Send it for Cesar! Help my Dad fight RefractoryAML

My name is Chris Portugal, but you may know me as Thes One from People Under The Stairs.

I'm raising money to help my dad continue his fight against Refractory AML, and every dollar helps him keep going -

He's fought so hard for so long. Help us "Send It For Cesar!" and honor his fight. A donation of any size is welcomed and immensely appreciated.

And now, If you have a few minutes to spare, I'd like to tell you an incredible story of bad luck, perseverance and perpetual hope.

When my music partner and best friend Mike Turner suddenly passed away in 2021, my dad Cesar helped me navigate the toughest times, stepping in to help as I fumbled my way forward. He was, after all, our biggest fan - returning home from work in the 90s seeing Mike and I struggling with our first album, he would often bring us cheeseburgers from Fantastic Cafe and the encouragement needed to keep going. He loved our music more than anything and proudly wore his favorite sweatshirt daily, a zip-up PUTS FunDmc Hoodie from 2008.

Shortly after the photo was taken in July of 2021, he began having stomach pain doctors thought might be an ulcer. An emergency surgery in September revealed a tumor, and he was diagnosed with late stage Large B-Cell Lymphoma. A rigorous course of chemotherapy started the next day. He was determined to beat it, and fought back as hard as anyone ever had through six months of treatment, including direct injections of chemo in his spinal cord to combat the aggressive cancer. After his last treatment in May of 2022, to our shock, he was deemed in remission. Having watched him fight, it seemed he had beat cancer by sheer will-power and positivity. He never complained. He kept a smile on his face, joking with the nurses, doctors - making even more friends along the way. He had lived to tell the tale and was given a second chance - he continued to be the most helpful, caring person, not just to our family but to our community. He was no longer just Coach Cesar, he was cancer survivor Cesar.

Unfortunately, that's not the end of the story.

A year later, In the summer of 2023, my dad began to feel tired in the afternoons. He developed sores in his mouth but neither seemed too serious and he was determined to not let little things hold him back. On August 12th, he attended my show of Farewell, My Friend dedicated to Mike Turner at Grand Performances LA. When he left, he hugged me and told me how proud of me he was.

A few days later, my mom and dad came to my house so I could give them a ride to the airport the following day - they had planned the trip of a lifetime, an Alaska cruise with their group of close friends. When I went to unload the luggage, I saw my dad struggling with a suitcase, which wasn't like him. "Dad, you look like shit. You feel ok?" He responded he was fine, just tired. I was worried. "I bought new shoes for the trip!" he exclaimed before heading inside to take a nap. When he woke up he had a fever. They missed the flight.

A few hours later, on Sunday August 20th, my father walked in to Torrance Memorial and was admitted. A test revealed his white blood cell count at 5 times normal, and the shocking diagnosis came shortly thereafter:

the chemotherapy that had saved his life from Lymphoma had given him Leukemia - a rare side effect classified as refractory AML with odds so low we weren't even aware of them. Bad Luck.

My dad, ever the fighter and optimist, said with a smile "oh well, don't worry. I'll beat it. Small setback."

He has been hospitalized since that day, his suitcase still packed for his big trip.

His new shoes he was so proud of that he never got a chance to wear.

The following 3 months were a whirlwind of dashed hope, starting with the revelation his AML had genetic rearrangements making the standard care options potentially ineffective. "Oh well, we'll beat it." His optimism never wained. He never stopped smiling, he made friends with the staff. He began losing weight and mobility. The first month of treatment was ineffective. The second month, a different treatment was ineffective. The days wore on and he kept a smile on his face even though he was getting worse. He would text us every morning, wishing us a good day and telling us to stay positive. He would text me to get his wallet so he could buy and sneak in donuts for the staff and a cinnamon roll for himself.

After two months of being hospitalized, the Leukemia seriously flared in October. His white blood cell count so high he was hours from dying due to Hyperviscosity (blood was effectively turning to jello). An emergency decision was made to give him salvage chemo - it stopped the cancer temporarily but dissolved his bone marrow and large parts of his leg bones. He had rods installed in both legs. His chances of walking again were slim, but he was determined. He recovered slightly and kept telling us, with a smile, not to worry - he's got this. I began to lose hope, falling into a deep sadness as the battle seemed ever more implausible, yet he kept fighting and staying positive even when I could not. By Thanksgiving he had been hospitalized for almost 4 months and had lost 40 pounds, with no real progress made. Meanwhile, his mail got stolen (including IRS and social security checks), accounts got hacked, his Iphone lost in a bedsheet removed from the hospital on accident. Bad Luck upon bad luck.

The first week of December, we had a meeting with his primary oncologist and he explained that, at Torrance Memorial, they had run out of treatment options for my Dad. The Leukemia had jumped to my dad's central nervous system, causing double vision and other issues. Any way forward would also include injecting chemo straight into his spinal cord again and also his brain. The Doctor, a family friend, looked my Dad in the eye and told him that if he decided the fight was over, and that he just wanted to be comfortable, that he wouldn't think any less of him and he would help facilitate it. My dad said "No. I'm going to fight to the end. And we need to do whatever it takes to continue fighting." The only options left then were unproven trial drugs, and so the hunt began for a program that would accept him.

In Mid-December, USC Norris granted him admission to a trial assuming they could clear his CNS issues. When he was discharged from Torrance Memorial, the entire staff lined up and clapped for him, with many hugs and tears. He promised the staff he would keep fighting to honor the amazing care he received.

On December 18th, my Dad arrived at USC Norris and immediately began trying to rehab physically to qualify for the trial, all the while receiving spinal infusions of chemo. An Ommaya port was drilled into his skull, allowing them to inject the chemo directly into his brain. Through all this, he made new friends, Don in PT, the cadre of nurses he joked were his "girlfriends". The new team marveled at his spirit and ability to fight and stay positive through the worst circumstances. My mother moved into a hotel off Soto St. and spent every moment she could with him, and my new routine changed to a daily hospital commute (an hour each way). Meanwhile, the experimental drug, a "Menin Inhibitor", was proving successful in trials nationwide. He began getting out of bed on his own. Again, a glimmer of hope.

In mid-January, days before his Birthday, he was ready to start the trial and finally receive the drug he had travelled there for, the drug that had given us all so much hope. The next morning he woke up on his birthday and his blood pressure began dropping. He coded and was transferred to the ICU. Tests revealed that his Leukemia had spiked again, drastically, and the trial drug was not only off the table, but they had to administer an emergency 3 day dose of horribly toxic salvage chemo. Really Bad Luck.

This unforeseen dose of cytarabine really destroyed my Dad. As he recovered in the ICU and was transferred to a regular room, he cried and was sad for the first time since he had been hospitalized 6 months prior. He kept apologizing, saying he had fought so hard. This time it was our turn to comfort him. I promised I would get him back on track, that we would work to getting back out of bed and ready for the trial. He was very emotional, and my Mom never left his side. The world was falling apart around us but she stayed with him and he promised her he would keep fighting.

Towards the end of January, 2024 he did claw his way back using sheer will. He was unable to text or use his phone, shaky and bed bound, yet he began PT in an effort to re-qualify. His smile returned. His CNS issues seemed to be clear. He was beat up pretty bad but wanted us to know he still had fight in him. He was looking forward to watching the Super Bowl with me, as we had together for decades. Hope.

On Saturday, Feb 3rd he was rushed to the ICU. They suspected he had a blood infection and that he had become septic, unrelated to his cancer. The following morning, as my Mom and I sat with him, he began apologizing again, for inconveniencing all of us. I promised him he was never an inconvenience and that we were in this fight together, until the end. He asked me to call the doctor in. He thanked the Doctor, gave me a thumbs up, waved at my mom and then went into acute respiratory failure. I left the room. Doctors began rushing in. I heard a code blue over the hospital loudspeaker. I saw security escort my mom down the hallway. A doctor entered the waiting room and told us that he had been intubated and was on a ventilator. He was stable enough, but the next 24-48 would be iffy. He was sedated on fentanyl, had numerous IV's hung and was now battling cancer, a blood infection, and encephalopathies. One resuscitation done, from here on out he would be DNR. The doctor asked how long we wanted to keep him on life support, and I said to give him a few days so at least we can assess whether he's trying to fight, and if theres an outside chance he can breathe again on his own without a ventilator. It began to rain.

I spent the next four days at his side amidst a massive storm, playing him his favorite music, talking to him. His eyes were closed but i could see his heart rate respond slightly to his favorite songs. On Friday Jan 9th the decision was made to pull the tube. In a move that amazed even the nursing staff, he not only survived the procedure, but recovered, sat up and watched the Super Bowl with me in the ICU that Sunday. Hope.

The following week, he left the ICU again and returned to a regular room. And so here we are. Unfortunately, he is not physically qualified anymore for the trial at USC, and he has been asked to leave. We are, understandably, beyond anything we could have planned for, beyond the extent of insurance, beyond approved courses of care, out of time at the local hotels.

In December, City Of Hope reported positive results for their AML Menin Inhibitor studies, and they are authorized to give certain drugs outside of the trial setting in what is known as compassionate care or expanded use. If we can get my dad there, and get him the drug Revumenib by Syndax under this expanded authorization, he still has a good chance at remission. A chance at stability. Hope.

I think if you've taken the time to read this whole story you'd agree he deserves the chance he's fought so hard for. If you've never met him, hopefully this gives you some insight into his character. I know there are younger people out there fighting AML, but i truly believe my Dad has more to offer this world if he can just make it through. He still takes so much joy in the little things: See's Lollipops, making jokes with the staff and listening to Salsa music.

He's fought so hard just to see tomorrow. Help us get him there.

Thank you for reading this.

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To augment any money raised here I am selling off my studio equipment, available here: Studio Gear for sale

In the event we are not able to raise enough money, I will be selling off large portions of my record collection on eBay, here: Ebay