The Battle Of Today

As strange as this may sound, I'm a big Whitney Houston fan. Style, grace and an angelic voice that only God could have helped create.

The news of her passing came with extreme sorrow and disappointment––and fear. She was an addict. She was not unlike the millions of others who fight addiction every day. She was human. And that's where the so called " we are all created equal" truly does come to life. We can become powerless over something that is so terribly bad for us but make us feel so good. For some of us it's work (workaholic). It's food. It's a drug and/or alcohol that we can't live 24 hours without that very second.

I'm fearful because I believe that each and everyone of us is susceptible to giving in to the traps of excess, of the inability to manage and ultimately abuse ourselves at any moment that will change our lives forever in a negative fashion. I'm also acutely aware that a a cancer survivor, those moments become even more special and precious. The battle today is all that matters. I can "win" this moment, this hour, this day. It's not going to be easy but then, what is?

I have to thank my Father, for helping realizing the importance of taking care of yourself TODAY, one day at a time. Because of that, he is still alive today. For Whitney, she lost the battle and the war on Saturday. I have no idea how she passed or if they will find out exactly why she left this earth too soon. It wasn't what she did last week, last year or even the night before her tragic. It was this past Saturday that won. And we are all a bit worse off.

Today won again.

100,000 To 1

Everyone watches the Super Bowl––at least it seems that way. It's become one of the biggest "holidays" in American Culture.

Last year, SB XLV, I was in North Dallas with 100,000 of my not-so-closest-friends taking in the experience. I had always wanted to be at the game, remembering when LA (or Pasadena) would host the NFL's biggest show on earth. And last year was very special, not only getting great seats but also working while trying to enjoy the pre-game tailgating and getting the final shots we needed to finish the 25 day tour we took from Detroit to North Dallas. It was long. It was tiring. It was fun––for the most part.

This year for SB XLVI, it was just me and my Daughter watching the game. And she had just come back from New York so I knew a halftime departure was inevitable. But I loved having her there with me, as my Wife had just left for SoCal, 2 of my Sons were on the road driving to SoCal and somewhere near The Grand Canyon and my oldest Son was watching the game at his with his family. Normally, we would ALL be at my house having a great time. Especially after surviving cancer, these family get togethers are really important. But here I was, life taking each of us in different directions and sitting with my 3 dogs watching the game on my big screen. It was extremely different than last year, from one extreme to another. As I sat there all alone, I realized I was smiling. Smiling because I was thinking of all my family and how ironic it was that I was by myself on Super Sunday. I was by myself but not alone. I had my family in my heart.

And without 100,000+ others around me, I also knew I could go to the bathroom or get something to eat without waiting in line.

Wins & Losses

I was reading the other day that Kyle Williams of the San Francisco 49ers had received death threats after his performance in the NFC Championship game. Kyle Williams is the Son of former Major Leaguer and current Chicago White Sox General Manager, Ken Williams––and Ken was the one who revealed this information about his Son.

All I could think about was, "really?"

No one understands what it is to be die-hard fan of your home team than I do. For me, sports kept me out of trouble––most of the time––and was my escape from a single-parent household, gangs and the awkwardness that each and everyone one of us goes through as we grow up. I learned to read the Sports page with my Father at 4 -years-old. I watched the the NBA Finals as a 7-year-old at my best friend's house as the Celtics beat the Lakers AGAIN and then had to endure the taunts and being berated by my friend's family because I was a Lakers fan––they were from Philly so why would they be rooting for the Celtics?––and ran out of their house screaming and with tears running down my face. I would walk from my house to Dodgers Stadium––a little over 4 miles––as much as I could to go watch the Dodgers play from age 12-15. My Mom would pick me up after the game, as the neighborhoods I walked through were rough enough during the day.

My point is this: life and death is not a sport. And your team's winning or losing should not control your emotions––especially if you are NOT PLAYING in "your team's" game. I really changed my emotional connection to my teams––and I'm a USC, Lakers, Dodgers fan that lives on the East Coast––once I had cancer. Oh I still care and get passionate. But if we really need an emotional connection that makes us feel good, I say try to tell someone you love them. Or give them a hug. Or a kiss. Or give them a call.
As long as you're not threatening anyone.

That's a win, every time.

cancer Barbie

I've been stuck. Since my Mother passed away, my mind has been taking twists and turns of which I've never seen. Finding my voice and inspiration has been lacking.

So this made me take to the keys––cancer Barbie. Now you can read an article here http://huff.to/AbYzax that tells the story of Mattel saying "they don't take suggestions from customers" for products. It's hidden in there, if not, then I'm an idiot. But my point is this: Really?

Since this story hit, Mattel has been doing some re-thinking on this subject, as the Social Media world had taken on this challenge. (Use this link for the Facebook page http://on.fb.me/zQsiX0). And I've been stewing on it. Why? As a cancer survivor, a cancer patient, a parent for crying out loud I can see no harm in creating a doll that looks like a child who has lost their hair to their treatments. People want to see people JUST LIKE THEM. It's a fact. I also experienced this firsthand: a child who was going through radiation treatment the same time I was.

I remember sitting in the waiting room, getting myself ready for another radiation treatment. It was early on, so I hadn't hit the "radiation wall"; that's when your body has fully absorbed the radiation (and I was in chemotherapy at the same time) and it starts to kick your ass. And I kept seeing this little boy, being wheeled in with his parents and thinking "how can I help this kid?" I smiled at him and his parents. Asked him and his parents how was his day. Tell him it's my turn" and give him a thumbs up. I didn't do this out in the open––in fact, I'm not even sure my Wife, Teresa knows––because he was "embarrassed to have lost his hair. And you know how kids can be" was the longest response/conversation I had with his parents.

I also grow my hair to 10+ inches so I can donate it to Locks of Love http://locksoflove.org. And while that's a long term commitment, it still doesn't seem like it's enough. So I'm spreading the word to "help" Mattel make the right decision. It's just a doll, right?

Wrong.

Are You Listening?

I found this article that I not only have to share but inspired me to get back on the blog.

The line that got me the most––"that's not a good way to die, before you've told the end of your story." I read that and instantly began thinking of my Mother's passing this past October. You could probably tell I haven't posted much since then. Her passing has jolted me more than I expected. I didn't get to talk to her much, as my Mother was always on the go and was somewhat of a nomad her last year+ in her life. But when we did talk my Mom would tell me stories about her friends, her work or some situation she got herself into that she couldn't figure out how to mitigate.

It wasn't unusual for me to say, "hi, Mom. How are you?" and get my next chance to say something to her about 20-30 minutes later. And this happened my whole life. When I was younger I would wait up for her when she went out. Being a young, single Mother I fully understood and accepted her need to have fun with people her own age. We were only 17 years apart in age so as I grew older my listening became more important as our ages seems to come closer together. While it always seemed "cool" to have such a young Mom it was also tough as I became more "grown-up" faster and that meant I didn't always want to listen.

Now for those of you who know me and can't fathom me just sitting there and listening, it's true. I like to think that I'm a good listener. I believe that part of that is listening to my body, which was telling me 4 1/2 years ago that I had cancer. I also believe in my heart my Mom's trip in the Fall of 2010 to my house was her way of wanting me to listen again, even closer this time. I spent as much time as I could with her, happy she was with us yet concerned that she didn't look or act very well during her stay. And the next time I saw her was in the hospital after her massive stroke. It was hard to listen to her because I think she was trying to finish her story, tell me all about it.

I'm still here, ready to listen as always.

Forgetting What I Forgot

I was talking to a co-worker this morning about my memory, or lack thereof, since I was treated for head & neck cancer.

If you've been reading my blog since July of 2008––thank you if you have, and you can always go back and read ALL of my posts––you've seen me write about "chemo brain" and how real it really is. As I'm getting older chronologically––because those that know me know I'm Peter Pan in disguise––I've been wondering where the intersection of radiation and chemo damage and old age will be. And am I at that dreaded 4 corner intersection without a clue as to where I go? I also think of the multiple concussions I've had in my life––at least 3, that I can remember––numerous blows to the head in football, elbows in basketball and a few baseballs off the noggin' in the box or on the base paths in baseball. Oh, and then there's the stitches I took in the head when I was 4 years-old and the year of Judo-Jujitsu that knocked me around a bit.

As far back as I remember, I wanted to make my living with my brain. First it was a lawyer––until I found out I had to go to school forever––then a poet (it was the 60's), a sportswriter (good thing I didn't go down that path now) and eventually a writer of some sorts which is what I am today. The long, extended point is, my brain is my livelihood. I make dozens of business decisions a day, create multiple ideas for my clients and our company and try to stay even with this whole web-thing that is really catching on (insert sarcasm here).

I also get to thinking if I'm ever going to stop thinking about my survival from cancer. And what/how much I will remember of the entire diagnosis, treatment and recovery. Teresa will tell you she just wants to forget all of it, especially the scary parts she saw me go through. I want to remember and then again I don't. I'd like to able to forget what I want to forget and remember what I want to remember.

If only I could remember to do that every day.

Milestones

A little over 4 years ago, I finished my last cancer treatment. It was a Friday––I called it the "cancer combo" as chemo & radiation were both on Fridays for 7 weeks––and I was done.

I was talking to a friend at work about my "milestone", as this person is also a cancer survivor. I was starting to wonder about my recovery & remission and what does it all really mean. Total remission is supposed to be 5 years from your treatments. But then what? Do I go and checked? When? How? After calming myself down I realized I have just as many questions now as I did when I heard the "c" word. While the now yearly check-ups/tests/blood work are filled with wait & worry for me and my family, they are also very comforting in knowing I'm going to find out what's going on inside my body. It sucks to get it done but does it suck more not knowing?

I keep thinking back to my friend and fellow cancer survivor Matt, who helped me more than he'll ever know. He told me you'll "just live" one day, after your 5 years have come and gone. I know it will always be in the back of my mind. Because I DON'T want to forget. Sounds ridiculous––that's for you, Teresa––but I feel by remembering what cancer did to me, I will know if/when it comes back again. cancer also made me a better person in some weird ways. And I want to hold on to the "better Greg." So totally forgetting is really not healthy. I know, I can be a sick bastard. But I also know that milestones are there for me to give thanks and praise to those who were and have been with me through the good and bad. Because it never really goes away.

You just hit another milestone.