Other Side Of Cancer

100,000 To 1

2012-02-06T08:41:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-26T08:53:00.000-08:00

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

2012-01-17T13:53:00.000-08:00

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?

2011-12-12T10:42:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-16T08:36:00.000-08:00

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

2011-11-08T08:45:00.000-08:00

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.

Trick Or Treat

2011-10-31T14:02:00.000-07:00

This being Halloween and all, I thought it was appropriate to post about blood. My blood, to be exact.

After flying back and forth to the West Coast and points in between over the Summer––what Summer?––I was having some cramping in my leg. Of course, the first thing that comes to mind is "blood clot." (Ricardo, I was thinking of you when it happened). Then it gets real weird and my whole left leg starts vibrating, as if an electric current is running through my veins not the cartoonish "electric shock" but I'm sure I could run a 10 watt light bulb from the bottom of my foot.

Then again, it has been 4 years since my last chemo treatment––well almost, Nov 3 is the exact date––and maybe new side effects were taking place. The chemo I was given had just been cleared through clinical trials so what historical evidence did they have? Was a real shock to the nervous system a side effect? Was I just healing? WTF? So I reluctantly called my Doctor. (I was reluctant because I can never see him quickly as he's busy as hell and because I just came off of 7 days away from work for my Mom's funeral and service). I got lucky and saw him at the end of the week. "It could be blood, your veins or maybe even something wrong with your back." Great, the trifecta. Needles in my arm for drawing blood. Poking around and getting MORE radiation from an MRI. And, some ultrasound of the Doppler (where am I going, to a meteorologist?) and Venous Doppler/Lower Extremity.

Now I'm thinking I'm so DONE with giving blood. Messes my ass up like you wouldn't believe. And you would think after all the needles and pumping and draining cancer patients and survivors go through, I'd be OK with it all. Wrong. The trick for me is to not look and prepare for the 10 day rash that always comes from the needle.

The treat will be in the results. I hope.

Tears On My Keyboard

2011-10-09T07:34:00.000-07:00

My Mother passed away Tuesday, October 4, 2011.

Today is her viewing. And I have to admit the last month it's been hard for me to write because the emotions having been flowing faster than my brain and fingers can move. Collecting my thoughts haven't been this hard since my battle with cancer began 4 yours ago.

I could write volumes about my Mom. She truly was one of a kind in many ways, if that makes sense. But in the next few days, hours and greetings from family, friends and the many people who were touched by my Mom's life, I'm choosing to save it for her eulogy tomorrow. I will tell everyone who will hear the amazing things my Mother, Mary Grace, did for countless numbers of people who came in and out of her life.

She died too young--70--not because the number 70 is now the new 60. Because she was young at heart. Always looking to laugh, dance or sing. Always thinking she was a lot younger than her chronological age. And now she'll get to sing with Elvis, dance to Marvin and be with her Joseph Bear and Ruby Marie. If you don't know who those people are/were, you didn't know Mary Grace.

And that's a loss for all of us.

Short But Hopeful

2011-09-07T06:26:00.000-07:00

Today I wish for a safe transport of my Mother from Las Vegas to Southern California. Too emotional to write anything else.

What's Going On?

2011-08-24T11:11:00.000-07:00

My Mother is still hanging in there but still in the hospital. It really doesn't look good for a recovery.

But sometimes forces greater than us have a way of bringing a smile to a situation that has an inevitable and sorrow-filled ending. That's why you see Marvin Gaye's picture above. My Mother loved to party––but she was NOT a drinker, she just liked to have a good time. That good time was focused on dancing to the music. She loved music, especially Elvis and Motown. And she could dance her ass off all night. I know from firsthand experience. She would take my Sister and I to our very close friends of the family––we do call them family––Joe and Annie's place in the mid to late '60's and early '70's. Can't find a babysitter? We would go and hang out with their kids and the adults until we would get bored or go to sleep. And my Mom was usually the life of the party, dancing, laughing and just having a clean good time.

The other significance of Marvin Gaye is his album, "What's Going On?", was the first album I can remember seeing and listening to––we had tons of 45's, which had an A and B side and were much cheaper than an LP, a long playing record. So we listened to Marvin Gaye ALL the time because we could hear more than one song. I also learned to listen to the words and not just the music because of Mr. Gaye's storytelling ability. I could feel his despair, pain, agony and joy in his voice and his words. Without knowing it at the time, he (along with Edwin Jackson, songwriter/singer of "War") hooked me in the power and purpose of the written and spoken word. So when I looked at this poster, hanging on the side of Hitsville, USA, the old Motown records "studio", his eyes touched my soul. I saw the despair, pain and the essence of his soul in this photo. And while it made me smile at first because it brought good times with my Mom to mind, I also felt something extremely deeper.

The pain my Mom must be going through now. Love you, Mom.

Keeping Perspective

2011-08-04T14:19:00.000-07:00

It's been a tumultuous month.

My Mom suffered a stroke and heart attack. Blood pressure––top number––was over 240. She's lucky to still be alive. But she's still not out of the woods, as she's spent the last 4-5 weeks in and out of critical condition and back and forth from hospital to rehab to back to ICU. Thank God she is fighting to stay alive. Next week is a quadruple bypass for her. Always a risk but there's no alternative as she has only 30% capacity of blood flow through her heart.

I'm writing this very personal post about someone other than myself because it's brought up the inevitable part of life––what if Mom doesn't make it? As my family, close friends––thanks, Ben & Tim––and others have discussed the possibilities, I've noticed something very different about me from the rest of the family. While I'm very sad and know my Mom is in the fight of her life, I've also come to grips with mortality. I talked to my Dad about this the other day––he is also a cancer survivor––and he totally understood. I can only equate this to something I know millions of cancer survivors have gone through and perhaps have a better understanding because of their own face-to-face meeting with death.

I believe when you've stared death in the face––and I'm not talking about thrill seekers who looks for the rush––you find out a lot about yourself. I've written before that there were a few times I didn't think I was going to make it through the night, so I would stay awake to see the sun come through my window. I used to think, "I lived. Now to live another day." It may seem somewhat of a morbid thought. But the power of positive thinking is truly powerful and extremely helpful in the fight against cancer. Even if you don't make it, you die knowing you fought to live to the bitter end.

I love my Mom and selfishly want her to be around for another 70 years. But I also know that death is the most unfortunate part of life and inevitable. That doesn't make it any easier when a loved one, dear friend or anyone else who has been a part of my life passes away.

Right now, it's helping me keep my perspective right where it should be.

cancer Tips

2011-07-20T15:21:00.000-07:00

Yes, an odd headline for a post. But in celebration of three years being alive to blog––I started this blog July 19, 2008––words cannot express my joy in being able to share.

1. Smile. A lot. It doesn't hurt at all. Unless you have a tube in your mouth at the time (which has happened to me).

2. Share. Love. Happiness. Stories. The last bite of a delicious desert.

3. Walk with ease. Enjoy the fact you can walk and don't take it for granted.

4. Scream. It clears your lungs and also reminds you why you shouldn't do it very often. Unless you're screaming with pleasure.

5. Tell someone you love them. Tell more than one person a day you love them. You know who those people are.

6. Be kind. It's an amazing feeling that you can't buy.

7. Pass along knowledge. You'll be amazed at what you get in return.

8. Ask someone how they are doing and really mean it. If you don't, don't do it. But you'll be much poorer if you don't.

9. Give someone a hug. Or if you don't have anyone to hug, hug your pet. No pets? Hug a pillow. Surely you have a pillow somewhere in your life.

10. Put down your electronic device when someone is talking to you. You might learn something or start a new relationship that's been missing from your life.

11. Say please. And thank you.

12. Open the door for someone. Literally and/or figuratively.

13. Don't wait for tomorrow. Tomorrow never really comes. All we have is today.

14. Thank your higher power for being alive.

15. Remember that everyone has their own shit to deal with. It just comes in many different forms.

16. Read. Words are timeless.

17. End your day with love, a smile, a hug and one happy thought. That's a full day in itself.

Love to all of you who take the time to read my ramblings.

Thank you.

No Time To Celebrate

2011-07-08T09:00:00.000-07:00

I got the good news on Wednesday, June 29, that the cancer has not come back.

This was completely tempered by the fact that 2 days earlier, my Mom had a heart attack, stroke and a blood clot near her kidney and was in ICU clear across the country from me. So there I was, struggling with the decision of when to hop on the next plane while I was waiting to hear what my fate was going to be with cancer. You can imagine the thoughts and feelings that were racing through my head––worry, anxiety, sadness, guilt, happy, concern, confusion, conflict––that were ringing in my brain at various levels. I was like, "c'mon, really? Someone or some thing thinks I can handle all this crap, all at once?

I got on a plane Friday morning, not knowing what to expect once I was able to see my Mom. The reports from my Cousin and Sister were not encouraging. And unfortunately, this was looking like a life altering incident. I didn't know if I was going to able to handle it. I remember the last time I rushed back home to the West Coast to see my Grandmother. She was barley hanging on when I got there. I got to tell her I love her, hold her hand and kiss her on the cheek and forehead. I also told her that if she needed to go, it was OK. You held on until I got to see you. And I'll never forget her face––she had a peaceful look even though she was catatonic. She passed away a couple of hours later.

We take for granted that life is fragile. Precious. And it will end. For myself, having stared death right in the eye and telling it to "go screw yourself, I'm not ready" was an experience I hope I never have to go through again. But if I had to, I know I can and will fight to win at all costs. And that's the scariest part of watching my Mom in her current situation. I'm not sure if she's willing or able to fight––her brain is damaged from the stroke and her anxiety disorder has kicked in to high gear. I wish I could do something for her to make her better.

Until then, celebrations are on hold.

The Post Before The Exam

2011-06-28T14:34:00.000-07:00

I always try to be careful of what I write during my check-ups, post cancer.

No really, I do. I know some of you follow my blog to "check-up" on me and I greatly appreciate that. It's one of the reasons I filter my news of my day-to-day battle with keeping cancer away from my physical being. And a big reason why my posts slow down during the testing period.

Tomorrow is the last leg of my Doctor visits. Or so I hope. My CT scan showed an increase in size in one of my lymph nodes. And I want to know why/what does it mean/what's next for me and my family. I believe our greatest fears are dealing with the unknown. (No shit, Greg). I'm all about resolution. Let's get to it, now. All I got is right now. So this waiting between exams/check-ups/tests is more excruciating than knowing if it the cancer has come back or not. (Looks like I'm getting close to the writer's record for using backslashes in one post). I want to live today to the fullest. And know what today will look like after tomorrow. OK, now I'm confused. Now you know what goes through my mind while I'm waiting for resolution.

It's been almost four years to the day––8/7/07––when I first heard my name associated with cancer. I'm going to the same Doctor who immediately sent me to a Pathologist that fateful day. So that's giving me a little concern. But I also know if the news isn't what I want to hear I'll be ready to kick it's ass again.

So I can keep posting.

Wednesday

2011-06-15T18:50:00.000-07:00

Around 2 o'clock it hit me. It was only Wednesday.

And that's the problem. I have strayed from enjoying every day as if it's my last day. After cancer that's what's changed about me. Well, OK, when I was 11-12 years I was crazy as if it's my last day. And 13-14. I make sure I take those things we take for granted. My Wife has nurtured a beautiful and plentiful garden. Lots of beauty to see. So when I'm pissing and moaning about it only being Wednesday, that's got to change.

Two Wednesdays from today, I'll be at Dr. Lee's for the ENT phase of my annual tests and Doctor visits. I'll ask her to tell me what is "normal range growth" or something like that. Which is a way to say that a lymph ndoe has grown since last year but is with normal range. There's those two words who independently are good things. Together they scare the shit out of me. But that was my first reaction when I was told the news. I'm in the OK-let's-get-the-final-Jeopardy answer as soon as I can. I'll be doing that soon.

On a Wednesday.

Not Great, Not Scary

2011-06-05T07:13:00.000-07:00

My posts have been MIA for a few weeks due to the annual tests for cancer, so sorry if you thought I was dead.

I've posted before about the eerie silence of a cancer blogger/patient. Ii freaks people out, at least those who follow me. I've often wondered if anyone would update my blog with my death. Yeah, I know, this post is getting off to a morbid start but some things need to be said and I've never been shy in addressing those subjects that make people uncomfortable.

I found out 3 days ago that while my cancer (sounds like it's a pet when I say "my cancer") is not back, one of my lymph nodes has increased in size since last year's CT scan. I was told "it's in the normal range". The normal range of what? That's what I'll ask my ENT, who is the last stop on The cancer Check-Up Tour. She'll tell it to me straight and what I need to do. Probably nothing, but maybe I'll need to get a needle biopsy to ease my mind. Yep, I'm having a hard time with this bit of news even thought the Docs have said it's OK. The bitch of the whole thing is worrying only makes everything worse––some call worry "stress", which is a feeder to cancer.

I'm not going to lie, this is a shot to the gut. I had a feeling that something had changed––I get those feelings whether I want to or not. So I'm going to go hug my Wife and spend some time with my family.

That always makes me feel better.

Dr. Feelgood

2011-05-10T11:43:00.000-07:00

I'm in the middle of check-ups, so naturally my thoughts turn to mortality. (Or maybe it's just natural to me).

I've graduated to once a year, as 8/7/07 gets smaller in my virtual rear view mirror. Once a year I get checked up to see if I'm winning or losing the battle with cancer. And yes, it is a battle. Why? Anything worth having is worth fighting for. In my case, my battle is making the side effects seem "normal" and staying ahead or at least keeping even with the work I do for a living. It's realizing that "normal" is not normal and my normal is just fine with me. It sure beats the alternative. But now that I've diverted your attention and haven't really written about "doctors", it's time to tell you why my Docs make me feel better.

My GP, Dr. Plescia, started this off by giving me a full physical, with the usual blood, urine and uh, ahem, a probe or two. Hey, cancer can strike anywhere. Dr. Plescia is that rare Doctor who actually knows something about you beyond the chart. He and I are the same age, which helps when he says, "guys our age have to do these things and get these things checked out. I go through it with my Doctor." Yeah, that's right. Doctors have Doctors. At least the good ones do, as they stay away from total self-diagnosis. Dr. Plescia is the one who recommended Dr. Lee, my ENT. Dr. Lee––who is a no-nonsense, straight shooter, just how I like them–– recommended Dr. Felice.

Dr. Felice, my Oncologist, is the kind of person you'd have a beer or two with. He's a big Mets fan and sports fan in general. And he ends every visit with a magic trick––yes, the best trick would be to make cancer disappear but not even Chris Angel can do that––that puts a smile on your face as you leave his office. Card tricks are his forte but he does this thing with a bottle cap and a bottle that blows you away. I go see him this week to get the usual poking, prodding and draining so I know if the cancer is back anywhere. And while I don't know if that's the case until I get my results, I do know one thing.

I'll walk out of there with a smile on my face courtesy of my Doctor.

Why I'm Not Celebrating Death

2011-05-03T10:18:00.000-07:00

If you're a cancer survivor, you'll understand why I'm not celebrating the death of Osama Bin Laden.

In no way shape or form do I feel pity or sorrow for him. I was in New York on 9/11/01, watching the destruction and reactions across the city up close and personal. I'll tell the whole story in another post. If I never get to post the story, so be it. But what I saw that day was almost 6 years to the day BEFORE I was diagnosed with head & neck cancer in 2007. Shaking hands with death changes your perspective.

Every now and then I catch myself taking life for granted. I have a wonderful and loving family. I'm fortunate to live where the seasons change and see all it's beauty. I have a job that is a job I've been looking for ever since I left Chiat/Day in 1986. I live in a great neighborhood. But sometimes, I get caught up in too many things that in the grand scheme of things, are really unimportant and a waste of time. Life itself is precious in every way, every second of the day. Death, while inevitable, is a marker for those who come after us. Our lives are then reduced to stories––some true, some embellished and some absolutely too ridiculous to believe––passed on from generation to generation and more recently, over the Internet.

What I am celebrating is hoping that we ask ourselves how/why one person can influence others to kill another human being, especially those people who believe "it is God's will" to take another person's life. Now I know I'm treading on dangerous territory for many reasons. That is not my intent. I can't get you to believe the way I do nor should I try––you are your own person. And so am I. But as I said earlier in this post, I'm a cancer survivor. If you've ever heard the words, "I wish I had better news but you have (fill in ANY cancer here). Best of luck to you", the first thought/question is 99.9% of the time, "am I going to die?"

When you can answer that question with living proof, then maybe you'll understand why I'm not celebrating death.

More Radiation, Please

2011-04-29T11:45:00.000-07:00

I was recently scanned by TSA at the airport.

When they told me to "put your feet here, face this way and raise your arms over your head" I said, "yeah I got it. Just what I need after 35 radiation treatments for cancer." My comment went over like a wet fart in church reverberating against the wooden pew. I got a look that was half stern and half WTF. It also jarred my memory that I needed to schedule my next scan. Even more radiation. More arms over my head. More prayers for a clean scan with no cancer growing in my body.

My good friend Matt––another cancer survivor of over 15 years––and I talked about the lasting emotional and mental scars that cancer treatment "gives" you. I asked him, "when will I not think about cancer every day?" He said, "you'll get there eventually". And I have. After only 3 and a-half-years since my diagnosis I don't think of "my cancer" every day. (I'm getting really close to a writer's world record for quotation marks in one space). But this time of year, I have to make my follow-up appointments with my team of Doctors. I started with the easy one, my GP. It's gets more invasive from here, with needles, radiation and tubes with cameras up my nose and down my throat.

If Mr. Sunshine at the TSA showed any form of human interaction with me, I would've asked him, "does the scan show if I'm cancer free or not." I'm sure that would have put the whole airport on lockdown and I would've missed my plane. And I would have demanded that they show me the x-ray so I could take it to my Doctors and see if I could skip the whole scanning process. Could you imagine the press having a field day with this headline, "Former cancer patient tries to use his x-rays from TSA for treatment." For sure I'd get radiated EVERY time I went through airport security.

That would suck.

Just Try Not To Be An Asshole

2011-04-25T14:42:00.000-07:00

This was all I had to do for Easter Sunday.

My lovely Wife reminded me that when I'm tired I'm a real asshole. And I agree, my assholed-ness gets pretty high when I have been able to sleep and I'm running on empty. No one knows this better than me or at least that's what I thought until my Wife reminded me. And while I know this is me, I at least thought I could fall into the "lovable asshole" category. You know someone like that, don't you? Yes, you do.

Since my fall off the ladder, I've been in pain and not sleeping––at least until Thursday night, when I had my pain killer prescription in hand. Or should I say in my body. So sleep was not an option until Thursday night. And since I was till a little loopy Friday morning, I didn't take any until Friday afternoon. Which knocked me out and I didn't let me sleep much that night because, well, I already had 4 good hours of sleep. You see the pattern here?

So when Sunday rolls around, I'm pretty wiped out from all the pills––I've gone from taking 1 pill to now taking 4 pills a day and it sucks big time––and all the highs and lows that the medication gives me and with the lack of saliva that the cancer has left me with. (By the way, one of the side effects of my pain medication is dry mouth. If my mouth was any drier I would be spitting sand every time I talked). And I can't lift anything, move anything or do anything more than walk because I'm in pain or in a drug stupor. Which means I'm stuck with nothing physical to do except run my mouth. Nice, huh?

Not if I'm trying NOT to be an asshole.

The Fall

2011-04-22T09:53:00.000-07:00

I fell off a ladder last Sunday and this is was "flashed" in my head in 5 seconds or less.

We had a bad storm the night before––35-40 mph winds with rain––so a few trees around my house took a beating. Especially the one in front of my house, at the end of the porch and hanging over my driveway. A branch was cracked and it would seem only hours or minutes away from falling right on the hood of my Wife's car, affectionately called "Honey" by my her. Which meant I had to cut it down––after I moved the cars out of the driveway.

I got my 4' ladder out––I have 3 ladders of various sizes for such things––and climbed to the safest/highest spot on the ladder. With a reciprocating saw in my hand. I was extra careful so as not to: kill the plants below me, break any garden statues and wear my work boots with the steel toes in case the saw falls out of my hands. I secured the ladder and up I went. Things were falling into place. Little did I know I would be falling as well.

Now for the flashbacks. With the big branch cut and covering the driveway, I started to get down––no, not like that––I got down from the ladder. And that's when my life did a quick review in me head. The ladder sunk into the soft ground and started to lean left. I, however, was heading right. I was still holding the saw. I was starting to fall and tried to gain my balance. Until my right foot slid across the rung and got stuck IN BETWEEN the rungs. There I was, falling backwards, with a saw in my hands and no one home to help if I really got hurt. This started this "video" in my head––I'm falling with a saw in my hands, please God don't let it cut me, shit my foot is stuck, SOB I'm going to hit the porch railing, no I'm going to gore myself on the pruners I just noticed, I think my ankle is going to break, don't fall, don't fall, don't fall, SHIT there's no one home what happens if I hit my head on the porch railing or cut my jugular vein or break my back, FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCCCCKKKKKK.

Fortunately, I just scrapped the crap out of my right arm (had to get a tetanus shot) and tweaked the hell out of my back. I did bounce off the railing of the porch. And my back was in a knot, so much so that I finally went and got some 'killers for the pain that had been constant since Sunday. I also had an interesting though sitting in the Doctor's office yesterdayt: after all the chemo, radiation and surgeries I survived during cancer treatments I could have died falling 4 feet off a ladder.

That would've sucked.

Save The Planet Or Myself?

2011-04-08T09:45:00.000-07:00

I had a rather interesting "discussion" with someone at work about my use of a plastic water bottle.

We were talking about "rethink, recycle, reuse" when this person pointed out in a meeting with others that I "could get rid of the water bottle. That's a big part of our problem." To which I replied, "I need these water bottles." Then it got interesting. As we walked out of the meeting together I then told this fellow employee I needed water to survive because of caner. This person proceeded to admonish me, saying I could use a permanent water bottle, made of steel––I can't because of the metal reaction that occurs in my mouth––or I could use a Brita water filter––I do, at home and at work, filling my water bottle that I use for the day over and over and use it until the next morning. I've tried glass water bottles––I have broken two––and plastic bottles as well.

The treatments I had for Head & Neck cancer were extensive––if you've read this before, sorry––and included 4 oral surgeries, replacement fillings in 4 of my teeth, surgery to insert a feeding tube, 35 radiation treatments over 7 weeks and 13 chemo treatments, one a week for 13 weeks. While I'm thankfully still alive––no ghost writing here––the side effects are permanent. Especially the damage to my salivary glands. I produce about 25-30% of the saliva I used to produce. Which means I need water by my side 24/7/365. Not just because of constant dry mouth and throat. But as a result of not producing enough saliva, I now have acid reflux. And sometimes I start choking because I'm too dry and have mucous stuck in my throat––at least that's just one of the things that make me choke or cough at any moment. Swallowing? An adventure in itself.

Now I'm not looking for any sympathy. It just struck me odd that someone would not even listen to my situation. I did say under my breath, "if I didn't have cancer I'd be drinking out of a glass just like you" but when I was asked what I said I just replied "nothing." Because this person either didn't care or understand or is just a douche bag and nothing I said was going to change their mind. This person was determined to save the planet starting with me. I have no problem with that other than it got me thinking.

Today, I'll save myself so I can help save the planet.

Would You Like Dizziness As One Of Your Sides?

2011-03-23T09:43:00.001-07:00

After all the cancer treatments I've had, I was only taking one medication. Note the word WAS.

A recent trip to my Doctor––my GP––and some blood work revealed that my cholesterol was sky high. And that I had a Vitamin D deficiency. And that I was growing breasts. (Just kidding. Put that in there to see if you're paying attention). So now I have to swallow more pills. Which means having to navigate the side effect of head & neck cancer that mess me up the most––the inability to produce saliva. Sometimes I feel like a snake who has swallowed a rat whole, expecting to see the pills stick out the side of my neck because they are caught in my throat. (Nice visual, huh?).

By taking more pills comes more side effects. First it was dizziness. Then it was fatigue. Then it was a desire to dress up like Elizabeth Taylor. (Again, paying attention? RIP Liz). These are the side effects from the cholesterol medication. I don't need any more side effects. Especially fatigue. Fatigue was the first indication that I had cancer––I had no energy no matter what I did and I didn't think that was normal––and made me to go see my GP to see if it was all in my head. Which in a strange and twisted way, it was. And it's strange to think this is supposed to happen. Which makes me question the validity or effectiveness of the medication. There's got to be a better way to lower my cholesterol––yes, I do exercise but not enough and I do eat good food but probably not enough. And after all the crap I've been through, really? Can't I just live on my "extra time" here on Earth?

Have to go now. I'm getting dizzy.

Voices Of The Angels

2011-03-09T20:07:00.000-08:00

I have to thank cancer––yeah, I know that sounds awful––for making me appreciate the things in life I used to take for granted.

While the line above seems weird, awkward and maybe even somewhat stupid, I now treat every day as a blessing. You may have read some of my earlier posts that describe my beliefs. If you haven't, it's as simple as this––I am more spiritual than religious and believe in a higher power much greater than me. That means I believe in God in the way and manner I am comfortable with and don't try to convert or dismiss others who believe in the God of their choice. Choice being the winning word. (Thanks, Charlie). I have been face-to-face with death as I was going through chemo and radiation for 3 months. Not only is it terrifying but also somewhat unexplainable. And while I know my will to live and fight certainly helped me, I also knew that I would die some day. I just didn't want it to happen because of cancer. In an even stranger thought process as I was going through treatment, I also knew that I had no control of when death would decide it's time for me to go.

OK, Greg, what about the angel voices? No, I didn't hear whispers in my ear. But I did hear the most moving, powerful and spiritual voices in my life in a church in the center of the city of Detroit. These men and women sang from their SOULS. They literally brought tears to my eyes. Sent chills up and down my spine. Made me realize the power of the spirit in our lives. I was humbled. Honored. And extremely thankful that a higher power allowed me to experience this in person and right in front of me. They made me realize what was really important, in a tough day for me and my friends in the business I am in.

We are more than the jobs we do. The clothes we wear. The cars we drive. We are more than expensive homes. The number of followers we have. The titles on our business cards. How do I know?

The angels told me.

The Gods Of Communication

2011-02-24T14:13:00.000-08:00

We're in a world where information is at our fingertips on any subject, anywhere at any time. We communicate via text, Facebook, Twitter and loads of other online or handheld portals, devices and screens. And that scares the shit out of me.

Why?

Because face-to-face communication suffers. Things are lost in translation or meaning when it's in an email or text or on a social media platform of your choice. We're so connected we've actually lost connection. For me, personally, it has made me communicate in shorter messages (thanks, Twitter), utilize more electronic devices and become desensitized to personal relationships by just firing off my POV and tons of words flowing out of my mouth like the Red River overflowing. And I fucking hate it. I've allowed the work I do to creep into my home life––something I've worked hard to avoid for the last 30 years so I can have a healthy and happy relationship with my family.

Now maybe this means I'm just getting old(er) or I'll just have to suck it up and roll with it because this type of communication is here to stay––"this" being a multi-tasking, ADD-ish, living online or on the cellie all the time while always worrying about missing something––as those who are younger than me will some day rule the world whether I like it or not. (Even my cancer Doctors communicate via email and share info electronically constantly). But as I write this post I've gone back to the realization that it's ME who chooses how/when/where/why/what I communicate. I'm the one who controls what comes out of my mouth––yeah, I can hear those of you who know me saying stuff about my mouth and the lack of control I really have––and that's something I can work on every day.

Can I get a collective "Thank God"?

Blood Work

2011-02-16T14:45:00.000-08:00

I've been waiting to write about my latest round of check-ups.

Why? When you have cancer––or did have, in my case––you have to get checked on by ALL your Doctors, get poked, drained, pee in a cup, x-rayed, put in a tube for 25+ minutes, probed, pinched, weighed, measured (am I still growing or am I shrinking?) have a tube shoved up your nose and down your neck and get undressed and dressed about a dozen times in front of complete strangers and open windows.

I'm about one-third of the way through my rounds. I started by going to my GP––Dr. Marc Plescia, the angel who looked at the lump on the right side of my jaw and said, "I don't like this. Let's get you to see Dr. Lee right away."––who always does a thorough job. He's also the Doctor who gets the ball rolling by ordering blood work. Now if you've read my blog and posts before, you know how much I hate needles. And if you've ever had blood taken from your body after you've had cancer, they take a LOT. I felt like I was at a gas station, only they were pumping blood out of me as I was filling up test tube after test tube of blood samples. (I think there were 6 big vials, as I only looked at my arm and what was happening after I was told to "hold this and press here for 30 seconds).

I did this while I was in town for 2 days––purposely for seeing the Doctor and getting the check-ups started––knowing I would be back on the road and that traveling would keep my mind off of the inevitable results report. And that's exactly happened. I forgot to look at my mail. I forgot about the bloodletting. I even forgot about the rash on my arm that I always get from the needle and tape. So how did I remember? My Wife went to pick-up her medication and was promptly handed 2 prescriptions for ME. Vitamin D and cholesterol medication. WTF?

I then went to my stack of mail and pulled out the fat envelope––not to be confused with a phat envelope of some shit I'd really like––and opened. White blood cell count––excellent. Sodium? Cool. 25 other symbols and checks and other crap that was all good. Until I hit LDL and HDL. I guess the road was full of "good eating". And I was full of bad cholesterol. Fucking great. But it did remind me of the time when I asked my oncologist during my chemo treatments about my cholesterol levels and should I be worried about it. Dr. Felice just smiled and said, "we're putting enough stuff into your body where your cholesterol levels should be the least of your worries". So it's either another round of chemo––no thank you––or taking medication.

I think I'll let the medication work through my blood for a while.

Life, As The Road Sees It.

2011-01-27T13:49:00.000-08:00

I write this post from the back of a rock 'n roll tour bus, somewhere in Mississippi. And yes, it's as cool and different for me as it sounds. (Never been to Mississippi before. Had a great lunch in Meridian).

I was just thinking how fortunate I am to have been able to not only take this trip but also have my Wife, Teresa, along for the ride from Nashville to New Orleans. I've been on the road for most of November, December and January. Missing our special times on the weekends. Missing out on a family meal or two. Just missing, period.

I did manage to start my annual cancer check-ups when I was home for a hot minute. But it's just the start, as I still have to get poked and prodded and shot with needles a few more times. And shoved in tube for 20-25 minutes to see if the cancer has come back. I have graduated to once a year check-ups. So that's a great thing. And despite all the traveling, 4 hours of sleep a night and waking up more than a few times thinking "where the hell am I?, it's been a life experience I'll never forget.

Thank God I'm alive to take it all in.

Head Shots

2011-01-22T15:01:00.000-08:00

I've been seeing the great USA for the past few months. Which means I've been on the road. Which means I've slept in many hotel beds. Which means way too much time form my Wife and family. Especially since most of the time I've been gone on the weekends. (World record for "I've been" in one paragraph).

Once cancer snuck into my head & neck, I remember thinking that I need to do stuff I always wanted to do––this was part of my "fuck you cancer" plan––because all we really have is this moment. So seeing the sights of America and meeting people all over the Midwest and East Coast has been "work" but a labor of love as well. (Start humming/singing/singing in your head Johnny Cash's "I've Been Everywhere). I've been––there it is again––to the Duesenburg Museum in Auburn, IN, to Dave's Cosmic Subs SOMEWHERE in Indiana, to Heinz Field in The 'Burgh, Cleveland, The D, Indy and Gino's East for some deep dish in Chicago.

But the coolest part of my adventure was the Pro Football Hall Of Fame. If you are a history buff or sports fan or just want to go to a place that is absolutely cool, then make your way to Canton, Ohio and take the tour. Give yourself 3-4 hours and you can even grab a bite to eat there––I saw a Dad and his 9-10 year-old Son eating among others––at the end of the tour before you head out. Why was this the coolest?

Sports has been a generational connection in my family. My Dad was a two-sport star in High School. Mom was a High School basketball player. My Wife was an accomplished swimmer and diver. I had played semi-pro baseball and basketball in college back in the day. And my 4 kids were all athletes in high school––football, basketball, baseball, volleyball and lacrosse––with my Daughter playing LAX in college and had a great 4 year career. My Son & Daughter have both been High School coaches. So when we all get together, we share sports stories, talk about the people we played with and against in our respective playing eras and have a strong work ethic and discipline due to sports.

I thought as I left the HOF that this would be a great trip for my Dad, my Kids and my Wife to take. (When the weather is much better than 12 degrees and snowing). I need to make that happen when soon. I need to do the things that bring all of us some great memories. Show them where I've been.

The photo above is a start.

Chasing Energy

2011-01-14T19:19:00.000-08:00

I've been on an extremely challenging "road" the last two months. I've been traveling way too much and working 18 hours days.

I'm trying to be very careful of how much I work. But the same drive and passion I put into my work is the very same drive and passion that helped me make it through the hell of cancer. Thank God I have the greatest Wife in the world who keeps reminding me that I'm not Superman and I need to take care of myself––so much so, that I hear her voice even though she's not physically with me. The struggle to find a balance is constant for all of us. For me, it sometimes seems as if I'm trying to get as much as I can done today because I know that tomorrow I may not be of this Earth.

Yeah, I know that sounds weird––and don't freak out, I totally plan on waking up tomorrow. In Pittsburgh, if you can believe that. But it's a drive that keeps me going and is also draining my energy at the same time. (Yeah, I know I'm fucked up in the head). I have this overwhelming feeling of missing something. And when death is crawling around in your body looking to take over any minute, that can be the first step to letting my resistance down. I need energy. Not in a 5-hour bottle. Not in a bull can that tastes like bull shit. I need to find the energy in the only place it can be.

Where the hell is that?

So, How Did That List Thing Work Out?

2011-01-05T12:48:00.000-08:00

Yeah, that was a planned post string that died an untimely death. Actually, I totally went off the grid the last 2 weeks. So this will be my first list of 2011. And the last of 2010.

This was inspired by talking to a friend of mine today. It's a little raw and dark.

Things That Go Through Your Head After cancer Diagnosis

1. When am I going to die?
2. Am I going to lose my mind?
3. What am I going to tell my Wife, my family?
4. What are they going to do if I die?
5. WTF
6. I wonder how people are going to take the news.
7. Well, I guess that organ donor donation on my driver's license will be ignored now.
8. It would be absolutely ridiculous if I got in a car accident and died on the way home.
9. I think I forgot how to breathe.
10. What did they just say? I think I need to go back in there.
11. WTF
12. I'll give myself a day to cry, wallow in my self-pity and be left alone with my thoughts.
13. cancer will NOT get me. I'm gonna kick it right in the crotch and beat the shit outta of it.

Happy Healthy New Year.

The First Of Many Last Lists

2010-12-17T10:24:00.000-08:00

If the title is confusing, join the club. I was trying to find a way to beat the usual "best and worst" lists that seem to pop-up everywhere. And I believe I did this last year or the year before. Whatever, here's the first of the last year. (Oh, that's where the blog title came from).

THINGS TO NEVER DO AT A COMPANY HOLIDAY PARTY LIST

1. Tell the Boss to stop hitting on your girlfriend before you hit him.
2. Try and have an intelligent conversation.
3. If you're a guy, stay away from the hot, young & drunk young.
4. If you're a female, the above doesn't apply to you. For many reasons. Talk amongst yourselves.
5. Show up an hour early. Why? See #3.
6. Tell ghost stories.
7. Forget that EVERYONE has some sort of recording device at their fingertips.
8. Drunk Tweet. (Has somewhat replaced drunk dialing).
9. Drunk Text. (See above).
10. Start drinking at 3pm for an 8pm party. (See #7 above).
11. Mix beer with wine with tequila.
12. Tell someone they look very familiar. Only to realize they are your boss' boss.
13. Ask someone who they are with at your party––when they work in the same place as you. On the same account/project.
14. Talk someones head off who you have never talked to before. (There must be a reason you two never talked before. Sometimes a very good one that you may never know).
15. Compare your party to the party at your last job.
16. Bring someone you're interested in but haven't sealed the deal with yet. Chances are, you may not leave together.

That Time Thing Again

2010-12-05T18:11:00.000-08:00

My Daughter came over this morning because she had a dream I died. (This just in––I didn't).

Kaity was so upset that she had to see me. It happened in the morning––her dream, not my death––and it was so vivid and fresh in her mind she wanted to hug and kiss me and tell me how much she loved me. Kaity is my only Daughter. And for those of you who are Daddy's Little Girl or have a little girl, you know that special bond between a Dad and Daughter. Well, it's that way with Kaity & me. She was going to quit college and stay home and take care of me along with her Mother when I had cancer and was going through hell, I mean the treatments.

I've been fortunate to spend a lot of time with Kaity, whether it be through sports or school or school sports. We also talk about her job and how much we both live what we do for a living. I think they call it passion. She has an over-abundance of it, just like her Dad. We both get caught up in the thought and action of making a difference. And lose track of time. I've been doing that again. Working myself to death. Can't seem to bring myself to say "no". Want to create the next best thing, whatever that may be. It used to be I dreaded having to go to work after my cancer battle, having to survive a hostile work environment that featured way too many immature and selfish people.

Now, I have my creative soul back. I have an environment that is focused on positive energy, working hard and playing hard. I have people to work with that I respect and respect me back. Of course, there will always be bumps in the road. And life has a way of slapping you in the face or giving you a wet willie to help you put things in perspective. Our time is so precious, I know that I get caught up in the things that are really not that important. I forget that I still have dreams I have to chase.

While I'm still alive.

Mo' Than Movember

2010-11-23T19:14:00.000-08:00

My Son, Travis, is growing a moustache for Movember, National Prostate cancer Month.

Now you've read––or not––my post on Breast cancer Awareness Month. It was a rant that basically called for recognition for all cancers all the time. So while it might seem a bit hypocritical to support those with prostate cancer, tough shit. I've lost 2 family members to breast cancer so I get it, unfortunately. I'm a 2-time cancer survivor myself. And right now, my Dad's prostate cancer is back. Again. And his prostate is already gone thanks to that sneaky, rat-bastard, cancer.

Travis is raising money in honor of his Grandfather. Travis has really grown up in the last 2-3 years, finding himself and maturing in ways that make parents proud. And relieved we didn't screw it all up. His 'stash is helping bring a smile and a chuckle at his '70's porn star look––but also bringing awareness to an illness that hits way too close to home. Travis David––middle name after his Grandfather––is doing what he can do in a big showing. He's got it all over his face. You can check it out here.

I'm growing mine––in a multi-colored fashion––to support my Dad. Who told me right before we walked into the LA Auto Show that "the cancer's back". He also told me he didn't want it to ruin my day but he wanted me to know and hear it from him, or as he put it, "But I wanted to tell you." Funny thing is, I remember when he told me the first time he had cancer. I hadn't had my turn with it yet. My reaction this time was much more peaceful, as strange as that seems. I know that life is one day at a time and cancer doesn't play fair or have favorites. And we've beat it before. So I too, wear a reminder on my face that cancer is killer.

And more than just a month for awareness.

Part Of My Network

2010-11-12T13:37:00.000-08:00

I pulled this from Being Cancer, a blogger who has built an awesome cancer community support system. I only hope I can deal with death with such dignity as this person below.

La Cootina
aka The Coot, aka Aunt Crankypants. I am the mistress of Villa DeCay, and dogmom of Miss Molly. I have Multiple Myeloma, a blood and bone cancer. I am trying very hard to be the heroine of my story instead of a whiny crybaby. I succeed about half the time.

So Long, Fare Well

Dear Friends,

Having enrolled with hospice this week has changed my perspective. I’ve been thinking about signing off the blog for quite awhile, and this feels like the right time. I can’t believe it finally happened…but I really don’t have much more to say! Oh, I’ll miss ranting over major and minor annoyances, but you deserve better. My readers — family, friends, and friends I haven’t met — have kept me going for more than two years. I never expected to be here this long, and I certainly never expected to find such a warm, caring community, especially in MM patients and caregivers.

Technology continues to amaze me: this little white box on my table, this seemingly inert piece of electronics, has connected me to an entire network of smart, kind, thoughtful people. Your good wishes and support have meant more to me than I could have imagined. I will leave the blog up for awhile, on the chance that there’s anything helpful here for newly diagnosed MM patients. I will continue to read and occasionally comment on your blogs. But out of concern and respect for other MM patients and their loved ones, I’m going on the next leg of this MM journey on my own.

I have been touched and privileged to share my story and get to know you. I wish all of you great joy, peace, and most of all, good health. Fill your hearts with gratitude and forgiveness until there is no room for anything else. Be good to yourselves and each other.

Love,
The Coot

Why The Long Wait?

2010-11-11T14:15:00.000-08:00

I have putting off posting for a while because. (Sounds like an answer we all gave as a kid––"why did you give the cat a haircut, Greg?" "Because").

Here are my "becauses".

Because I've been in a "quote" writing style lately and I'm "all quote marked out".
Because I've been extra cynical. And sarcastic. And a nasty bastard.
Because I have too many things I want to write.
Because I just had another cancerversary and I've already posted about that once. Or twice.
Because I'm still having bouts with chemo brain.
Because computers can't write for me. Yet.
Because of daylight savings.
Because my dog ate my computer.
Because I can't fit it all in 140 characters.
Because life has been so great lately.
Because I don't want to repeat myself.
Because I don't want to repeat myself.
Because I don't want to repeat myself.
Because I want to write a post in Spanish.
Because I'm having to rewrite the document that the client revised––revising their own words. Again.
Because I was waiting for pigs to fly.
Because I was waiting for a monkey to jump out of my butt.
Because I was waiting for money to grow on trees.
Because the Lakers haven't lost since my last post. (Oh crap, now I did it).
Because my Halloween Party has dominated my life outside of work.
Because bullshit walks and money talks.
Because three years after my last cancer treatment, I've been wondering about if the cancer will come back.
Because I'm making a comeback. (Insert ridiculous, unattainable and fantastical comeback here).
Because people need me more than my blog needs me.
Because I promise the next post will have a video, a few links and a picture of Big Foot.
Because.

Chasing Normal

2010-10-29T07:33:00.000-07:00

I'm coming up on an important anniversary. It will be 3 years since my last treatment next week.

As I was saying to Mom on her last visit, it sometimes feels as if the whole "cancer thing" never happened. Then I try to swallow, feel the hole in my stomach that's still there and look in the mirror and see how quickly I've aged since being diagnosed with Head & Neck cancer. Three years later, I'm just now getting back to a comfortable weight––I lost almost 50 pounds––and starting to feel like myself again. Sort of.

I've had this conversation with my Doctors and other cancer survivors over the last few years, trying to understand and get to "normal". When I was working with the VA at my last job, I got to talk to the Doctors about this at length. The discussion was in regards to military personnel coming back home from the current theaters and trying to adjust to every day life. Their "normal" changed dramatically while serving in the field in the Middle East. Normal for them is NOT brushing your teeth every day, not being able to take a shower for weeks and always wondering when you're going to take a bullet or get hit by an enemy you sometimes can't see. Your habits, perspective and decisions are altered forever for most, unfortunately. Normal becomes anything but normal.

The hardest part of recovery is managing the expectations of others. Your family wants you to be like you were before. Your job demands not only a return to the performer you were before your illness, but expects you to outperform yourself. After all, it's a what-have-you-done-for-lately (cue Paula Abdul) kind of world. I make my living with my brain. My title of Creative Director brings a certain amount of pressure and expectation that I'm all-creative, all the time. And I've always put more pressure on myself than others have––I believe because of the many, many years I was a competitive athlete. I used to chase perfection. Chase the great American Dream. Aspire to be the GOAT (Greatest Of All Time). But that nearly killed me.

Time to stop chasing and just live.

Family

2010-10-26T08:44:00.000-07:00

I've been away from the keyboard for a few days while my family came to visit. My Mom and my Cousin spent three days with us last week. It was the first time my Mom has seen me since recovering from cancer. It was the first time I'd seen my Cousin in about 7 years.

It was a great visit. It was also a reminder how important family is to all of us. We all have some sort of family unit, which takes on many shapes and forms. And that type of diversity is a GOOD thing, no matter what your beliefs, traditions and practices may be. I say this because we have lived in the DC area for 16 years, away from all of our extended family and have come to rely on each other for so much support. My family is the most important thing in my life.

I've always desired to have a close knit family, one that enjoys each other's company––most of the time, 'cause 100% of bliss, happiness and getting along is TOTALLY out of the question––and above all else, understands that love is the eternal bond no matter what the circumstances. My family means everything to me, and as a cancer survivor, that love is what pulled me through to recovery. The love from those far away. And the love that was and is, close by.

This is somewhat of an interesting post for me, as a member of our family passed away suddenly as we all we're just feeling so good about spending time together. So it is with a heavy heart I write this somewhat somber post, dedicated to La Familia. I treasure the time I have with my family. It can be taken away in an instant and an excruciating family time/moment can seem like a lifetime. But I do believe in one major factor that is at the center of any family, no matter what your definition is of "family".

Love fuels the family. Family is love.

The Great Thing About cancer Blogs

2010-10-14T11:58:00.000-07:00

Since my post "The Scary Things About cancer Blogs" was, well, somewhat scary I thought I'd share the good stuff.

I've been fortunate to have many friends. But like the days on the calendar, friends can come and go depending on where you are in life. Never in a million years did I think I would EVER live on the East Coast. (I've said this before and I'll say it again, after 16 years on the EC I still feel out of place and get more stares than I ever did in L.A.). Distance across the terrain equals distance across friendships that were formed face-to-face, not tweet-to-tweet. And while Skype, video sharing websites, IM and other Interweb stuff is great to stay in touch, there's a lot more to friendship than just touching a keypad.

This was never more true when one of my oldest friends, Tim, found me on the wire. Tim and I met in the First Grade at Holy Trinity Elementary School. To this day, Tim is the smartest person I know. How? When he was a Junior in High School, he didn't attend school enough to "qualify" to pass the 11th Grade. (Tim, if you're reading I won't tell anyone why in case your Mom reads this). But he did have all A's. Yep. Aced just about every test, knew the material inside and out and could outsmart just about every Brother at our school. (By Brother, I mean the Franciscans). They thought they had him, just like they thought they had me the year before when I informed the school I was transferring. (That's another post).

I hadn't talked to Tim in at least 16 years. And when we did, it was as if we had never stopped. We have been through a lot together. Helped raise each other, actually. We lived a couple blocks from each other for many years and did something together every day. And when our friends changed, as they often do when we get older, Tim and I still stayed close. It went from Greg, Tim, Danny and Robert to Greg, Tim, Ben and Ray until I left for DC those 16 years ago. So hearing a familiar voice from someone who has watched my hair go from Red to Grey, knows way too much info on my past and still is around to talk about the old and the new days ahead was a great feeling.

Who says the Internet is impersonal?

cancer Awareness Month?

2010-10-04T08:46:00.000-07:00

It's been almost three years since my last treatment.

Because of living one day at a time, the thought of seeing three years down the road was somewhat distant and some even thought not possible. cancer is still thought of as a "death sentence" in many ways by many people. And while we are "celebrating" Breast cancer Awareness Month in October, it makes me somewhat angry. Now before you start thinking, "what an asshole!", let me explain and give a little background.

I have lost two Sisters-In-Law, a Step-Father and a Grandfather to cancer. All of them from different cancers. They didn't all pass away the same day, month or year. My Wife is a skin cancer survivor. Me, head & neck and skin cancer as well. We didn't "wait" to get cancer so we could bring awareness to this killer disease. Now I'm sure some of you are still not seeing the point, which is this: ALL cancers kill. EVERY DAY is cancer awareness for survivors, family members of survivors and those who will be diagnosed as I write this post.

I have done work for Susan G. Komen. I have donated my creative talents--be that as they may--to fight breast cancer. I did pro-bono work for NBCC, a great organization. So I'm not the insensitive bastard I may be coming across here in this writing. I'm more interested in making every day cancer awareness day. Every day HIV/AIDS awareness. We have to stop thinking about these things only when they do hit home. Because they will, unfortunately, hit all of us directly or indirectly in our life. Or will it?

It's up to us to stay aware and take action every day.

Am I?

2010-09-22T07:55:00.000-07:00

(Breaking away from my usual post today. Because I can).

Am I stronger because of cancer?
Am I smarter because of cancer?
Am I nicer?
Am I a bigger pain in the ass?
Am I a better Husband?
Dad?
Son?
Brother?
Friend?
Co-worker?
Am I more aware of my faults?
My strengths?
My good & bad habits?
Am I a better listener?
Am I a better writer?
Am I the person I thought I would be?
Am I ever gonna grow up?
Am I oblivious?
Am I obvious?
Am I the same as I ever was?
Am I still young?
Am I old enough to know better but young and dumb enough to try it anyway?
Am I fooling myself?
Others?
Am I the kind of person you want in your corner?
Am I the kind of person my higher power expects me to be?
I do know what I am.
I am blessed to live today.
I am.

A Different Kind Of Glow

2010-09-17T09:24:00.000-07:00

It's been almost three years ago to the day that I started radiation for the tumor on the right side of my jaw.

I know. It doesn't seem like that long ago. Yet sometimes it feels as if it never happened--and also like it was just yesterday I started treatments. I still have daily reminders that are visible, as well as visible only to me. Like what? I have a nice smooth neck with a facial hairline that magically doesn't need a trim. (If you call radiation "magic"). I don't have to shave every day--the facial hair has become somewhat glacial in growing. If you read this blog often, you know the deal with my saliva. And because of the glands being compromised, I now have acid reflux--which is the only thing I take medication for, I'm proud to write. And I'm extremely proud of the fact that with so many radiation treatments--35, to be exact--that my skin and whole body isn't glowing like a Homer Simpson-induced, nuclear reaction.

Three years IS a long time when you're faced with death. I often think how we humans would act if we knew when we were going to die. Or at least knew we didn't have much time. Because the fact of the matter is, we all cheat, abuse and waste time. We don't take enough time to live in the moment. Yeah, I know. Our world is all about the clock, the weekend, the good times we are going to have. The time we count until we're over the current project deadline. The time it takes to get to and from work. (OK, enough about time. Seems to be my favorite subject matter for this blog).

I had lunch with a friend the other day whom I hadn't seen in years. They commented on how well I looked but also on how they could see what the cancer did to me. It aged me. Made me look like someone else, not Greg--at least to me. I especially see it in pictures, which I break down into "bc and ac" which is before cancer and after cancer. But lately, I've also seen something else that hasn't been there for a while--a smile in my eyes, in my soul and in my heart.

A glow.

What To Eat

2010-09-13T08:48:00.000-07:00

Three years (almost) after chemo, radiation and surgeries, I'm not having to worry about my weight. Or should I say, "other" people can stop worrying about my weight.

In talking with my friend, Stephanie, the subject of eating after head & neck cancer has come up--which it quite often does with people I talk to nowadays. And that's more than cool by me. Because while eating can still be a chore, I actually look forward to having something to eat without having to dissect the food before it goes into my mouth. You see, it's like this in the simplest way I can put it: I had head & neck cancer, which is NOT throat cancer but is still in the same region. The radiation was adjusted each and every time--35 times but who's counting--so that the damage to my insides was somewhat mitigated. Which means I have about 25-30% of my normal capacity to produce saliva since the radiation AND chemo did some damage. I can't gulp down a 40 anymore. Opening wide is not an option, as my jaw still hurts. My taste buds have been compromised as well, so things to this day still taste different and can change from meal to meal--for example, I can now taste the ingredients of ketchup--and often do. Add to that the total change in my eating habits--no red meat, no white bread/flour (when I can help it), no pork, no acidic foods--and I pretty much need to know the menu before I eat anything. That's the short story.

Long term? Today is the long term. That's all we really have. I lost sight of that MAIN point at my last job so I left for another job. I'm taking control of my life back because after all, I'm the one who had to live with a feeding tube in my stomach, go through the pure hell of treatments and push through the lack of energy, lack of strength and constant attacks on my body these last 3 years. So what I put into my body is taking care of me today and hopefully into a long lifetime of tomorrows. And will allow Teresa and I to be just ourselves after all these years of being Mom & Dad.(Which, of course, we love and always will). So now what?

It's almost lunchtime. Time to figure out what I'm going to eat.

What Do I Know?

2010-09-08T13:42:00.000-07:00

I just reconnected with a family friend who I love dearly. (That's for another post, Annie).

She had sent me some information about cancer--very helpful and most of it I'm already doing and then some--that got me thinking about what happened to me about a year ago. I had been writing this blog for myself, mainly, and also for anyone who cared to know about me and my thoughts. I never thought about it "getting picked up" by others in the blogosphere. Until I received an email from CR Magazine and how they wanted to talk to me about my blog. Really? Me? CR Magazine is published by the American Association for Cancer Research (AACR), the world's oldest and largest professional organization devoted to cancer research. (Note the word "devoted". Nice). And they wanted permission to interview me and publish one of my blog posts.

The writer in me was flattered. The cancer patient in me was humbled. The voice inside my head said, "yeah, baby". They asked me which was my favorite post. I told them the "last one I get to write." (Yeah, there was about 5 seconds of silence on the other end. Just a little gallows humor. Keeps me smiling and not taking myself too seriously). She said "you don't have a favorite?" It's like trying to pick your favorite kid--if you have more than one--you just can't do that. (Not because they might find out they're Daddy's fave). Because each post I write is energized by a moment in the day, a look on someones face or a milestone in my life. And many other special reasons.

A year later, I'm not sure if I feel better because I know more about cancer or because I can't FEEL any cancer in my body--I posted about this before--or because people like NCI, AACR and StandUp2Cancer are doing something about the millions who have to deal with cancer every day of their life. What do I know?

I know there's more good in this life than we know.

Table Dancing

2010-09-07T07:21:00.000-07:00

Now before you go thinking I was either a participant or witness, let me tell you I've never seen/been either. That I can remember.

This has to do with the tables at Charles Town Races & Slots in beautiful West Virginia. My Wife, Teresa, and 2 long lost friends, Rosie & Marty, headed to try our hands at gambling over the Labor Day weekend. Regardless of the outcome, I thought, a drive through some of the most beautiful country in the USA on a gorgeous day was just the thing to do. We packed up the cooler with some adult beverages and headed off to God's Country. And tried to bring some luck with us.

I had never been to any gambling establishment on the East Coast. Las Vegas has always been my favorite place to go--and when you live in LA, the trips get more frequent and addictive. But LV is a place where you can do a lot more than gamble--people watch, catch a lounge act or two, stuff your face for a reasonable price and people watch--and you feel the action even if you're not the one creating the vibe. Charles Town is NOT like that--no lounge acts, one casino, an OTB--and is a very different mix of people. So I still got to people watch. And watch them look/stare at me with my long hair and my group that looked a little out of place.

It used to be that if I was losing at the Black Jack tables, I would keep "paying the casino's rent" and chase good money after bad. Nothing where I'd lose the mortgage payment but thanks God I had Teresa with me to keep me in check--most of the time. This time, I was on my own as I circled the tables like a vulture looking for it's next meal. $50 tables. $25 tables. WTF? Where are the $5 and $10 tables? This is high stakes stuff. And I'm not going to play poker. No way, not in this small town with some locals who just wait for "tourists" like me to drain my pockets. So I looked for the best table. And finally, I found a $15 one. So I set my cash limit. And 15 minutes later, I was out of chips. Bad players, an extremely lucky dealer and the smell of smoke did me in.

I've posted before about "first" after cancer. This was my first time really gambling. And this was the first time I could remember not having a strong urge to keep doing it. Normally, I would keep hopping from table to table to find the right one. This time, I didn't. I didn't get the rush. Didn't get the urge to win it all back. I just hung out watching others. Waited for Teresa and Rosie & Marty--who were winners so at least SOMEONE walked away with more than they came with--and took it all in. I'll dance another day. Happily.

Maybe on a beer pong table.

You're Gonna Do What?

2010-08-31T18:07:00.000-07:00

The whole interaction between Doctor and cancer patient is a sitcom waiting to happen. (And thanks to The Big C we can start laughing a little about it).

While it didn't seem that funny at the time, I can now look back and laugh at the insertion of my feeding tube three years ago, almost to the day. I had to go through a ton of prep for my treatments--2 oral surgeries, a series of scans, consultations--and the most intrusive of them all, a feeding tube shoved into my stomach. Think of something that looks like that cable wire that connects your TV to your box or dish. Except it was blue. With a foot long clear extension from the machine to the 18 inches of blue line that went straight into my skin, through the stomach lining so I could live. I had to have that fucker in there before I could receive any chemo or radiation. And I've posted before about how NO ONE knew how it worked--except for the Doc who stuck that bastard in--after 3 shots right in my gut and 6 weeks later of shooting liquid food into my tube with a syringe. Yeah, it was a party.

I had Doctors, Nurses, the company that was administering and distributing the cans of food and Google trying to help me out to get that thing pumping into my body for 12 hours a day. No one could figure it out. I finally went back to the hospital again and found the dude who put that baby in--ya think he would of told someone? Ten long months that sucker was in. Actually, I had to have it replaced because of 2 painful at the time but funny now "incidents". My dog, Tedi, got caught in the line and started to freak out and run. SON-OF-A-BITCH did that hurt. I had to practically tackle him to make him stay put. The other time, a client got up from his chair in a meeting, slipped a little and his chair rolled over my line and he got tangled up in it. Yeah, a client. He freaked and started to run out the door––hey man, stop! He then got pissed at me. "Can't you control that thing? Why are you sitting so close?" Dude, you're the idiot that couldn't gracefully get out of your chair and wigged out.

Now, three years later, I laugh my ass off when I think of the look on his face. He never treated me well after that, which I thought was strange because I thought he was a good guy. Wrong. Oh well. (I should have opened the line and squirted some of the liquid in his seat just to see him really lose his shit). I laughed about that today. And I also remembered when the Radiation Oncologist told me they were going to have to put the tube in. I remember my 2 reactions: "you're going to do what?" and then almost blurting out loud, "no fucking way".

Thank God for my sense of humor.

Awareness

2010-08-25T12:47:00.000-07:00

Sorry if the title is a little misleading. (I'm in the rant mood today).

I have little tolerance for those who think they are the only person in the world. We've seen this type of behavior in large proportions before--the 70's were called the Me Decade--and we then fell into a deep recession at the beginning of the 80's. Now I'm all about taking care of my wants and needs and living in today's world is much more exciting and full of possibilities than ever before. But c'mon people, watch what the hell you are doing and try to focus on the shit around you.

Why are my panties in such a bunch? I went to a sandwich place at off-peak hours to grab a much needed bite. There were 2 people working behind the counter, a customer sitting at a window seat, a customer standing and waiting for their sandwich and Mr. Oblivion in line in front of me. Now this dude was about my age, about my size and dressed like I was today--shirt and tie, nice slacks and Sunday shoes. (We used to call them church shoes). He proceeds to ask the robot-like employee behind the counter EVERY question about the sandwich he's ordering. Which would be fine by me IF HE JUST READ THE BIG SIGNS IN FRONT OF HIM AND TO HIS RIGHT & LEFT. (In fact, this guy looked like Bill O'Reilly, poor bastard). But this is not what got me juiced up. Mr. Oblivion backed up and bent over to look at the chips--and almost knocked me down if not for putting my hand out and backing up myself. Which would've meant putting my hand on his ass.

I said, "behind you". No response. He then did it AGAIN, this time moving back even MORE. So now I was fighting to keep his big-flat-fat-ass from getting in my face. (Think of a QB under center kind of view). Ten years ago and probably before cancer, I would have kicked him right in his brown-eye. (Hey, I already had said, "right behind you"). But I didn't. I realized where I was at--in a public place, late afternoon and dead-ass tired from three short sleeping nights. So I counted to 10--yeah, that really works--and let it go. Until this post. Thank you, interweb.

Maybe cancer has taught me to be more aware. Maybe it was growing up in LA, gangs bordering 3 sides of my neighborhood. Maybe it was my Mom & Dad teaching me to not be so self-involved and selfish. (Although I've been accused of being self-involved from some former co-workers. Anonymously, of course). Or maybe my age has something to do with this observation. But I do know for sure one thing.

I know I bumped into Mr. Oblivion for a reason.

Living To See Life

2010-08-18T11:12:00.000-07:00

Every day I wake up is a blessing.

I was telling my friend, Kristen, that every day I walk out my front door I look up to the sky and smile. Even if it's raining, like today. Kristen is going through a tough time right now, as a close family member is battling cancer. (My prayers for you, Kristen). I related a saying my Father has spoken to me on more than one occasion--yesterday is a cancelled check, tomorrow is a promissory note and today is money in the bank--that is so very true. Because we ALL get caught up in wanting Friday to get here faster so we can start the weekend. Putting off calling a loved one who lives not-so-close to us. Take for granted how lucky we are, no matter what our financial situation or status in our jobs and life may be.

Last night, I was fortunate enough to welcome Kaleb, Grandson #4, make his grand entrance into our world. He was surrounded by love, near and far. He filled the room with hope, happiness and the miracle of birth. He looks my Adam, his Dad. (My Wife and Father both said as much). As I was looking at him--OK, fixated on him--I couldn't help but think about my own mortality. Here I was, in a hospital, with Jen hooked up via IV's and with no less than 8 other people in the room. Trying to not have flashbacks and trying to focus on the new life in front me.

I just embraced the scene. Thought of never forgetting this moment so one day I could tell Kaleb about him being born through my eyes. Watched Teresa melt. Hugged and kissed my Son. Because we sometimes forget that we come into this life with no fear--of death, disease, the unknown--and no concept of NOT enjoying the moment. Kaleb, welcome my Grandson. Kristen, enjoy the moments and time you have with those you love, who are here NOW. Life is a beautiful thing to see.

I feel fortunate to be living in the moment.

Who's The Old Dude?

2010-08-13T18:22:00.000-07:00

That would be me.

I started a new job this week and I'm sure I'm at least 10 years older than EVERYONE. Which is waaaay cool. And very inspiring. My outward appearance has been beaten down by cancer, too many 50-70 hour work weeks and Mother Nature taking it's course. But it's not what's on the outside that counts. Inside, I feel reborn. Re-energized. Ready.

I was the youngest at a small advertising agency in Los Angeles in 1981––Chiat/Day––working in the mailroom with no idea of what I wanted to do "when I grew up." It was at Chiat/Day that I met my Wife, Teresa, and began a journey that has given me so much. At the time I was 22 years old. And I had thought that any years I lived after 21 were bonus years. Why? I lived in a tough area of LA. Was only 6 years old when one of my friends died. Had friends shot and killed. Played sports with cops circling the baseball field and steel bars on the windows of the basketball gym. Played one-on-one with gang bangers so I could get home safe from the playground.

Chris, from my former job, told me that the people at my new job would adore me. Respect me for the knowledge I had that I take for granted. Admire me for my accomplishments. Accept me because of the person I am. (Thanks, Chris. You're the best). Who's the old dude? I am.

And blessed to be there.

Things We Should Say All The Time

2010-08-02T17:22:00.000-07:00

Sorry for not posting after 100. My life has been changing at a rapid pace.

I left my job of four years last Thursday. It felt like a long good-bye. One that came with mixed emotions but a totally clear head as I walked out the door. And a big smile on my face. I'm off to a new adventure. And I haven't been this jazzed about a job in a long time. But enough of that crap. What I really did was do what I set out to do when I started out this blog––ya followin' that, because I'm writing it and I'm not so sure myself––watching how my decision, my life, my cancer effects others.

The announcement of my departure was sent by my boss. I actually just read it again––3 paragraphs, 1 about me and the other 2 about a new leader and how great my replacement will be––and it summed up the last two weeks at my previous employer. (Now Ricardo, don't think this is a dis to you. I think you're going to be great. I know it. It just struck me as another thing to write about). Which leads me to––finally––the point of this post.

When I had cancer, it seemed that it divided people I knew into three categories––those who accepted me as I had always been, those who didn't know what to say and stumbled through conversations and those who avoided me as much as possible. (Check out an earlier post I did, I Don't Know What To Say). For those who wished me well and were so happy for me, they will be with me forever. For those who stumbled through their "congratulations" and really only wanted to know "the gossip", the jury is still out if we stay in touch. For those who avoided me as much as possible, I hope you find your inner peace and truth.

The only sad part of leaving was hearing the good things I never knew people though about me. Why? Because we need to share our thoughts, feelings and positive experiences every day. We need to tell those we love them, we love them. Even if they do know it. We need to say "thank you" and "please and act like adults instead of spoiled, insecure and ignorant arrogant humans. So I leave that part of my life behind and tell you what I myself don't say enough.

Thank you. I love you. I'm a better person to have you in my life.

100

2010-07-20T18:27:00.000-07:00

I made it.

When I started this blog in July 2008, I had a modest goal that I never told anyone. (Yeah, imagine me not telling anyone anything. Go ahead. Now stop smiling that "no way" smile). I wanted to get to 100 posts. Why? It would mean I would at the very least live another 100 days. Beat cancer's ass day after day after day after day.

July 20 is quite another number. The first walk on the moon, 41 years ago. Bill Singer pitching a no-hitter for the Dodgers in 1970. A game where I bought tickets for me and my Dad to go see––but he couldn't make it so I didn't go. (Still haven't seen a no-hitter live in the 1,000 games I've been to). Which brings me to another July 20 special number––my Dad's 71st birthday.

But another reason for celebration of my 100th post is that I am changing jobs. Gave my 2 weeks notice last Friday. Going to build something from scratch. It's going to be challenging. It's going to be fun. It's going to be strange going to a place where I don't know anyone except for the people I met. And it's going to be the first job I got after cancer. If only you could see the tears of joy and pride on my face. Maybe I'll take a picture and use on my next post.

If I make it.

Time Flies When You're Living

2010-07-09T06:19:00.000-07:00

It's been a great three years.

Three years ago, I was going through a maze of emotions as I was trying to figure out why I wasn't feeling well. I've posted before about this and the signs I received––the first being the voice in my head that kept asking the rest of my body, "why do I feel like I have cancer"––but looking back I'm so grateful for all that happened to keep me alive and posting. Lance Armstrong has been quoted as saying his cancer odyssey "enriched my life." That may seem strange to many people. For a fellow cancer survivor like me, it seems quite normal. Why? Because every day is more precious than the day before. More meaningful. More time to live.

I've had quite a few conversations with myself about my future lately. (C'mon, we ALL talk to ourselves. And we answer ourselves, too.). As a cancer survivor, I do not have time to waste. I'm not going to waste my time with people who don't respect me. I'm not going to waste my time wondering why I'm not perfect. I'm not going to waste my time trying to change the things I cannot change. I'm not going to waste my time trying to be something someone else wants me to be.

My friend, Cap, is one of my most loyal followers. (Means a lot to me, Cap.). Lately, we have been talking about the time we have, the time we waste and the future of our time. (It's nice to talk to someone else about this, instead of just having these conversations in my head.). We talk about the time we have with our children and all the time away from our children. We get caught up in our work––it's one of our passions––and then get caught in all the other BS that goes with it. Don't get me wrong. Being able to do what I do for a living is a gift. I am so lucky to be in the position I'm in and I thank my higher power every day.

It's time to enjoy the time I have.

The Scary Thing About cancer Blogs

2010-07-02T13:15:00.000-07:00

Being able to write about my experiences with cancer is a blessing. (No, it really is. Read on.).

Why? While all of us have to face our mortality one way or another, cancer has this dastardly way of ruining your day––because it's such a deadly disease today could be the day cancer wins over your life. No life, no posts. There are many who stop blogging because they have stopped breathing. And sometimes, they just loose interest. Run out of things to write. Move on to other endeavors. The weird thing is, how do you know?

One of the first connections with the cancer blog community––and it's a big one, people––I made was with Dennis and his blog, Being Cancer, which has been a source of inspiration and information that has really helped me. (If you peek to the right of this post and scroll down just a bit, you'll also see Being Cancer listed as one of the blogs I follow.).

Dennis "found me" and this blog and sent me an email. He wanted to feature one of my posts on his blog. Cool. Happy to do it. Share the love, pain, stories and inner-most thoughts of a cancer survivor. Hell yeah. This made me feel connected to so many people, even if I never get to "meet" them in this viral world or face-to-face. (Does that happen anymore?). But now I'm worried about Dennis. He hasn't posted in a few weeks. Dennis was diagnosed with T-PLL, a rare aggressive form of chronic lymphocytic leukemia (CLL), in 2001. Had a bone marrow transplant in 2004. And tons of other treatments and cancer-related issues since. (Visit the link above for more info.).

Now I could send Dennis an email. I could. But what if he doesn't answer? What if he can't answer? What if he never answers?

That's the scary part.

Unplugged To Recharge

2010-06-28T18:43:00.000-07:00

I know, it sounds and looks weird.

If you've noticed a lag in my posts, it's because I totally and completely unplugged––no Crackberry, no emails and only checking the scores online. I even didn't know where my phone was half the time. Not that I was keeping time or track. I was on vacation. A half stay-cation and va-cation. I had lost track of time. And that was the reason I needed to go on vacation in the first place.

I was abusing my time. Working way too much and not taking time to stop and think. Stop and love. Stop and just stop. Minutes would roll into hours that would roll into days and roll into weeks and you get the idea. I had lost track of my time and place. I had begun to ask, more than once or twice, "did I survive cancer so I could work my life away?". Now don't get me wrong. I am thankful every day I have a job. I've been on the jobless side. I love what I do for a living and feel fortunate to have the type of job I have. But there's more to life. Right?

At least 2-3 times a day while we were on vacation, Teresa and I would say "we can do whatever we want, when we want. Because we're on vacation." As if to remind ourselves we were actually taking time to just be Greg & Teresa. Time, which I have said repeatedly, is the most precious gift and greatest result from cancer. Sounds strange, I know. But I have a whole new respect for every increment of time that I learned from cancer. So I had to re-learn that my time is precious. And it's up to me to make the most of my time. And I'm much better when I'm all charged up.

Plugged or unplugged.

Catching A Vibe

2010-06-16T14:06:00.000-07:00

I believe in a greater connection––and not the Internet––that we all share but seldom use.

What the hell am I talking about? That feeling that someone is talking about you. The feeling like you've been there, done that before. (Yeah, I know it's called deja vu. Thanks, Yogi). The feeling that comes when out of the blue, you think of someone you haven't thought of for a long time. It's been happening to me a lot lately. But yesterday when it happened, it was just really too weird.

With all the hype surrounding Stephen Strasburg, I guess that San Diego State has been rolling around my brain. I went to SDSU for 2 years. OK, I was enrolled and didn't get to class much. But it was 2 of the best years of my life. And a big part of my fun time was attributed to having a great dorm roommate, Ralph. Ralph and I hit it off from the get go. Both played hoops. Journalism majors. Loved music. And debauchery was always only a half thought away. Little did I know that Ralph had been thinking of our times at SDSU and beyond as well. (We roomed together in the "Astrodome" in South Pas, but that's another post for another time.) I found him on the interweb and sent him an email asking "is this the Ralph who" and if it was, to send me back a confirmation. This is part of what I got––after a few things he said which I will not post here for fear of having to explain some of my college misadventures to way too many people––back. "was at the hilton the night before departure and i was on the can reading about LA and there's a section on Eagle Rock...Bro..I sent the vibe two Sats ago as I sat there (lol required) and thought of the "No Mas" fight we watched in Eagle Rock....freak!!! And you have my permission to add this to your blog."

I have been smiling, laughing and shaking my head ever since yesterday. I feel like a gap in my life has been filled. The cancer disconnected a lot in my brain––as I've said before, it's called chemo brain––and working the memory muscle can be very frustrating when it doesn't work. Thanks to my brother from another mother, Ralph, I'm starting to put together some more pieces in my brain. And will undoubtedly get back to California and see if we can meet in the middle, as he now lives in NoCal and my family is in SoCal.

Ralph, thanks for the vibe. I really needed it.

More Than Baseball

2010-06-07T07:49:00.000-07:00

After celebrating life all weekend––Wife's and Son's birthdays, respectively––the other side of the life chain takes place tonight.

Tonight, I will pay my respects to Mark Fisher. Mark passed away Memorial Day weekend from cancer. I didn't get a chance to say good-bye to Mark, as I had just found out he was fighting the disease only a few days before. I was also fighting a nasty virus and didn't want to go see him and get him any worse. I now regret that decision.

I coached baseball with Mark for 3 years. That's a lot time. We also sat in the stands for another 4 years, watching our Sons play for the high school team. That seemed like an eternity. And he and his Wife, Roberta, would come and join us at our Annual Halloween Party. But as I look back, it was not enough time. You see, we spent an awful lot of time together, going over baseball strategy, working on new drills for practice to keep the boys from getting bored and asking each other to talk to each other's Son. We found that we could get our Boys to get better––as a player and a person––if they heard it from someone else as well as ourselves. And it worked. Worked very well. Little did we know we both would "get" cancer.

This is a tough loss for me for many reasons. I feel for Roberta, Tim and Bob. Good family and friends. I feel for all those––family and friends––who will miss Mark. And I feel blessed, as strange as that my seem. Because I survived cancer, well enough to be able to write down my thoughts for whomever to see. I'm extremely lucky to have a family that loves me and cares for me. And when I see another friend lose the battle to cancer, I can't help but think of my own mortality and place in life. Yes, it's more than baseball that brought us together.

Forever, we will be bonded by a killer disease. RIP, Captain Fisher.

Sick & Tired Of Being Sick

2010-05-29T09:32:00.000-07:00

Once you've had cancer–-at least for me––getting sick takes on another life.

You get paranoid. You get a little scared. You get impatient. And I get to show everyone the asshole that grows inside of me when I don't feel well and haven't slept. I'm now on Day 6 of being sick. And it's Memorial Day Weekend. I should be grillin' and chillin'. I'm sick and tired of being sick.

This started out as a slight rawness in the back of my throat. Since the head & neck cancer, any little thing that messes with my throat gives me flashbacks and feelings of "oh shit, what's this?". So I went to a GP Doctor on Friday––my regular Doc was busy and couldn't fit me in––and saw another Doc in the practice who has treated me before. Now I'm not saying she's not good or I don't like her. She's just not MY Doc, know what I mean? After waiting 25 minutes past the appointment time––another post for another time––I get in. After I tell the nurse everything, I have to go through it again with the Doctor. (So explain to me the reason why they have these little computers that call up all your information?)

Diagnosis? Sore throat. Headache. Aches and pain. Running eyes. No energy. No fever. I could have told them that. I did, in fact. "Must be a simple virus." There are no simple virus' as far as I'm concerned. The HPV virus is what gave me cancer. A simple virus? This only made me more cranky. And have to swallow a horse pill every 12 hours for the next 10 days.

Makes me even more sick and tired.

Clearing My Throat

2010-05-20T12:05:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I think ENT stands for "Every New Technology" that gets shoved up my nose or down my throat. And please, please, please get your finger out of my ear––you're tickling what's left of my brain.

Last week I went for my check-up as a result of head & neck cancer. Dr. Lee is really very good and actually takes her time with me now that she's been intimate with my head and neck. And quite frankly, after a week at work where I was getting other things shoved into my body that I didn't enjoy, this was a piece of cake. (I'll take a tube up my nose, a rubber finger shoved in my mouth and having my tongue jerked around over a bad week at work any day).

I did have to wait for over an hour to see the Doctor. She was running late––as usual––and I took this opportunity to escape from my Blackberry and the chaos at work for a little power nap. (Woke myself up snoring). So while it tried my patience, I did get some rest and time to chill.

Once I got in the chair, I waited another 20 minutes. This time, I just stared out the window. Which gave me a chance to appreciate the fact that I was actually ABLE to stare out the window almost 3 years after being diagnosed with cancer. This must have been God's way of giving a slap in the face and remind myself that I have a great life and am very blessed with a wonderful, loving family. I'm sometimes forget what's really important in life. I care so much about too many things. And I forget I have to take care of myself and my happiness first.

Dr. Lee comes knocking herself into the room and says, "I'm so sorry to keep you waiting." I tell her I understand the desire to fit 26 hours into a 24 day. And she breaks into a big smile and we chat about why in the world we work so hard all the time. After shoving, tugging and pulling on my ENT, she pulls the gloves off and gets an even bigger smile, when she says, "I think I don't want to see you for a year. Everything looks great." I tell her I'm going to miss her and she says, "that's a good thing." I get out of the chair. Pay my co-pay. Head out the door. And have to clear my throat for fear of crying for joy out in public.

See ya next year, Doc.

Back In The Swing Of Things

2010-05-12T07:45:00.000-07:00

Life after cancer is filled with milestones. Some are momentous. Some seem ordinary to everyone but a survivor. Some are so special in a personal and delightful way. (Did I just use the word "delightful"?)

I played softball for my company team, Ogilvy, on Monday. I waited to post about it until 2 days after, which usually is a good "soreness" barometer when you haven't used muscles since the last decade. After a forfeit win and 2 consecutive rain outs, we finally got to take the field. Now I describe this softball league as a rung below a Beer League, since there are no kegs at 2nd base or umpires to yell, er, talk to during the game. But hey, pride is big motivator when you're playing other companies in your professional field. Not much, but it's there for some.

I started to realize before the season began that I hadn't played an organized sport since August 7, 2007. The day of my head & neck cancer diagnosis. Almost 3 years. And so far removed from where I was before cancer––I was a college athlete and had played or coached in organized sports for over 40 years. But this was foreign to me. I felt like a rookie. Not only was I coming back from cancer, I was running away from Father Time. The mind says, "hell yeah, you can stretch that single into a double!" The body says, "think again, butthead. Not while I'm here."

I'm happy to report that two days later I can comb my hair without pain, walk up and down the street on my own power and haven't been swallowing Advil like a kid with Halloween candy. We won, 21-4, had a great time doing it and I'm even thinking of playing next week––I will be wearing cleats, since I have no concept of taking it slow and easy when playing sports––if time allows. I wouldn't say I swung the bat like I used to.

But then again, I wasn't coming back from cancer.

Why?

2010-04-30T13:14:00.000-07:00

Stream of consciousness. Inspired by a night with other survivors.

Why did cancer happen to me?

Why did I survive?

Why don't people understand the change in me?

Why isn't there a cure?

Why do insurance companies deny my insurance randomly?

Why am I more emotional than before cancer?

Why do I take the things I love for granted?

Why do I sometimes take the people I love for granted?

Why can't I sleep more than 4 hours at a time?

Why do 1.5 million people every year live with cancer?

Why don't caregivers get more credit for all they do?

Why do I wonder when cancer will show up somewhere in or on my body?

Why don't I get a less stressful job?

Why do people take me for granted?

Why can't people in general be less judgmental?

Why was it that I only could taste cinnamon and corn during radiation and chemo?

Why do I still have a hole in my stomach from where my feeding tube was stuck in my body?

Why is chemo brain soooooo loooooooooooonnnnnnnngggggg?

Why does ice cream have a different taste to me now?

Why can't I make all the voices I did before the cancer?

Why do I love watching my Grandsons play baseball, instead of me coaching them on the filed?

Why do I keep asking why?

Why can't I just accept and move forward?

Why did it take me 2 weeks to post?

Why?

Because.

Cansurvivor

2010-04-14T15:43:00.000-07:00

I've been in the most interesting state of mind I can remember in a long time.

Why? I have many thoughts, feelings, emotions and causes. And therein lies the issue, problem, situation and state of mind in itself. I'm a little over 2 years removed from my last chemo treatment and radiation. And since then I've had multiple gall bladder attacks that lead to removal and a myriad of physical crap that keeps me guessing. Is it the "side effects"? Is it stress? Is it my job? Is it all in my mind?

They don't tell you a lot of stuff when you are going through cancer treatment. And especially since my head & neck cancer is/was an unusual case––clinically the result of excessive alcohol & tobacco use and mostly found in people over 50––and has since been used as part of a study of the HPV virus and cancer in men. My cancer was in my tonsils, caused by HPV. Yeah, really.

So, is the scrambledness in my brain a result of chemo? Damn straight. How much? Who the hell knows. Is the fact that I wake-up every night, choking on my tongue because it's stuck to the back of my mouth/beginning of my throat part of the problem? Hell fucking yeah. Is my tolerance level of passive aggressive, know-it-all, sneaky-backstabbing people extremely low? Bet your life on it. But how do you explain all the crap that goes through your head, plays tricks with your body and generally has no road map for recovery or clinical explanation to those who are on the receiving end of you being an asshole? You can't. But I can explain one thing.

I am a survivor. A cansurvivor. Peace.

In Your Own World

2010-04-04T16:45:00.001-07:00

"How come none of you all ask me why I curl me hair?"

About 2 feet away, while I was having lunch with my Daughter Kaity in DC, this is what some dude screamed out to a crowded restaurant. He was glassy-eyed, loud and popped in and out just as fast as he could ask that question.

The restaurant froze for a second. I grabbed my knife––growing up in LA, I guess––and watched every move he was making. Watching his hands. Watching his eyes. Watching my Daughter. It didn't phase Kaity. In fact, she just laughed as he walked out of the door he came in. The wait staff didn't move towards him or say anything to us after he left. I told Kaity, "welcome to DC."

I didn't think about that surreal moment until I started my 26 mile drive home that night. This dude was totally and completely in his own world. He had something on his mind and he was going to share. Probably didn't have anyone to share with, is my guess. Probably didn't have a blog like me. Probably living on the streets. (I did that for 6 months in LA in the '80's).

Escaping to a quiet place––through meditation, in your bedroom, in a middle of a party––is one of the things that helped me deal with cancer. I would "zone out" so I could focus on me. So I would feel the pain from chemo. Feel the radiation burning my skin. Feel myself fighting for my life. Why? Because I didn't want to forget. I wanted to tell anyone who would listen, that cancer is NOT a death sentence. It is not the end of your life. You have today to live. Live it.

Even if it's in your own world.

Mmm, Barium

2010-03-24T17:01:00.000-07:00

Today I had a CT scan. Which means lots of prep––no eating 6 hours before, no liquids––and choking down two bottles of barium.

If you have never drank barium, consider yourself lucky. I did get to try the new––star burst goes here––orange flavor, which is used to mask the flavor of liquid chalk. My options were banana, berry and original and the new and improved––bigger star burst goes here––orange. Drink one bottle up 2 hours before the test, 1/2 of another bottle a half an hour before the test and the other 1/2 of the bottle at the radiation facility. De-lish. Yum. Tasty.

Now let me explain a few things––technically these are called side effects––that have happened since head & neck cancer decided to invade my body. I have about 30% of my saliva producing abilities, the radiation destroying my salivary glands. My taste buds are an adventure. Sometimes things taste normal, sometimes I taste the ingredients of what I'm eating––I can break down ketchup into vinegar, salt, tomato paste, Red Dye #5––and ice cream is mostly disappointing now. (Yeah, I know. It sucks). My sense of smell, however, is stronger than ever. Supposedly, there's a explainable reason for that. And the barium did it's own little dance with my nose, mouth, throat and stomach.

The only good thing was the barium is a liquid. And since I can't produce enough saliva and I couldn't drink any water before the CT scan, chalky smooth barium provided a little relief from dry lips, a dry mouth & throat and kept my tongue from sticking to the roof of my mouth. Yummy.

My CT scan was scheduled for 3pm and I was to arrive 15 minutes earlier. I had to hand in my paper work, which included signing a waiver that stated I understood that the contrast they would inject in my body could cause severe complications or reactions, with odds posted that 1 in 100,000 people have reactions ranging from convulsions to even fatal consequences due to allergic reactions. Yeah, fun. I've had the contrast numerous times and always have fun stuff happen like severe headaches, stomach problems and a rash on my arm from the injection. Like I said, fun.

But that was nothing compared to the "fight" I had once I arrived. Kimmi, the receptionist, informed me that my insurance––that is another blog post for another day––denied my full body scan. That I would only get my head, neck and chest scanned. Not my stomach and pelvis. WTF? I told Kimmi I confirmed yesterday that everything was approved. She asked me who told me that. I told her you guys did. She said when did you call. I said yesterday. She said, "are you sure you talked to someone here." No bitch, I talked to the psychic hot line and they told me it was approved. (OK, I didn't say that. But I did on the inside). I then showed her on my cell phone that I called at 2:48pm, March 23rd and talked for 5 minutes. OK, 4 minutes and 55 seconds. And your office told me everything was approved. BECAUSE I SPECIFICALLY ASKED ABOUT THE STOMACH AND PELVIS. I had already postponed the CT scan once because I didn't have approval. Well, Kimmi wasn't going to budge and kept repeating herself over and over that it wasn't approved and who did I talk to. I talked to you guys!!!!!! I finally talked to the supervisor, who said that it was denied and my Doctor agreed to just the head/neck/chest.

Fucking great. I just drank a bottle and a half of chalky shit for nothing. Oh, I'm sorry. I got something out of it––an hour on the toilet and stomach cramps for the rest of the night. And tasty, new and improved––yeah, star burst goes here––orange barium.

Mmmm.

The N Word(s)

2010-03-10T07:41:00.000-08:00

Now before you go all freaky on me, the headline is not what you think as it relates to our society and culture.

I'm talking about 3 n words that have taken on new meaning in my life since I was diagnosed with head and neck cancer––never, normal, now.

Never is an awful word. (I often think of the song, "The 12th of Never", when I hear that word). As in, "I never want to see you again." Never mind. Never, ever. Never in a million years. Never be a superstar. Such a negative word. Until you utter to yourself, "I never want to get cancer. Again."

Normal is a strange word. Normal can be good or bad. Everything is normal––is that good or bad? Normal temperature. We even shorten the word––that's the "social norm". And then there's the cancer version––when will I get back to normal? Hell, after cancer, normal takes on an entirely new meaning. For me, it's normal to choke and/or cough because I can't produce enough saliva due to the cancer treatments. This usually happens 2-3 times a day, especially when I'm eating or drinking. And because I cannot produce enough saliva, I'm drinking constantly during the day & night. (I wake up 2-3 times a night to peel the tongue off the roof or side of my mouth with a sip of water).

Now has become my favorite word. Now is the best time to do something. Anything. Everything. There's no better time than NOW. Now is ALL we actually have––I believe that's what they mean when they say, "live in the moment". I try to enjoy now, because I might not have tomorrow. At the moment, I'm enjoying "now" because tomorrow I'll get a needle in my arm to draw blood at my Oconologist. I hate needles. But I love to live.

Now is the perfect time to live.

Snap Out Of It

2010-03-04T11:17:00.000-08:00

I've been in a funk for weeks.

I'm over-thinking things. I'm too emotional. I'm doing too much. I'm letting work consume my every waking moment and creep into my dreams. And in many ways, I can't help myself. Because I'm overdoing it all. And because of that, I'm not accomplishing anything. Am I depressed? Going crazy? Burnt toast?

I am fortunate enough to get paid for what I think. My mind is my hammer, my computer, my co-worker, my instrument. So when my mind is not right, everything else seems to suffer. And that scares me. I need to get focused. Re-center myself. Keep my ass from dragging on the floor. I know all this. I know it will pass. I know I'm human. I know this is part of my ongoing recovery from cancer. I'm just having a hard time snapping out of it. And yet I'm very accepting of the fact that every day can't be a bed of tulips. (I know it's a "bed of roses", but roses have thorns). And sorry to all of you who have had to put up with me during this time.

For me, this is what has happened during my recovery many times. Usually, I have been able to step back and be extremely thankful for being alive and that gives me the juice to get outta the funk. The mental recovery in many ways is much more difficult that the physical recovery from cancer. My life has been changed forever. And I am extremely thankful for that. I'm a better person––I hope. I'm much more patient. I'm much more expressive of my feelings––sorry to those who just said out loud, "oh great. Greg being more expressive is like being blasted with two fire hoses instead of one." I have discovered a writing outlet that now inspires me. So excuse me while I talk to myself in front of you.

SNAP OUT OF IT AND LIVE, DUMB ASS.

I Know What It Feels Like

2010-02-24T11:11:00.000-08:00

When I heard that Denver Nuggets Head Coach, George Karl, was diagnosed with cancer again I was shocked. Especially when they reported it was "head & throat" cancer.

I had head & neck cancer. So was this different? Did he mean head & neck? Why was I concerned whether it was head & throat instead of head & neck? I then saw an interview over the weekend that Coach Karl did for the NBA on ABC. And it hit me. He was asked how he felt. I didn't listen. Or need to listen. I knew what he was going to say. I knew he had cancer before. I know what its like to hear the "c" word after you think, believe, trust that you will never hear that word attached to your name. I know, Coach. I feel you.

I hadn't thought of my cancer much in the weeks leading up to when I heard the news of Coach Karl. My friend at work, Matt, told me it would be this way 2 years ago, that I "wouldn't think about cancer every day like you do now". He was right. But the news of someone else I "know" having the same type of cancer I did really hit me hard. I didn't tell anyone. Because I'm not sure anyone would understand. Unless you've had cancer. (This always makes me think of the Harley-Davidson theme, "If I have to explain it you, you wouldn't understand.")

I will never forget the look in Coach Karl's eyes when he was telling us his feelings about being diagnosed. I saw the uncertainty. The million thoughts. The immediate struggle of being invincible and human at the same time.

I know, Coach. I feel you.

Get Back In The Car

2010-02-16T14:57:00.000-08:00

Last Friday I had a "situation" while driving through the unplowed and crowded streets of Washington, DC. First, let me say if this happened before cancer, I would be writing this from a jail cell. (Actually, moron, if you were in a cell you wouldn't have Internet access. Excuse me, but this is where I'm talking to myself, not you the reader).

I was inching along one of our streets around 6:30-6:45 pm. Traffic was a bitch-and-a-half. I knew I was in for a long drive home––longer than the 26 miles I usually drive home from work, which takes me 35-45 minutes on a clear traffic day. (Like that ever happens). The driver behind me decides that he wants to drive my car, too, so he's honking his horn for me to move up. Now let me give you a visual here. I'm in the middle lane, with snow potholes, 6-inch ice spikes and water running down the 10-15% incline we're all trying to get away from. I have a manual transmission car in front of me––I know this because every time we inch up, he slide back a little––so I'm giving him a foot or so to get in gear. Literally.

This dude behind me decides he's going to honk his horn at me. Not once. Not twice. But three times. After the 3rd blowing, I throw my hands up in the air to tell him "I hear you, stop it." No, I didn't flip him the bird. Or any other hand gesture that would suggest a profanity. Just a "back off" gesture. As I grab my water bottle to generate some saliva for me constant dry mouth––thanks, cancer!––I hear a tap on my window. It was the dude in the car behind me––he got out of his car. Where I come from––Northeast LA and parts nearby––this is a signal that you're either gonna try to kick my ass or get yours kicked. Dude tells me, "we are both gentlemen here. Why do you raise your hand to me?" I tell him, "don't honk your horn at me, please. There is nowhere to go." He says, "I've been trying to get somewhere for over 2 hours and I'm almost out of gas." I said, "Don't honk your horn at me and get back in your car." He says, "don't raise your hand to me." I open my car door, get out and he has this "oh shit, this guy is so much bigger than me" look on his face. I tell him, "get back in your car. Don't honk your horn again at me." I hear from the street, "hey man, you better get back in the car like he says."

Now, before cancer, I would have tried to knock that dude on his ass. But I didn't. One of the positive side effects from cancer has been an increase in my tolerance level. I don't get so angry so quick anymore. I see the funny side of things. I understand that there are people more messed up than me :) I know that an altercation––I haven't had a fight since I took martial arts 30 years ago––doesn't really solve anything. Most of the time. Gotta go now.

I have to get back in my car.

Angels In Richmond

2010-02-05T05:44:00.000-08:00

Recently, I made a trip to Richmond for work.

I spent the day with some very special people at the VA Hospital, from administrators to patients. It was an emotional roller coaster kind of day, for me. And I knew it would be, as I was somewhat dreading the trip because I was uncertain of how I would be able to handle it. The patients are the men and women who sacrifice so much to keep our country free and allow us to live a life we choose to live, not have a way of life forced on us. And these are 18-25 year olds, for the most part. These are people who are my kids age. These people are veterans and they are barley legal to buy alcohol. These young men and women are nothing short of amazing.

The Doctors at the VA are phenomenal. They are caring, kind, dedicated and emotionally and spiritually invested in the lives of our young people. The nursing staff is incredible. And I know a thing or two about hospitals, doctors, nurses and the support staff. I was at one hospital so much, the nurses called me "Mel", after the actor Mel Gibson. (People say I look like him, but only when Mel and I are sober). So besides having an understanding the inner workings of a hospital, I can feel the vibe of the place even more so. And this was what I was afraid of, having a million emotions and thoughts fly in and out of my being. There were times I had to compose myself. Several times, actually.

Why? These patients are fighting for their lives––at the very least, fighting to regain some form of normalcy in their lives after being injured in combat. They will never be "normal" again. And that's what we all want when we have an illness, injury or disease. Not just for ourselves, but for those around us––Moms, Dads, Wives, Kids, BFF's and Co-workers. And that's where the definition of "normal" changes. I know. My normal after cancer is waaaay different from my normal before cancer. cancer leaves damage along the way, just as an IED does. It can go off at a moments notice and you're then left to pick-up the pieces––if it doesn't kill you first.

So I was amazed at the positive vibe I got, from the person at the front desk to the Medical Director of Polytrauma, Dr. Shane McNamee. These people were so impressive, hopeful and most of all caring. They made me feel great. They made me understand that what they are doing isn't special, it's the right thing to do. On the way down, I kept wondering why I was feeling so emotional. Now I know why.

I was getting to see angels, without having to leave Earth.

Respect

2010-01-23T19:29:00.000-08:00

I was at the office late one night, trying to manage the day and the days that lie ahead. And I was pissed beyond belief.

John Bell, my next door office neighbor and avid supporter in my fight against cancer, saw me as he was heading out the door and stopped. "What are you still doing here? You should be going home, right?" I must have gave him a look that made him stop. Or perhaps he knew that I was not having a good day. He was right. I wasn't having a good day. And it was because for the umpteenth time, I felt disrespected at work.

You can hate me, call me names and generally just don't like me. But when I'm not respected, that gets my blood boiling. Why? Because I was brought up to respect people. For who they are. For the work they do. For how they have to live their lives in order to get through their day. We all have our quirks, our issues and problems. We all are different in some way. And that's more than OK. It's life.

Now John and I don't always see eye-to-eye. But ever since the day he hired me, he has respected my opinion and dedication to making the work better every day. And most of all, he respects me as a person, a human being. He's one of the smartest people I know and at the same time somewhat enigmatic. But he has a good heart and a good soul. I'll never forget when I told him I thought I had cancer. He said, "Nah, it's just probably something else related to all the crazy hours you've been putting." He was just trying to ease my mind. And he was right. All the crazy hours lead to extra stress, which is a bad trigger to your immune system.

And here I was, letting the stress and the actions of others get to me because of how I was treated. I was feeling that I didn't survive cancer to work my life away and have people dis me. I was feeling my purpose in life being twisted. I was feeling like I did before I had cancer. And that scared me. I guess there's only one thing to do––don't let others control how I feel.

And respect the fact that I'm alive.

Hey, Who Cut Your Hair?

2010-01-17T19:36:00.000-08:00

I laughed my ass off the first time I heard Cheech & Chong do this routine. (I was 14).

I remember me and my friends would channel Cheech & Chong whenever we saw someone who just got a haircut. We would just bag on (that was our word for making fun of someone) the poor dude who got a haircut. Of course, the worst was, "hey, who cut your hair. Your old lady? Your Mom?" (I think a few blows came out of that one, once or twice). And this was the '70's, so there was no such thing as PC, no PDA's, security checks and all the things school kids face today. It was merciless, unabashed, "your mama" jokes, out-in-the-open taunts––all in good fun. No, really.

So when I cut my hair last Sunday (or should I say when Teresa cut my hair) I thought about the main reason I had grown it past the middle of my back––to donate it to Locks of Love, an organization that takes hair donations and makes wigs for kids who have lost their hair due to cancer. Teresa even asked me twice if wanted her to cut it. Twice I said yes. This was the least I could do for those children who have to face every day at school, at the mall and at the mirror without their hair.

When I would wait for my radiation treatments, I would see a few kids who were also in treatment. I'd talk to them or their parents. Ask them how they felt. How did it feel without the hair. Tell them I was losing my hair, too. Just not as much. But I could feel their pain of having been teased or called "baldy" or "skinhead" or "scully." And I decided right then and there if I survived cancer––actually, when I beat cancer––I would grow my hair so some little dude or girl could not have to worry about some kid asking, "hey, what happened to your hair." So when I had 10 inches of hair to donate––I donated over 10––and Teresa was cutting it and cutting last week, I was smiling. Because it felt so good inside to do this simple little act. And because I could hear rattling in my head, Cheech & Chong, saying "hey, who cut your hair?"

My ol' lady did.

Dads

2010-01-08T17:52:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I think Dads don't get enough credit. (Yeah, I'm a Dad).

But that doesn't make me a deadbeat. An absentee. A weekend Dad. All not very nice, but well publicized. It makes good headlines, I guess. And there's a difference between being a Dad and being a Father. Anyone can be a Father. Not everyone is a Dad.

I listened to a friend today talk about his Dad. In front of a packed house. He talked about the one theme that keeps popping up in my blog. Time. The one thing we can't get enough of. That we can't change––OK, daylight savings excluded––no matter how many things we do to our body. He talked about spending time with his Dad. He talked about the time he's going to miss. He talked about a good Dad. He was probably a great Dad.

I think we sometimes forget Dads are human. Just like Moms. I've always believed that you're really an adult when you realize your parents are human. They make mistakes. They don't know everything. They have fun. (I'll leave it at that. I can hear Kaity ringing the therapy cash register). And we Dads do screw up all the time. We don't have an instruction book. Not that we would read it, anyway. So we're making most of this shit up as we go along. Then we learn what works and doesn't work and go from there. Some scary stuff, huh?

But that's OK. Because we Dads come in all sizes, colors, shapes, price ranges and geographic regions. And we are tough. My Dad has had more close encounters of the death kind than any human should have. From heart attacks to cancer. So every time I talk to him, I want to make sure it's a good one. Good Dads are hard to come by.

So they say.

Looking Forward

2010-01-05T12:43:00.000-08:00

This time of year, we see a lot of lists.

Best music of the decade––according to Rolling Stone Magazine. Best play of the year. Worst movies. Best this, worst that. C'mon, do we really need anyone to tell us what is best or worst? So, to jump on the bandwagon––or at least in front of it––I decided to leave all the old and past pleasures alone and look ahead to 2010. Here's what I'd like to see, I'm going to see and see how the hell I'm going to get all these things done before the new New Year.

Spend more time with my Wife.

Spend more time with my kids, Adam, Ryan, Travis and Kaity.

Spend more time with Lucky & Eli.

Write more. About stuff I like. In any format. Style. Any subject. Whenever I get the urge.

Inner peace. Really. I'm not kidding. It's gonna happen. Soon.

More time for me.

Be nicer to people I love.

Be nicer to people I work with. At least once.

Smile more.

Laugh.

Cry.

Cry while laughing. (It's the best).

Tell people I appreciate them.

Clarity. On anything. At least once.

Laugh.

Volunteer. More.

Learn something new every day.

Cry.

The smell of cut grass.

Celebrating birthdays. Especially my own.

Have a heart to heart talk with God. At least once.

A clean PET scan, so I'm cancer free.

Cry while laughing. (It's still the best).

Yeah, that should take all year. But it should also take place every day, right? So what's next?

Looking forward to accomplish the list above.

Personal Inventory

2009-12-27T09:01:00.000-08:00

It's that time of year. The end of one year, the beginning of another.

It's the time of year I take personal inventory. Have those "internal conversations" we all have. (Yes, you do to. And it's OK to only admit it to yourself). Strip the ego, pride, insecurities and all else that goes into my persona. Take an honest look at my actions, my lack of action––hey now, keep your mind out of the gutter––and purpose. Yeah, that's been a tough one this year. Why? Because it was the first time since August 7, 2007 I've been in relatively good health. And lately, I've gone BACK to a Greg before cancer that I don't like. But I can change.

I've decided that I'm not going to let work drive my life. When I get caught up in trying to make the perfect TV commercial or the perfect work environment for the team I lead, I lose focus of what's really important. I need to LIVE every day, not just SURVIVE. (Yes, I am using a lot of CAPS. Sorry for the shouting). I need to understand that the pursuit of perfection is a distance that will never be covered. And that's more than OK. It's humbling. It's unattainable. It's human. Work should be work. Not the definition of my life. That line is getting blurred. And I rationalize my 60 hour work weeks with the thought of "it beats the alternative, not working at all."

While that's true, it's also not sustainable. And work is NOT the reason I fought so hard to survive cancer. I didn't struggle to be cancer free to work my life away or for a group of shareholders I will never meet or at the very least, give me a "thank you." The reason I struggled, fought, cried, hurt, prayed to make it through the night and had surgery after surgery was to LIVE. Live for the moment. The day. My family. My friends. It's going to be tough, because I know myself better than anyone––yes, even you, Teresa––and I will have many more conversations with myself.

Only this time, I'll be a better listener.

A Matter Of Control?

2009-12-14T06:46:00.000-08:00

A lot has changed since I was diagnosed and beaten cancer. Some good, some bad.

But one thing that hasn't changed is trying to figure out what I can manage––or control––and what I can't. The Serenity prayer, when I remember it, usually snaps me out of it. "God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and the Wisdom to know the difference." Lately, it hasn't been what's been within my control, but as it relates to others. And I haven't been doing a very good job managing myself and others.

What the good people who help save your life physically don't tell you is, the mental aspect of recovering from cancer is the toughest. Most of you probably scoff at that notion, as cancer and the treatments beat the hell outta your body. And the physical side effects last 3-5 years or depending on the type of cancer you have, forever. (I still can't produce enough saliva 2 years after treatment for head & neck cancer). Even worse, it ages your body. I look like I've aged 10 years in the last 2.

But mentally, the scars remain. I still have "chemo brain." Which means synapse problems galore. Disconnected thoughts. Your mind racing faster than your tongue. Trying to say a word you can see in your head, but you just can't say it. Which makes you frustrated, feel inadequate and then can lead to anger. For me, I usually get the trifecta when that happens. And that's where I lose control. And that's no good for anyone. Because even as I'm writing trying to express my emotions right now, all the stuff I've written above is happening. I didn't plan it that way and it is somewhat ironic as I try to post my thoughts.

I will have to work on that. And that, I can control.

Snow Day

2009-12-05T10:29:00.000-08:00

I didn't grow up seeing the seasons change. It was always sunny. Always green. Always the same 350-355 days of the year. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I moved my family 2800 miles and two zones away from SoCal and the extended family and lifelong friends. It was the most difficult decision I ever had to make up until that time of my life. But I had to do it, as the advertising business in Los Angeles was beginning to wither. Jobs were tough. And I was going to work for a world class advertising agency and with some extremely talented people.

When we landed in Northern Virginia, the kids were unusually quiet. And cold. They were wearing shorts and playing outside on Christmas only 5 days ago. I think they were in shock. I tried my best to point out how great this move was going to be. They weren't buying it. They were telling Teresa they just wanted to go back home. Teresa was trying her best, but she wanted to go back. I had been traveling the country for 16 months, freelancing to pay the mortgage. I also paid the price of not seeing my kids enough, as I would be gone 2 weeks at a time every now and then.

We had a little celebration at the hotel we were staying in, a suite that had a loft and a basketball court right outside our door. (We would have to stay here for a week before we could move into our house and all our stuff was still being driven across the country). Fred, Karol, Norman, Kris and Tara joined the 6 of us. I remember hearing my kids laugh, seeming to forget they had been dragged into another time zone. Teresa and Karol were having an adult beverage. We can do this.

It's the little things that change for you when you have and survive cancer. I know I keep posting that over and over again. But it's so amazingly true. The first smell of Spring. The cool night air of an early Fall night. (The only "season" smells of change were, unfortunately, fire season). The first snowfall, today. Ryan had a boyish grin and lilt in his voice. Kaity called and said how beautiful it is looking out her front room window. Teresa loved the picture I sent her via cell phone––we couldn't do that before we got here––and was somewhat jealous that she was missing 3-5 inches of snow. And she's in Los Angeles with Travis right now.

What a snow day.

Thanks For The Time

2009-12-02T06:05:00.000-08:00

Seems lately I've been abusing my time. Too much to do––most of it by me having a problem with saying "no"––and not enough wiggle room for errors, unexpected events and life in general.

I was talking to John Bell, Ogilvy 360 DI's Grand Pubah, about this very thing last night. John is all over the world, most of the time. So that means he criss-crosses many time zones. And for those of you who think traveling is glamorous and so much fun, think about having to travel at least once a week all year round. Which always makes me think of this––if you travel all the time, is you ideal vacation actually a staycation?

Anyway, Tuesday truly was Time Day. It took 20 minutes to get my car out of the parking garage. I sat in a 30 minute meeting that should have taken 10 minutes. I left the office @ 7:20 pm and got home at 8:46 pm. Plus I had my usual time discussion with my Dad, who always thinks time goes by too fast especially when I remind him I've lived away from Los Angeles for 15 years now.

So when Thanksgiving came and went and I was getting my game face on for Monday morning, I stopped and went outside for 5 minutes. I looked at the million leaves still in my backyard. I laid down on my hammock for a minute or two. I petted my dogs. I thanked my higher power for allowing me to be here, at that moment, to enjoy the simple things in life we take for granted and never take the time to savor. I thanked God for giving me the strength to beat cancer. It's been 2 years since my last treatment. Two very special years. An extension on life.

I'll take that any time.

Music For Life

2009-11-16T17:25:00.000-08:00

I was inspired to write this by Cap, who sits next to me in the offices of Ogilvy and is "forced" to listen to my music after hours as we toil into the night.

Music helped get me through the tough times of my cancer treatments. I listen to everything from Pitbull to Perry Como. (This is what iTunes and Google was invented for––at least for me). So instead of a post about the good and bad times of chemo, needles and radiation, let me spit out a partial list that kept me in a good place. And helped me get out of the bad places.

Numb--Jay-Z & Linkin Park

Cause We Ended As Lovers––Jeff Beck

I Would Die 4 U––Prince

I Wanna Be Sedated––The Ramones

Stand Up––Ludacris

Mama Loves Mambo--Perry Como

It's My Life––No Doubt

Give Up The Funk (Tear The Roof Of The Mutha Sucka)––Parliament

This Is Not A Love Song––Public Image Ltd

Going To California––Led Zeppelin

I Walk Alone––Los Lobos

Until It Sleeps––Metallica

Without Me––Eminem

Working For The Clampdown––The Clash

Changes––David Bowie

(The Angels Wanna Wear My) Red Shoes--Elvis Costello

A Little Less Conversation––Elvis Presley

I Like The Way You Move––Outkast

Guero––Beck

Pet You And Hold You––Rockpile

No One To Depend On––Santana

Would it make a good "mix tape"? Who knows. But I do believe that music did at least one thing for me.

It gave me life.

Keepin' It Real

2009-11-14T17:47:00.000-08:00

I'm a big fan of Chris Rock. Ever since I saw him in Boomerang––he played Bony T, a guy in the mail room––and I'm Gonna Git U Sucka––"how much for just one rib?"––I try to catch everything he does.

It's been two years since my last cancer treatment. Sometimes it feels as if it never happened. Other times, I remember every little detail. The pain. The needles. The blisters all over my face. The look of fear on my family's face. There's a part of me that wants to forget it ever happened. There's a bigger part of me that will never forget. Why? Because it reminds me that every day counts. That there is more to life than deadlines, winning new business and getting upset when the Trojans, Lakers, Dodgers or Kings lose a game. That every day I don't enjoy being alive, is a day wasted.

I went to my ENT, Dr. Lee, on Thursday. Dr. Lee is a life saver. She's one of those tough-on-the-outside people––she's a surgeon––who I love to get to crack a smile. Over the last two years, she's been the Doctor I've seen the most. I've even made her smile and laugh. And this time, she made me cry. Not because she was mean or gave me bad news. Quite the opposite. She told me everything looks perfect. I don't have to come and see her every 4 months. I've "graduated" to every six months. I'm taking care of myself––along with my Wife being the angel she is––and I need to make sure I keep it up.

cancer taught me a valuable lesson––life is measured in the moment you're living in. You control whether it's a good or bad day. You make decisions––or don't––that mark the moments. I have lost that, lately. Me. I'm the one. And I don't like it. And I can do something about it.

I can keep it real.

Back From The Dead

2009-11-04T10:50:00.000-08:00

It's been a while since my last post, I know. (I hope you're still following).

The main reason was work––I work at Ogilvy and fortunately we've been extra busy––and the other big reason was the preparation for our annual Halloween Party, called "The Freaky Fest." Why the name? About 27 years ago, my friend Bubba––no, not the shrimp king or BC––said, "you need a name for that shindig." (As I said, it was about 27 years ago and shindig was a leftover from the '60's and '70's). And so after a few rounds of throwing names out, we came up with The Freaky Fest. (Yes, we were ahead of our time. As the word "freak" is frequently used in today's language. Right?).

Two years ago, in 2007, we didn't get freaky. I was at the end of my cancer treatments and I was trying to stay alive instead of dressing up for the dead. I remember my kids telling me we could have a "small little party" so we could still celebrate Halloween. As strange as it may seem, Halloween is the biggest family celebration we have. Our children have been at every one––except one or two where one of my 4 kids were away at school or like this year, sick––and now my two Grandkids are right there with the rest of us. My Wife, Teresa, is a master at the event. She's the greatest, as she plans and works her ass off to put the party together. And I know she only does it for me, because I love the party so much.

In 2008, I was just out of the hospital two-and-a-half weeks before our party. This time, I had complications from my gall bladder surgery and spent 5 days in the hospital. I had lost so much weight, that I looked like death warmed over. Perfect for Halloween! I dressed up as a pimp. I had one drink all night. I danced as much as I could––that's another FF tradition, we dance all night––until I didn't have anymore strength. It was a good, but shorter than usual party.

This year, was a challenge. It was on Halloween, which meant we were not going to see our friends with kids. It was supposed to rain. I was swamped with work. And not to mention the flu––H1N1 and other petrie dish varieties of the flu––was kicking a lot of people's ass. So, I thought maybe 50 people would show up and we'd have a blast. Wrong! There were well over 100 people in costumes––amazingly, no Michael Jackson costumes––and we finally stopped the music at 3AM. And that's with the extra hour we gained from the time fall back. Yes, we killed it and everyone had a great time.

Good to be back alive.

The Sunny Side

2009-10-19T07:13:00.000-07:00

It was a cold and rainy weekend. (No, this is not the first line line of a romance or mystery novel).

I used to look at these kind of days as unproductive, dreary and a waste of a day. But not anymore. Not after battling cancer and coming out on the sunny side, the side that is full life and not darkened by death. Every day is a good day. It is up to me to make it the best day ever.

Now some of you might say, "oh yeah, Mr. Sunshine! Well let me tell you about my crappy life!" I understand. Been there myself. I'm a cynic at heart. It's hard when you don't have a job, the bills are piling up and then it rains all weekend and all you have is the TV or the confines of your house. It's easy to wallow in self pity, look for someone to "make it all better" for you or bitch and complain about how tough you have it. Let me tell you something, we all have stuff to deal with that makes life challenging. And who is to say my problems are worse than your problems?

cancer has a way of bringing out the best of you when you live through it. I'm sure there are cancer survivors who would disagree with me––I've posted this before––but cancer turned the viewfinder around on me. The emotional side effects from cancer have actually made me stronger. Made me appreciate the smile on Teresa's face. The laughter of my children. The hugs from my Grandkids. Make me stop and hear the wind blowing through the trees and watch the leaves come cascading down to the ground. I choose to thank a higher power every day I wake up. Because it's a new day of opportunity. A new day to give thanks to those who have helped me through the cancer course that was trying to kill me. So even though the weekend was somewhat of a washout, I had a great weekend.

I'm alive.

Friends

2009-10-12T17:42:00.000-07:00

I had dinner the other night with one of, if not my best friend, Fred.

Fred and I have been through a lot together. We met over 20 years ago at work, working in the ad business and working our asses off as we were trying to move up the so called ranks. It was an instant friendship, as we both came from similar backgrounds but grew up 3,000 miles apart. He started in the business sweeping floors, cleaning the stat camera and running errands for the owner. I started in the mailroom stocking the Coke machines, sorting mail, moving furniture and running film back and forth from Downtown LA to Hollywood. We both wanted to be in the creative department, making ads and commercials and working with our brains instead of digging ditches or some other form of manual labor. And the odds were against us for many reasons.

As we sat across each other, I began to tell him some things I never told him. And for that matter, never told anyone except for Teresa. I told him the struggles I had as I was going through my treatment. Why? We were talking about the old days, trying to remember some names and faces from 20+ years. Facebook has helped our memories, as John had posted some shots from our JWT days. As we usually do, the conversation covered a lot of ground until I told him that the chemo and radiation had done some damage to my memory. He laughed and said, "oh man, that can't happen. I've always relied on you to put the names and faces together. You never forgot any of that stuff. I do, and I didn't have chemo!"

For some reason I told him that the gaps were being closed, but that some may never be filled. I told him about the times I stayed up all night, sitting in the bathroom vomiting and crapping at the same time. I told him of the times I summoned the ever-powerful will of my mind, convincing myself to hang on until the morning so I could be alive another day. If only I could see daylight, I knew I would live another day. And with another day, there was hope of many more to come.

The look on Fred's face was one of amazement, shock and empathy all at once. All he could say was, "Man." He didn't have to say anything. I knew when I was going through the treatments, he was there for me. He didn't bother me all the time or tell me he knew how I felt or how he knew someone else who had cancer and what they went through. He was just there whenever I needed him. I felt his support, prayers and friendship. He, like a lot of my friends––Ted, Jeffrey, Larry, Tom, Francis, Ben, Richard, Craig, Mick, Lance––called when they felt it, talked to me when I needed it and visited when I was beating the hell out of the cancer. And there were so many more people and friends, waaaaaay to many to list, who were there for me.

Thank God, for my friends. I never would have made it without them.

Workaholic

2009-10-02T12:26:00.000-07:00

I'm worried about you.

When I woke up yesterday morning, my Wife grabbed my arm in bed and told me this. I knew what she was talking about. But I asked her anyway what she meant. You've been working too much. I have. Four days off––including weekends––in the month of September. Last time I worked like this, I got cancer. It could've been there the whole time or maybe it was just coincidental but this stretch of working 15 hour days––leave my house before 7 am, get home between 9 and 10 pm––brings back painful and scary memories.

Stress, a compromised immune system and not eating when you're supposed to eat are cancer ignitors. They fuel the cancer cells we all have in our body and they attack. In tumors. In your body. In my head & neck. That's why Teresa is worried. That's why she reminded me about working too hard. She said what I've been thinking about all along––I can't be working like this. It's not good for my health. But that's hard for people to understand, especially those at work. I look like I'm healthier. I act like I've put the cancer behind me. I know the threat of cancer coming back is always there.

Funny thing is, I used getting back to work as a motivator to beat the cancer. During treatments, I would imagine myself on the positive side of cancer, being cancer free and back to work creating. It's what I love to do. It's what I do best, like it or not. It's what can make me relapse. Look, I don't wake up every day and say, "boy, can't wait to put in another 14-15 hours today." But I do wake up every day knowing that today is ALL I HAVE. I just have to work on making every day more than just work.

Yep, can't get away from the word "work."

Stick It To Me

2009-09-23T07:28:00.000-07:00

This is my anniversary of the start of chemo. And was the continuation of a fear I've had forever.

Not the fear you might be thinking about––cancer is a big fear, undoubtedly––but I have a huge fear of needles. Hate 'em. Would rather be chased with a meat clever held by Usain Bolt. In fact, sometimes I thought the nurses who couldn't "find a good vein" would break out another instrument of pain in trying to find the perfect spot to inject the poison they were putting into my body to kill the disease that was REALLY trying to kill me. During my treatments––radiation, chemo, oral surgery, exploratory surgery, follow-ups, check-ups––I've been stuck with needle more times than I'd like to remember. Most of them were successful. And there were quite a few times I was poked 3 times in each arm just to "find a good vein". (Go to Being Cancer, and read the post about Evan Handler's book).

This Friday, I have signed up to get a flu shot at work. (Don't worry, a hospital and real Doctors and Nurses will be administering the shots). And the first thing I thought about is "getting stuck with a needle". Really. I've had a tube in my stomach for 10 months, had 35 radiation treatments, had three tubes shove down my throat all the way to my liver, emergency gall bladder surgery, three skin cancer surgeries and four teeth yanked out of my head WITH PLIERS and I'm worried about a stick in the arm––hey, I'd rather get the shot in my ass, but I'm pretty sure these will be done out in the open and baring my ass at work might not be "PC"––because did I mention I hate needles?

So I'm going to try to be a big boy on Friday. Not look at the needle being stuck in my arm. Not look at the nurse or doctor. Not yell out "son of a bitch"––which I've done before. I'm going to take the attitude of, "c'mon, bring it!"

I think.

Swayze

2009-09-15T11:06:00.000-07:00

I remember when I heard the news of Patrick Swayze being diagnosed with cancer.

Why would the news of an actor who I never met, place an indelible mark in my memory? Because when you have cancer, there is a connection that almost automatically happens. And from what I had read about Mr. Swayze, he was a good human being. A good Husband. And that was good enough for me. He married his wife in his early 20's, just like me. And his Wife, was totally dedicated to caring for him--just like my Wife, Teresa. He was diagnosed in March of 2008. That was during the time I was recovering––still am, to be honest––and I watched him whenever he came on television or would show up in the press. He was an inspiration.

This was in the press release on his passing: "Swayze was married since 1975 to Niemi, a fellow dancer who took lessons with his mother; they met when he was 19 and she was 15. A licensed pilot, Niemi would fly her husband from Los Angeles to Northern California for treatment at Stanford University Medical Center, People magazine reported in a cover story." Now you may think that of course, your spouse always stays at your side during the cancer battle. Well, you would be wrong. The "interweb" is full of stats and stories of how people just can't deal with having a loved one suffer through cancer. The reasons, are endless.

cancer touches EVERYONE. It's a nasty, frightening, confusing, depressing, unforgiving disease. If you let it, it will destroy everything in your life and try to suck the life out of those around you. The Swayzes didn't succumb to that. Mr. Swayze fought hard, lived hard and kept his optimism right in your face. He forced us to watch him battle, watch him do what he loved most––entertain. I will always admire him for that. And his Wife, Niemi, has to be one of the strongest people on the planet. Just like my Teresa.

Here's to you, Patrick Swayze. I know you had the time of your life.

Trusting Your Gut

2009-09-14T13:06:00.000-07:00

We all have an inner voice. Now before you think I still have an imaginary friend at the advanced age of 51, let me explain myself.

I "discovered" I had cancer in the shower. No, it wasn't a previously undetected lump that I discovered. I had a small "bump" on the right side of my jaw, just below my ear which I thought was caused from being sick with a very bad cold. I've posted about this before, but my "inner voice" kept asking me a question: why do I feel like I have cancer? That's some pretty heavy duty shit. And to some, I'm sure, pretty hard to believe. But it's the God's honest truth. If it wasn't, I wouldn't be at the keyboard right now. I'd be six feet under or spread over the outfield of Dodger Stadium as my ashes became a fixture at Chavez Ravine.

But this isn't about that day in the shower that saved my life. This is about having to present myself and my group at work in front of the new Big Boss. And this was a big moment for myself and the group who works with me––and I wanted to crush it and hit it out of the park. (Sorry, I have baseball play-off fever and it's on my mind). We've been doing some really great work lately. And I wanted everyone to know it.

So I agonized. Wrote down stuff. Wrote down stuff others wanted me to say. Got on the defensive. Went on the offensive. Talked to myself––my inner voice was NOT paying much attention at the time––and even juiced up on more caffeine. I wasn't nervous. I was anxious. I love the stage. I love being able to share work that others have created. It's a positive blast to the ego, and we can all use that every now and then, right? Then about 15 minutes before we were on, one of my co-workers walks in and says, "we only have 2 minutes? What do we say that they already don't know?"

After he walked away, my inner voice finally spoke up––about time, rat bastard––and gave me the same advice Denny Kuhr gave me 20 years ago. Go with what you know. Speak from the heart and the head will follow. Forget trying to script it or spin it or spew out somebody else's words from my mouth. I know this stuff. I live this stuff. I love doing what I'm doing. I don't know exactly where my "inner voice" lives inside my body. My head? My neck? My feet? No.

Right where it should've been all along. Right in my gut.

Losing My Voice

2009-09-04T09:33:00.000-07:00

The emotions ran so deep, I couldn't talk about finding out my cancer free news.

OK, I'll admit. I cried like a baby. I cried every time I told someone––Teresa, my Dad, my co-workers who could see something happened to me. Ever since being diagnosed with cancer on August 7, 2007, I have had my emotions on the surface more than usual. (Alright, stop it. Just stop it those of you who know that I'm an "expressive" person already. Now you're even more so? Please). Why? Maybe all those years of building my "street face" had blocked out a lifetime of emotions. You can't let people who instinctively or who have learned to recognize fear know you're scared. Or let them see any emotion. That is a sign of weakness. A big neon sign that says, "ass-kickings here."

But tears of joy are a completely different animal. They feel different. They roll out of your eyes differently. They swell up, flood your vision and flow down your cheek, as if it's a soothing stream straight from your soul. I still feel my lids getting heavy, just writing about it. I still can't believe all the things I have had to endure. Every day. Every week. Every time my body got tweaked out of it's normal routine. It's been a hard 2 years+. It's been an emotional time. It's been bonus time, because I consider every day I wake up a GREAT DAY.

Being cancer free now doesn't mean I am free of worry. Or fear. Or all physical side effects and ailments that cancer has left for me forever. It does mean I'm farther away from the big battles. I'm healthier. Happier. I am more loving. More passionate. More emotional, so much so that I can't talk about how happy I am because I just can't verbally express my happiness. It's a good thing I have this blog, so I can share my voice but not my red, swollen eyes.

I hope you can hear my voice through my words.

cancer Free

2009-08-27T15:52:00.000-07:00

The results are in. No cancer. Thank God. This is all I can write due to overwhelming emotion of happiness.

And worried the tears will short circuit my computer.

We. Us. Together.

2009-08-23T09:18:00.000-07:00

It was pouring rain. So bad, Teresa was clutching to the car door and was as stiff as a board. We could hardly see 10 feet in front of us.

There was no getting off the Toll Road or pulling over. I had to get my every 6 month PET Scan. I had to be there in 20 minutes. I had to drive through the monsoon no matter what. This was a big one––the scan, not the weather––that would tell me if cancer had returned. Or not. So no backing out now. No excuses. Just do it. (Hey, I think I've heard that before). Drive, baby, drive. "I'm glad you're driving and not me", said Teresa. I had to chuckle inside, because the pouring rain was taking her mind off of having to go with me. These tests/scans have a way of really screwing my body up––no caffeine, no sugar, no exercise, limited carbs for 24 hrs, nothing to eat or drink at all 6 hrs before except water––and the test takes about 3 hrs.

When we get there, the rain stops. That's weird. What was even weirder––that's a word, right?––was the place was a mess. They were putting in a new camera I found out later. Seems the other one wasn't working. And there were construction people walking all over the place, yelling, moving, banging and just complete chaos. It was like something out of MASH. So after they stick me in the arm and shoot the dye in my body and keep me in a almost dark room for 45 minutes, they come and get me. The technician says, "follow me. We have to take you to a trailer." WTF? A trailer? Are they gonna give me test or take me to trailer park? In this weather? Isn't Hurricane Bill coming by? Isn't a trailer THE WORST place to be when the winds get nasty?

After the long walk down the entire length of the building, they walk me into a huge trailer, with all the bells and whistles. I see the monitors. I see a dude in some scrubs. I see the tube that will house my body and check for cancer. Once again, I had to chuckle inside. Weird shit happens to me all the time, so much so, that I've come to expect and accept it. Why fight it, right? Just roll with it, chalk it up to experience and live to tell the story another day––tough way to post something interesting––with the emphasis on living. By now, my head is pounding. It feels like hammering cement. Ever take a hammer to cement? Man, oh man-a-chevits.

Once I'm done, I have to sit in a chair for 10 minutes while they check and see if the scan worked. Again, WTF? Then I realized, it's a trailer, man. And the worst is over––sort of, because my head is still pounding. The tech says, "OK, I'll see you tomorrow" as he walks out the door with a big trash bag. Yeah, real funny dude. He thinks he fakes me out and then says, "I'm kidding, you can go now." So I walk out the trailer into the sunlight, down the hall and go through the front door to get Teresa, who has been patiently waiting for me for about 3 hrs. She looks up like, "what are you doing coming in the front door." I tell her my journey and we both have a laugh.

The drive home is much less adventurous. But I'm not feeling well at all. Now my stomach is starting to do back flips and my head has gone from a hammer to an ice pick being driven into my head with a hammer. When we walk in the front door, Teresa says to me, "so if this one comes back clean, we don't have to go back for another year, right?" Yes. That's right. The thought of not having to go through this for another year sounded good. But was even better was that Teresa said "we". Because that truly is the other side of cancer. Those you love, those who love you, those who are your friends and co-workers and all who count on you are right there, feeling things that they can't explain and don't want to. Those people make it worth fighting cancer EVERY DAY.

We. Us. Together.

Back In The Tube

2009-08-20T15:27:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow is a very big day. Early morning preso to the Big Boss. And a PET Scan.

I've been trying to post my feelings about the PET Scan for a few days now. But I have sooooo many thoughts running through my head that putting them in writing has been difficult at best. Why? I'm glad you asked. It's because I'm an emotional lightening rod. (My friend Steve calls me "Broken Arrow"). I'm a tell-it-like-it-is kind of person. I'm honest––which is both good and bad––and many people can't handle that. And probably most important of all, I think the chemo is finally leaving my body.

My mind has been racing for weeks. Thinking about my family. Thinking about my work––I haven't been happy there recently. Thinking about what's really important in life. Thinking about what others are thinking about. Thinking about the skin cancer I had frozen off two weeks ago. Yeah, like I said, a racing mind. And these are only the highlights. Or lowlights. Because I know I've been distant from those close to me. Not intentionally. But as a result of trying to put my life into perspective, I've been trying to steal some alone time. (Nothing personal, everyone. Just living in my own private Idaho. It's what I do).

Funny, I will have about 3-4 hours alone time tomorrow. I'll get some stuff pumped into my veins, shoved in a tube for an hour or so and of course, do it all almost naked in a cold room with a complete stranger. So that will be a time for reflection.

And praying that my body is cancer free. On the inside.

Take Your Clothes Off

2009-08-10T15:08:00.000-07:00

"When you take your clothes off, get in the chair." I'm pretty used to hearing that by now. But when it's you skin cancer Doctor that says that, it makes you wonder.

I had the full body scan today, every mole checked, every uneven patch of skin and every red spot looked at very closely. They even checked my head. And that's where they found it––right above my right eyebrow. A "cancer forming spot", said the Doc. "So I'm just going to freeze it. Keep your head still and WHAM!" (Well, he didn't go WHAM. This isn't Emril, this is my Doctor.) He shot it with liquid nitrogen. At about -350º. Yes, that's MINUS. (What's with all the shouting today?). It's called Cryotherapy. Isn't that what they used on Walt Disney?

Man, talk about a brain freeze. Imagine the worst brain freeze you've ever had. Now add an ice pick and a nail––and double it. Felt like a hockey puck hit me. Felt like my eyeball was frozen. Felt like that for about 15 minutes. Then it only hurt when I opened my right eye. It's been almost three hours since, and I'm now thawing out. Having some visual adjustment problems––fancy words for blurred vision for a second when I turn my head.

Now the people at the Skin Cancer Center of Northern Virginia are great, but I'm glad they didn't give me the purple sheet of paper before I got the brain freeze. The purple paper said, "When you leave our office, the freezing site will probably be red and swollen, and it may sting and itch as it thaws. Expect the site to look worse over the next few days before it gets better. Swelling and/or blistering often develop within a couple of hours after the treatment. 2-3 days after treatment a scab will probably form which will then take 7-10 days to fall off, leaving a pink smooth area." All I could think of was those ED commercials, "if you have an erection for more than 4 hours, seek medical help immediately." LMFAO.

So there I was, with a gown on and in my underwear and a quick shot in the head with liquid nitrogen. And if that weren't enough they were training someone, so I had an audience as they were telling me everything that was on the purple paper. Happy Monday! And I had to take my clothes off for this? At least next week, they'll shoot me with sugar water and other stuff so they can do a PET Scan and see if the cancer is still gone inside my body.

I'll have to take my clothes off, again. But I'm pretty sure they won't shoot me in the head with liquid nitrogen.

Time Flies When You're Living

2009-08-09T16:04:00.000-07:00

It has been two years since I first heard, "I wish I had better news", and my life changed forever. August 7, 2007. The day cancer came knocking on my door and said "tag, you're it".

The fact that I'm even writing this is a minor miracle in itself. Well, it's probably not a miracle. I didn't see a burning bush or Mother Mary in a dirty screen in a window. But it is spectacular on some level, right? The first time you hear that you have cancer, it seems like time gets all jacked-up. It speeds up. It slows down. It doesn't exist while you try to. Time gets in this place of not being important and at the same time being the most important thing in your life.

How many times have you said to yourself, "if I only had more time". "I don't have the time." "That's a waste of time." "Next time." Now I don't want this to sound like some mushy every-second-of-life-is-precious spew. It's just that these days I'm giving myself more time. More time with my Wife. More time with my kids. More time with family. More time to stop and really smell the roses and flowers on my pathway that greets me and sends me off into the world every day. I just have to remind myself sometimes to slow down.

After two years, I'm still getting scanned, poked, tubes up my nose and neck squeezes. Which I say, sure beats the alternative. I'm starting the next round of Greg Gets Checked For cancer tomorrow and for the next two weeks. If I get through cancer-free, then the scans go from 6 months to a year.

What a way to live.

Sound Of Music

2009-07-30T08:30:00.000-07:00

No, this is not about singing on a hill with Julie Andrews.

I was walking into work today and heard someone playing the harmonica. Sounded a lot like Bob Dylan's The Times They Are A-Changing, so I had to look and see who was playing. It was a woman. A woman who lived on the street. She was dressed in all white––at least it was all white at one time––and had her head back and eyes closed as she whaled away on the "harp".

I was both stunned and in awe. Stunned that someone in such dire straits was playing with a happy soul. In awe of her talent. She didn't seem to have a care in the world. She didn't seem to mind that she was drawing attention to herself. Maybe that was what she was trying to do––make people notice her. And people did. Scowls, mouths opening and people walking the other way to avoid her. I just kept heading straight to get something to eat. And then snapped out of my self-induced funk as I kept thinking about The Harmonica Lady.

It's funny how certain events, experiences and quick glimpses of life make you stop and think. I've been thinking about my future. Today. Tomorrow. Next year. I have a PET Scan coming up in 3 weeks. It will be 2 years since my cancer diagnosis, next week. I feel the best I've felt physically in a very long time––about 2 years. But my mental state of mind has been fragile. Questioning. Wondering. Searching. Am I close to "beating" cancer? Will it come back? Have I changed through all this for the better or worse? As I said, lots on my mind.

The sound of the harmonica woke me up. The vision of someone who is in such dire straits snapped my ass back to reality. I have it really good. Really, really good. I'm alive. I have a wonderful family. I have a great job. What the hell is wrong with you, Greg?

I just needed to stop and listen to the music. And enjoy life's special little moments.

More Than A Blog?

2009-07-21T12:02:00.000-07:00

It was a year ago, almost to the day, that I started posting. Yeah, amazing.

When I decided to start my blog, I did so with very little expectation and even less encouragement. A colleague of mine––who will go unnamed––discouraged me TWICE when I approached this person about blogging. I was seeking advice and hoping for a little boost to get me going. I received this response: "it's a LOT of work. I'm not sure you can keep it up." And this nugget: "you have to understand how social media works." At the time, I was still feeling the side effects from cancer on a daily basis––extremely dry mouth, chemo brain and very little muscle tone and strength––and trying to kick start my creative juices, as I was beating my head against the wall trying to do great work at my job and I really, really needed to create something that I would be proud to share.

As I walked through the process of beginning my blog––which was made sooooo easy because of the people at blogger.com––I had to write a brief profile of myself. And I despise writing about myself, my accomplishments and my contributions. (This subject is for another post). But I did manage to write this, "I'm your average person. I'm married with four children and two grandchildren. I get up every day and go to work just like millions of other people. I do want to end cancer in my lifetime. By sharing my experiences, thoughts and relationships I hope in some small way that others may benefit."

Thanks to those of you who read my ramblings, one or two people have expressed how much they enjoy reading my blog. How it has helped them smile again. Understand what their loved one is going through. Know what's going on in the head of a person who has cancer––at least my head. And thanks to all of you who inspire me to keep writing, I will continue. Because as I have found out, this has become more than words on a computer screen. This is my outlet. My comfort zone. My connection to others, so I can keep in touch. I also feel very lucky to have lived long enough to have a year of posts under my belt.

Has this blog been a lot of work? No. A lot of love. Hope. And personal satisfaction.

A Dog's Life

2009-07-12T16:56:00.000-07:00

I have three dogs. So I guess you could say I'm a dog lover.

Pets have a way of becoming an important part of your family––even if it's just you and them. I've had dogs most of my life. Baby. Gypsy (Teresa's dog, actually). Ricky. Malcolm. Roxi. And now, Tedi, Lola and Barnaby. Lola and Barnaby are rescue dogs. OK Greg, what's the deal with writing about dogs? A lot of people don't even like dogs or have never had one as a pet. But then again, no one but me has Tedi.

Tedi is the biggest Cockapoo our vet has ever seen. He's the mellowest, kick back dog I have ever seen. He hangs out with everyone. He doesn't bark very often or whine. He doesn't get in the trash. He doesn't dig. So what does he do? He loves me. He loves our family. He loves who we love. How do I know? Tedi is one of the reasons I survived cancer. He was there with me the whole time. He laid at the foot of my bed when I couldn't get up. He kissed my face when I looked at him––his love is unconditional.

So why am I writing about Tedi? I thought he was dying Saturday morning. He woke me up about 5:30 AM, trying to get up. His legs weren't working. He was struggling to get up from the floor next to my bed. He was freaking out. He was dying? Teresa and I put him on our bed. I had to piss like a racehorse––hey, I just woke up and that's what I always do when I first wake up––and while I was in the bathroom, Teresa carried Tedi down stairs. (Tedi weighs about 40 lbs). I had no idea what to do. We had no idea what to do, except make sure Tedi didn't die.

Now Tedi isn't an old dog––he's 5––and he's as healthy as they come. But his heart was racing, he was drooling and he was fighting us to get up, as we both were holding him down and making sure he wasn't having a heart attack or a stroke or whatever was happening to him. We gave him water by hand, which he sort of licked up. We were trying to calm him down. I started to pray. I couldn't loose Tedi. He couldn't die. Not now. Not in my arms. Not today. He did calm down a bit and went outside to "do his business." He seemed OK. Until he fell down again. I ran to get him and he fell on his back. He looked like he was dying.

Tedi never cried or yelped or whined. But he did do one thing that I'll never forget. He looked at my eyes. He gave me a kiss on my cheek. And most important of all, he lived. In fact, he lying at my feet as I'm writing this post. I think he knows I'm writing about him. I think he's the best dog, ever. I can't think about yesterday without almost tearing up. I know he's only a dog.

But he's my dog. And his life has made my life so much better.

A Vacation From cancer

2009-07-02T12:58:00.000-07:00

I recently took my first vacation since my cancer journey––and the other health issues that resulted from chemo, radiation, tubes and all the meds they pumped into my body.

I've spent most of my vacation time the last two years in surgery, recovery, follow-up Doctor visits with all 7 of my Docs and in the hospital having tubes shoved down my throat and stuck in my arms. Yes, everyone should have as much fun as I did! But you have to have cancer first! (Please note the extreme sarcasm that's flowing from my fingers to the keys to the screen).

My family from LA came to visit for 6-7 days. They stayed with us, which was great and we got to spend a lot of time with the East Coast & West Coast extended family. We went to Annapolis and ate lunch on the water. (OK, we didn't eat on a boat, but if Jeff leaned back about 6 inches, he would've been in the Bay). We took the short tour of DC––some walking, some driving––and even saw the White House from the front and back. We went to the Delaware shore for 24 hrs. And we ate, and ate and ate and grilled and noshed and had a week long feeding frenzy. We talked about the good times. The not so good times. The good family memories. And of course, the family memories we wish we could forever forget but will forever be with us as long as we're alive.

After I dropped off my family at the airport in plenty of time to catch their plane––insert inside joke here––and I hugged them and fought back a tear, I got in my car and drove back home. On my way home, I thought about the new experiences we just had and will talk about the next time we get together. And I also came to realize a break through––I didn't think about cancer while they were here. Oh, I had a moment or two with my Dad––also a cancer survivor like myself––about my seemingly permanent side effects. But I actually had a few cancer-free days in my head. No worries about if or when it will come back. No thinking about me and my cancer––although I WAS keeping my eye and brain on Teresa's recovery from skin cancer surgery––and letting my mind drift. Yeah, it was a welcome break. A long moment of normal. A few days of just l-i-v-i-n-g. Wow, it felt great.

Can't wait until my next vacation.

OK, This Is Not Funny Anymore.

2009-06-16T17:47:00.000-07:00

What the hell is going on?

The last 24 hours have been very tough. I think God is trying to test me. Again. I know I'm not the only person with troubles, but it seems like I'm on a game show––Let's Make Him Squeal! Some of you will read this and say, "how you didn't tell me?!?!" Because I'm trying to sort it out myself. It started with Travis being rushed to the hospital––"Dad, I'm at the Fire Station across from my work. They're taking me to the hospital because I feel like I'm having a heart attack."––and me running out of a client meeting, around my office and through the streets of DC like a madman. I got there so fast, they didn't even have Travis listed at the front desk. (He's home, after an EKG, x-rays, two blood tests and oxygen. But we still have a Dr appointment tomorrow morning).

This morning, I took Teresa to have skin cancer removed from one of two spots on her face. They had to cut her twice, as the first part of her surgery didn't get all the cancer so they had to go back in. Next Tuesday, we do it all over again as she has one spot removed just below her left eye. She's tough. But it hurts me to my soul to see her in pain. Give it to me. I can handle that. Hell, they've cut me so many times and stuck so many needles in me the last two years that it ain't no thing. And work is EXPLODING, with so many things happening at once. It's a good thing I don't drink––well, at least not heavily––or I'd be into a bottle of Maker's Mark right about now.

Right now, I wish cancer was something I could hit. 'Cause I'd beat the shit out of it until my hands hurt. Or until it was dead. I'm past being tired of hearing the word cancer. I'm just out and out pissed. My Irish-Mexican temper/passion is flowing at an all-time high. I haven't been this pissed since I was beating the carp of my best friend on the playground at Holy Trinity in 8th Grade. I got so mad, because Bengie had a splint on his finger and he took a swing at me. Cut me on the side of my face. I went ballistic. I was so mad I temporarily blacked out, coming to as I was on top of him slamming his body into the playground floor, with 3 guys trying to pull me off of him. It was right then and there I realized I needed to control my emotions and temper. I would be dead today if I hadn't controlled it through the years. Yes, it's a scary thing to write about and admit. But I'm in a much better place these days. Except when it comes to cancer.

I have to stop writing now. I'm getting all worked up and I need to keep my wits about me and take care of my Son and Wife. This is serious business. And not funny at all. I think I'll watch some George Carlin.

Now that's funny.

Can't Wait To Be Born

2009-06-08T07:07:00.000-07:00

Ryan was 26 on Saturday. Ryan is my second oldest Son, and 26 years ago he had quite a journey before he was born.

I was an instant Dad when I got married, so having a Son was not entirely new to me. But watching my Wife go through her pregnancy was whole different experience for me. I was fascinated, amazed, proud and scared to death. What is my kid going to look like? Boy or Girl? (We didn't want to know before this child was born, just wanted to know that he/she was healthy along the way.) Am I ready for this? I was only 25 years-old. Talk about life changing.

As Teresa was in her 7th month––3rd trimester––of pregnancy, she started to get really sick to her stomach. She didn't feel well for a week. I had not idea if this was normal or not, and remember asking her if I should worry. She said "I didn't feel this way with Adam." OK, now what, I thought. She didn't get better as the week progressed. She went to her Doctor, who said there was nothing wrong. OK, this guy should know, right? Wrong. She was getting worse. So bad, that she was paralyzed with pain one late night. I didn't know what to do. (This was before cell phones and the Internet. So I was at the mercy of her Doctor). So I called the Dr's on call number. No response. I was panicking. What next?

I couldn't take Teresa to the hospital myself. Because our only car had broken down and I couldn't fix it until pay day and the weekend. Crap! So I called 911. They sent an ambulance. And when they came, they couldn't fit the gurney into my bedroom. So four firemen and EMT's carried Teresa, almost 7 months pregnant, to the gurney and away she went. I can't remember for the life of me how I got to the hospital, but I think it was my Brother-in-law, John, who lived down the street with Teresa's Sister, Connie, while Connie came down and watched Adam.

It turned out Teresa needed to have an emergency appendectomy. While pregnant. With Doctors who were somewhat guessing, as they said they only perform 2-3 of these a year. And we were in LA, so that was pretty rare. Teresa was in no shape to make a decision. I had to choose: we could wait and see what it was and risk losing Teresa and Ryan or we could operate (the Docs, not me) and take a chance. Take a chance? Thanks for the alternative. So they went in. Got the appendix out. They both lived through. Me, barely. The Doctor said, "and your Boy is healthy." We were having a Boy? Awesome.

I went home from the hospital. (Still don't know how I got home, because I had been up for about 30 hours at that time). And my neighbor greeted me at the gate––we lived in a front & back duplex––and told me be careful when I go in my place. WTF? We had been robbed. He and us. So in the span of 48 hours, I had my car break down, almost lost my Wife & unborn Son and now my house was robbed. And it was a mess. I had to call the LA Sheriff when I got home.

So when Ryan was born on June 6, I was extremely calm. Even told Teresa when she told me it was time to go to the hospital, "just let take a shower." LET'S GO NOW! 45 minutes later, Ryan was born. It was that fast. He wanted out. He wanted to get moving. And he hasn't stopped since, 26 years later. I don't know what I would've done without Ryan's concern, yet rational thinking and actions while I was going through cancer treatment. He was there when I needed him. He knew I would beat it. He said he couldn't wait until I was better so we could go to a game again. That's my Ryan. Can't wait for the next thing to happen.

And that's why I love him so much.

Lucky Man

2009-06-05T09:06:00.000-07:00

ELP penned a song called "Lucky Man." And while the lyrics are not an exact fit, that's how I feel as Husband, to my Wife Teresa.

Yesterday was her birthday. I won't tell you how old she is, but she is younger than me––which she reminds me constantly after I have my birthday until she has hers. So, yeah, I'm married to a younger woman. Robbing the cradle. Running a day care. Living with a trophy wife. All of those cliche's.

Usually, I would write an ode or post on the day of my most loved ones B-Days. (And usually my posts have something to do with cancer––which this does, in a roundabout way). But I didn't want to take any time away from Teresa, any more than I have to because of work or getting to and from the job. I wanted to spend every moment I could with her on her special day. It was her birthday, but I was getting the present. I was getting a chance to spend one more day with Teresa, getting to see her, touch her, just BE with her. There was no other place I would rather be.

I am still amazed to this day with how much I love this woman. It may sound like a Hollywood movie script, but I remember the circumstances that lead up to me meeting Teresa. I just got a job in the mailroom of a really hot ad agency, Chiat/Day, in Los Angeles. I didn't know this agency was THE place to be, because I just needed a job and I didn't care what I was going to do. I was getting thrown out of my rented house––owner was selling the place––I was working as an inside sales assistant at a drapery manufacturer––"do you want those pin pressed and fan folded?"––and I had just broke the chains of a relationship with a psycho-bitch who put the "freak" in "freaky". (And I'm not talking about hip-hop freaky. The "boiling a rabbit on the stove, Fatal Attraction kind of freaky). Yeah, what a catch I was making $850/month, working in the mailroom and getting ready to sleep in Griffith Park for the next 5-6 months.

I was stopped at a traffic light at 5th & Grand Ave. in Downtown L.A., in the Chiat/Day company pick-up truck on my way to drop off some film to get developed. I put my hands up in the air, looked up towards the headliner of the truck and screamed, "Dear God, please help me out here. Can't you send me a normal woman who I won't have to sleep with one eye open anymore?" (See, sounds waaaaay too Hollywood-esque). So after I came back from my messenger run, I took a walk around the office. As I got to the back of the place to check and see if the Coke machine needed re-stocking, I saw her. She turned around just as I turned the corner. Our eyes locked. I smiled. She said, "hi." Not hello. Not hey. Didn't turn away. Just a "hi" and a smile back. I knew right then and there––I had to get to know this woman. And I had to move fast. Was it by chance? Was it fate? Was I just at the right place at the right time? Was I lucky?

Yes, yes, yes, yes. Happy Birthday, Teresa. You give me presents every day, whether you know it or not.

Gettin' Poked

2009-06-01T07:58:00.000-07:00

No, I haven't switched to writing porn.

I'm talking about a date with a needle, one of many in the last two years with more to come. For the record, I hate needles. Which is not a good thing when you're going through chemo and radiation because of cancer. But here I was again, on Thursday of last week, getting a needle shoved into my arm for some blood work.

This all started Mother's Day, as I got real sick real fast after grillin' for the family. I had body aches, a very high fever and my throat was dry––drier than normal––and sore as hell. And that scared the crap out of me. When my throat gets jacked up, that's when I worry. So I went to the doctor's office of my GP. He was unavailable, so I had another Doc. Never seen her before. And she had never heard of my wild story of cancer––in my tonsils, caused by HPV, tube in my stomach for 10 months, gall blabber, etc.––so it was very uncomfortable for the both of us. Why? Ever notice when you're telling someone something that you THINK they should know about––in this case, some knowledge about cancer––and they look at you with that "whoa, this is new stuff to me!" kind of look? Yeah, that our conversation. And it didn't make me feel better at all.

She couldn't find anything wrong with me, testing me for strep throat and H1N1 flu. Nothin'. They didn't know what was wrong with me. That's when she suggested I see my oncologist. What the hell does that mean? I tried to listen to what else she had to say, but I was semi-shocked to hear her say that. You DO NOT want to hear, "I think you should see the cancer Doctors again again." So I asked her again, why do I have to see my oncologist? She said, "just like I said, it would be a good idea to see him." OK, I think it's a good idea that someone make me rich so I don't ever have to work again––but that doesn't mean jack shit. Just tell me, alright!

So I go get blood drained a week-and-a-half later. Blood work looks OK, but they want to do a closer look since I'm fatigued so much lately. What does that mean?

I will have to get poked again.

Face-To-Face With cancer

2009-05-19T08:21:00.000-07:00

Lately, I've been on a emotional roller coaster. Yesterday, I got off the coaster track and back on level ground.

Why? I don't know. I don't have all the answers. Each day is a new discovery. My visit with some amazing people yesterday was key, however. And the continued support from my colleague, Linda, has really helped as well. I met with a group that has dedicated their lives to ending cancer. Today. Tomorrow. Whatever it takes. I know that I take these wonderful human beings for granted, not giving them enough credit for their dedication, countless hours of their time and tenacity to eradicate cancer. So now, I will read my own profile every day. Because I have faith that someone, some day will make an amazing breakthrough. It's happened before––polio––and it can and will happen again.

Back to the roller coaster. What started it was Mother's Day. I was chillin' and grillin' with the family––yes, I was the one prepping, cooking and cleaning instead of the Mom of the house––when all of a sudden I go hit with a pain in my head, my throat and body aches that felt like I was hit by a semi. Snap! There it was. I could barely finish the meal. And eating what I cooked was really tough. My throat felt raw, which made it harder to swallow than normal. (Normal for me is with about 25-30% of the saliva of most people, as the radiation and treatments have severely damaged my salivary glands). I felt hotter than usual––I'm talking fever here, not "am I hot or not" hot––and was losing power, even though I was giving it all I got.

Ever since having head & neck cancer, when I get even a tickle in my throat, I get concerned. And I was really concerned, especially when the Doctor on Monday "couldn't find anything wrong. Strep test is negative and so is the H1N1 virus test. We can't find anything out of the ordinary." This, in spite of a 101.3 fever, killer body aches and the anvil throwers that were using my head as their playground. Now I was getting nervous. As I've said before, there's that little voice waaaay in the back of your head, that immediately says, "could it be cancer. Again?".

The roller coaster ride was ON. I was playing mental ping-pong. Sick, not sick. cancer, not cancer. More tests, ride it out. And as luck would have it, I have a meeting with people whose life is dedicated to eliminating cancer. Good people. Smart people––much smarter than me and undoubtedly less emotional than me! So I drove home an did what I do best. Come face-to-face with reality––I can beat anything, if it's meant to be.

Stop the roller coaster. I'm going to enjoy my life and family.

Daddy's Girl

2009-05-08T13:20:00.000-07:00

For those of you who have a Daughter or are a Daughter, you're probably smiling right now.

Today is Kaity's Birthday. At 23, she's on her way to conquering the world. She's smart––a 2-time All-Academic All Conference in college, All-Academic All Region in high school in two sports. Beautiful inside and out––she's a Special Ed teacher––and very confident. (With 3 older Brothers, you can't be insecure and shy and have survived life in our house). She's an athlete––3 sports in high school, 2 in which she was All-District and 4 years of NCAA Lacrosse, Team Captain––an avid reader, a tutor and about the toughest person I know. She almost had the tip of her finger cut off at 2 years-old––while we were on vacation in Baja Mexico––had her nose broken, battles with poly cystic ovarian disease every day and can more than hold her own in discussions on the NBA, MLB, NFL and other sports. (She wakes up and watches ESPN Sportscenter every day before work). She's even had to endure me coaching her in two sports for many years, at the youth and high school level.

Yeah, I love her.

But what I love about her most is her love for her Daddy. At 23, she still calls me Daddy. When I was going through treatments for cancer, it really hit her hard. I could see the fear, pain and helplessness is her face. In her actions. I found out I had cancer right before she was going back to college for her Senior year––August 7, 2007. She didn't want to go. She wanted to stay home with me. She wanted to help Teresa take care of me. I even overheard a few conversations the two of them had. I knew she couldn't stay. I knew it would hurt her if she saw what cancer––and the chemo and radiation––was doing to my body on a daily basis. But one thing about Kaity, when she makes up her mind it's awfully hard to get her change it––just like her Dad.

I told her that she had to go to back to college. She was so close to graduating. She was getting ready to have one of the best years of her life. She didn't care. She wanted to be with her Daddy. I remember telling her this––the best thing you can do to help me beat this thing is to go to school. I told her nothing would make me happier than watching her walk across that stage and receive her diploma. If she didn't go back, she might never finish school. I didn't after my 3rd year of college. I never finished. I know my Daughter. She'd find something else to excel in. But being a teacher and coach meant the world to her--but so did her Daddy. She had to go back.

I told her to tell her Coach that I had cancer––I knew he would watch out for her at school. He thought she was a special person. He kept an eye on her. Thank you, Bruce. I know I told you that many times. But never enough. So off she went. Graduated with a stellar GPA. Graduated with all her classmates. Roommates/teammates. On one of the most beautiful days you could ever imagine. And you know what was the best part? I was alive to see it. I will never forget it. Thank you, Kaity, for the best present you ever gave me.

No matter how old you get, you'll always be Daddy's Girl.