plan for our next oncologist and surgeon’s appointment.
Not less than 10 different solutions I brought that morning to the doctors (surgeries, clinical trials, genetic testing, novel non-invasive therapies, and so much more) to only have one option, systemic therapy (chemo and inmuno) and hope for the best. He has six months if it doesn’t work or a maximum of one year if the treatment works.
We can’t get the primary tumour out this time around.
Again, these roadblocks, only meant: you fight harder, Maca.
Complications started: this new Klatskin tumor blocked the liver functions, and we ended up in the ER four times in less than two months. Infection after infection, fevers, chills, pain, and sleepless nights on a stretcher in the middle of the hallway were absolutely horrible, but I always held his hand with a smile, telling him: we fight, and we fight harder together now.
He gave me his last wish: to die in Venezuela. Trust me, you are never prepared to hear or assimilate this, but I knew I had to respect his decision, with a little spark in me that I could still do something more for him.
After all the crazy research nights (remember?), I found a new revolutionary cancer treatment in the States: Histotripsy. Impressed, shocked, and amazed, I learned ALL about it to a point people in the hospital started asking if I was in the medical field. No, I’m just his caregiver, I smiled.
This hard-to-believe treatment is so new that even many medical teams found it very complicated to move forward with at first because his new tumour location was in an impossible spot to treat with traditional solutions.
I went ahead to get all his medical records, images, everything I could possibly need to give Histotripsy a shot; a long big shot (of course on the 3rd day of December).
Who’s the best specialist that has done the most treatments, most challenging cases, and the ones that doctors think patients have zero hope of survival, I asked Histosonics, the company that invented this machine in the US (yes, I even reached out to them). Dr. Burns in California, they said.
Challenge accepted, cancer. Let’s do this, I said to myself. I’m not accepting (just yet) this death sentence in the very near future.
Two weeks later, I had a call with Dr. Burns’ team after sending his cancer history to hear the magical words over the phone: “Your father is a histo candidate. We have treated this difficult tumour many times, and he’ll be no exception.”
Can you imagine what I felt after hearing this? Because I think I still can’t digest it and can’t believe it actually happened.
I flew on my birthday to get my daddy, bringing him to California, terrified. Yes, you bet I was. He was so fragile but so hopeful. I knew it in his eyes this was the right move. Got my car rental (parked in spot 332), drove through the beautiful California mountains, and soaked in the perfect weather, feeling so relieved to finally be there.
The California adventure began with a first appointment: an ultrasound to confirm the histotripsy was feasible and to set the target with an “X” marked on his abdomen—just like in a sci-fi movie. Yes, let’s do this. “We’ll liquefy this tumour tomorrow morning. The machine and our team will do the magic,” they said.
The next morning, I brought him back to his assigned bed—number 3, of course. We prepped him, and Dr. Burns arrived to explain all the details I was so eager to know: Everything looks great. It’ll take about two hours. We’ll monitor the tumour cells being destroyed on the screen as we go, and we’ll proceed to ablate it.
He was ready. I was ready. Daddy was ready. Mama was ready. At 8:13 a.m., he left for the OR. I hugged him tightly and said, We’ve got this, again.
Two hours later, and after a procedure that lasted just almost 13 minutes, they destroyed a tumour in my dad’s liver—a tumour that had been killing him. Without any incision, bleeding, or pain, they used only high-potency sound waves to annihilate what seemed like an impossible-to-destroy beast.
Even now, days later, I’m still processing what really happened in that OR. It felt like erasing an ugly note you’d scribbled and wanted to forget—a surreal, sci-fi kind of magic, right?
The transformation was hard to believe: from constant pain, random fevers, and strong painkillers to no pain, driving a cart at Target, and a peaceful visit to the beach. That’s the kind of “after” I’m talking about here.
For now, we’ve won this battle—an impossible one. He’s still stage 4, with cancer cells floating in his body and cancer implants in his abdomen. But he also has a determined daughter with one goal in mind: to heal him and keep him here with us a little longer.
Two years and one month have passed since we first heard, “I’m sorry, he only has six months to live” in Venezuela.
That moment taught me that love and persistence can bring us to places we never imagined. And along the way, I’ve learned to open as many closed doors as I can.
I’ll keep writing our story—fighting, loving, caring, deeply.
If you or anyone in your family is going through this cancer journey, I’m hugging you from here. You’re not alone on this sidewalk; we are a team.
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