JP Contreras diagnosed with terminal cancer

It takes a special kind of person who can be in hospice care, diagnosed with terminal cancer, coming off approximately eight weeks of heavy-duty chemo treatments, sounding like at least half of his energy is already zapped, and still find the time to crack a joke.

That would be Bobby Contreras, PSJA Class of 1968. One of the toughest no-nonsense guys around who has seen more than his fair share of drama after 25 years as justice of the peace and 12 years spent as a PSJA ISD Board Trustee prior to that.

On the phone Monday with him, after learning that his chemo treatments had stopped, and he had been placed under hospice care:

“Bladder cancer, stage 4,” he says matter-of-factly, like he’s looking at someone’s court petition, as opposed to his own prognosis.

For him, though, cancer is nothing new. Thirteen years ago, Contreras caught a double dose of it, non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, with two malignant tumors found in his abdominal area.

The chemo worked back then, and he even lost 25 pounds. For him, it was like he had been given another shot at life. He changed his lifestyle, started walking more, watching what he ate. His sense of humor, though, remained intact even when discussing chemotherapy.

“I don’t have to lose my hair,” he said back in 2012, “because I don’t have much of it anyway.”

A few years later, he would say the heck with it and go with the complete shaved-head Kojak look, which suited him.

Then vs. Now

After full recovery from his first bout of cancer 13 years ago, not only did Contreras return to the bench, where he’s remained since this past winter when a suspicious pain drove him back to his physician, but he’s worked harder than some of his colleagues if you look at the call reports.

If law enforcement was looking for a JP to go into a closed-up house, with the utilities shut off, to view a body that had been dead for three weeks in 90-degree heat, Contreras would pick up the phone and tell the cops okay, when some other justices might be off fishing even though they were supposed to be on call in their own jurisdiction.

“We got a lot of these guys, they didn’t want to get their shoes dirty. You know what I mean?”

Lazy judges? No.

“But I enjoyed what I did, and I took it seriously. I was lucky to have a job. That’s the way I approached it, and I was lucky to serve.”

This time around, though, with this recent bout of cancer, the oncologists have done all they can, but the malignancy is still gaining ground. In fact, Contreras said that the last scan they did showed that it had basically spread most places.

“There’s nothing you can do. At the end, I’m going to need a miracle, or it’s God’s will.”

Still, Contreras — “Bobby” as he’s known to family and friends — is still cracking jokes as much as he ever did. It’s just that his voice sounds weaker than it ever has, even compared to his cancer battle in 2012.

Ask him his age and get the birth date wrong — was it 1947 or ’48?

He finds that humorous and a reason to smile.

“It was 1949. Now you’re trying to add more years? I’ll be 76 next month.”

Got it.

Also, there’s the issue of his marriage, which celebrated 56 years this past January, after the two met freshman year in biology class.

He’s got his own take on how that played out as well.

“Yeah, I got married pretty young. They invited me to a party, got me drunk, and then Barbara married me.”

Those who know them both, though, know that they’ve been a solid couple. They raised two kids who turned out to be productive citizens, three grandkids are in the wings, waiting to carry on the family tradition of stability and service, and it’s hard to picture the PSJA area without Bobby Contreras’s place in it.

Back to the levity, though, because Contreras still likes to find a reason to laugh, despite his present condition.

“I tell people that my wife, Barbara, is a cougar.”

Most people already know this, but for those who don’t, a “cougar” has become part of the American vernacular, which defines an older woman attaching herself to a younger man, which flip-flops the traditional role — older man/younger woman.

“I was 19 when we got married, and she was the older woman, at 20. She’s way older than I am. Seven months.”

He still gets a kick out of telling that story, which he’s must have told a thousand times over these past 56 years of matrimony.

It’s just now he’s more vulnerable than he’s ever been, and for him, it’s as easy to laugh as it is to cry. Especially when he talks about the love and support he’s received from his family, friends, the staff back at his Precinct 2, Place 1 office, some of whom have been there for many of the 25 years he’s held that office, winning seven elections in the process.

“All of the people who have been there for me through this process, and still stay close, I can’t thank them enough,” he says.

Tell him, though, that he’s leaving behind a legacy about which to be proud, at both the JP’s office and his former school board seat at PSJA, and that gets to him, as you can hear the raw emotion in his voice.

“Thanks.”