When Death Has A Face. Your Own.

OK, so the headline may be a bit ghoulish. But it describes the threat we face when we hear the word "cancer".

I have a family member who is in really bad shape, fighting for his life while battling this nasty, ugly and unforgiving disease. (I'm praying for you, Dan). The thoughts running through his head are hard to imagine for those on the other side, watching what cancer is doing to his mind, body and spirit. It's the main reason I started this blog over 4 years ago, to help shed light on the view from the cancer patient.

When I was diagnosed with head & neck cancer, my Wife made me promise that I would talk to her about what I was feeling and thinking. That's an extremely hard promise to keep, for many reasons. The pain and fear that comes over someone when you tell them how bad you really feel––no energy, fighting against giving up because this shit is hard and the feeling of losing control of your bodily functions and your mind––is hard to see and deal with when you're fighting. So I was judicious in what I told her and the family. And I kept telling everyone who would listen, "I'm going to be fine. I'm not ready to go. I'm going to kick cancer right between the balls and take it down." I did this just as much for myself, as for them. Why? Because I needed to hear it out loud, to motivate myself, for the people that love me, care for me. And I felt a tremendous obligation to stay alive.

I have written before there were more than a few occasions I didn't know if I would make it to the next morning light. I would stay up––usually in my bathroom trying not to throw up any more and/or trying to stay off the toilet––until the sun started to do it's thing. It was as if death was "teasing me", trying to get me to join. Strangely, I wasn't afraid––it made me more determined. I didn't want death to win. And I did look like death warmed over. Now for all of you who believe in God and/or life thereafter, this is not a denouncement––it's the human side of life that we only know all too well. And having "seen" death, it's what I felt.

And it was my face I had to face, every day.

Hard To Believe

I have been putting off writing this post until I told my family.

No, not bad news. The best news. Ever. On August 23––which also happens to by my youngest Son's birthday––I had an appointment with my ENT, Dr. Patty Lee. Dr. Lee is my last stop before my annual CT scan, with contrast. A procedure that messes up my body completely and one that I don't look forward to at all. And since it has now been five years since I was diagnosed with head & neck cancer, this was a biggie. Could the 5 year remission landmark be that close? What if they find something? Am I strong enough––physically and mentally––to handle cancer if it is there?

My appointment was at 7:30am. And since Teresa was in Los Angeles, I was going alone. I also was alone at the pathologist when I found out I had cancer––this was starting to feel somewhat familiar so of course my mind started moving like a computer operating system. Too much data, too many windows open, too much distracting me from just concentrating on asking the right questions and see what my future may hold beyond today. And of course, I waited. And waited and waited.

As I sat in the exam chair, I thought of the time five years ago, with Teresa and my Dad sitting in the two chairs to my right. This was the appointment to tell me what my options were for treatment. And some other stuff that is now a blur. I thought about what would I do if I had to get that CT scan. And then thought "what if I am alright?" Yeah, both a good and scary thought. Why scary? I had grown to depend on these people to help save my life. They are my support system. And Dr. Lee has always been a straight shooter with me––some don't like that but I want to know the truth, in plain English and what do I have to do to survive.

A knock on the door happens and in walks Dr. Lee. She has my chart and starts talking to me about my unexpected scan in March. "What happened, why did you get a scan?" I almost said, "what, it's not written down in that 10lb file of mine?" But it was early in the morning and I just said, "I wasn't feeling great and I wanted to be sure it wasn't something serious. It had been going on for 4-5 weeks." She looked in my throat for about 3-4 minutes. Checked my ear and asked about my hearing––one of the side effects of the radiation is I have some hearing loss in my right era. (And I think this is the first time I've publicly admitted that). She then looks over the chart again, with special attention to the scan results. "You don't have to see me anymore." What? "Everything looks great. You're taking great care of your mouth and teeth. You hopefully won't ever have to see me again." I'm still in a little bit of shock. I AM cancer FREE and have reached the 5 year remission mark.

I still can't believe it.

April Fools

I was working through the day yesterday, in my yard with my Wife and oldest Grandson. It was April Fool's Day and the pranks were running through my head like a kid through a sprinkler on a hot summer day.

Then I had some of the morbidly funny thoughts I have from time-to-time as a result of surviving cancer (twice). I settled on a fantasy world created as I mowed the lawn, cut & pruned some trees and pulled enough weeds to make my arms feel like Popeye after he's downed his spinach. (For those of you born in the last 30 years, you can find more on Popeye here).

I thought, "what if this whole cancer thing was an April Fool's joke?" (Yes, a very bad and cruel joke at that. But like I said, my sense of humor was at an all-time morbid high). What if I was just part of an experiment? I mean, head & neck cancer ("you mean, throat cancer or brain cancer, right?" Wrong)? Caused by the HPV virus? In Men? Yeah, it was quite unusual in 2007, as up until then conversation was centered around cervical cancer and the PAP with HPV test for young females. (My Daughter went through this, so I have some knowledge, thank you very much). What if they looked at me and said, "well, he looks like he can handle this. Let's try to kill him while we keep him alive." We'll put a feeding tube into his stomach––and make him wait for 4 weeks to figure how it works since we've NEVER seen this kind of feeding tube in a patient––cut our part of his tongue, scrape his larynx, remove his tonsils, yank 4 teeth out of his head, give him chemo right out of clinical trials and 7 weeks of radiation (35 total) WHILE we're giving him chemo every Friday for the next 13 weeks and tell him he has to miss work for the next 6 months. Oh, and just when he's finished with all that, we'll give him skin cancer, cut it out of two places (15 and 10 stitches, respectively, and two cold "burns" to remove two other danger spots) and tell him to stay out of the sun as well as out of work.

Yeah, that would've been a helluva April's Fools joke.

I'm not laughing.

Forgetting What I Forgot

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

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

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

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

If only I could remember to do that every day.

Save The Planet Or Myself?

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.

Blood Work

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.

Head Shots

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.

Sick & Tired Of Being Sick

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

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

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.

Cansurvivor

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.

The N Word(s)

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.

I Know What It Feels Like

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.

A Matter Of Control?

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.

Keepin' It Real

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.

Workaholic

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."

Face-To-Face With cancer

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

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.

Skin In The Game

Skin. Many thoughts run through your head when I mention skin?

OK, now that you've had your own personal skin flick, let's talk about skin. My skin, to be exact. A year ago, almost to the day, I heard the word skin attached to the word cancer. As in, "we got all the cancer from the skin on your neck. Let this heal a week and we'll get the other skin cancer spot on your back taken care of, OK?" Damn right it's OK! Why not get that baby off my skin right now!

As if learning you have cancer THE FIRST TIME is not bad enough, it's even more devastating, disheartening, disturbing and down right scary to hear again. After fighting through head & neck cancer, I now had to get through skin cancer? Now for those who have never had cancer, any time the word "cancer" is spoken and especially directly related to you, it's like a gunshot to the heart. Even when you beat it, you always have this voice in the back of your head: is it going to come back? When? Where? Will I have the strength--mentally, emotionally and physically––to get rid of it?

I remember the look on Teresa's face when I told her––at the Skin Doctor's Office––that I have cancer. Again. She's been through this before, with her Sisters Connie and Claudia. They both did not survive cancer, as it spread and took their lives at too young of an age. Her look was one of fear and determination at the same time. I wish her eyes would've become projectors, so I could see what she was really thinking inside of that beautiful head of hers. (Kinda like a cartoon or a superhero––we would call her "Emulsion". For film buffs, you know what that means). I knew what her heart was thinking. Not again.

So now I watch my time in the sun. I'm a disciple of SPF. Floppy hats are cool with me. Long sleeve t-shirts? I'll take 5-6. The beach? Let me put up this umbrella first. Me, a SoCal kid, running in the shadows to stay out of the sun. Does this mean I have to body surf with a wet suit? I can live in that skin. Exactly, that's what I'll do.

I'll live with it.

My Own March Madness

I love this time of year. 

NCAA March Madness. Spring. (I never thought I would know the difference between the seasons growing up in Los Angeles. We had seasons in LA––fire season, mudslide season, smoggy season, earthquake season––they were just different.)

Baseball. I can smell baseball in the air. Grilling out. Man, get me something to char a little bit, cook it over too much propane and bask in the smell of bug spray. And then you gotta take a shower because you're smelling like a funky ass mix of bbq sauce, some kind of meat, bug spray and pure sweat. Now add a wet smell and you can't take a shower fast enough. (Sorry for the smell.)

The shower is a funny place if you think about it. There you are, standing naked, with a million things that could potentially happen while you're in the shower. (Hey, let's keep this clean in case my kids are reading.) You plan your day. You sing a song you shouldn't be singing––not because it's a bad song but it's probably better sung by the one who sung it or sang it––and it makes you happy. You might even stand there and think you don't look that bad, after all. The shower is where a lot of great ideas are born. At least some of my best ones happen in the shower. It's also the place I first thought about cancer. cancer for me, that is.

It was March 2007 and I was working my ass off, working every day, 7 days a week because we were in production mode. And I was in a new job. And that is what I do to get the job done and done well. But I was tired. More tired than usual, I thought. I just need a vacation. Or just two days off in a row. Or is it something else? As a former competitive athlete, I've been through enough bumps and bruises, breaks and sprains and other weird injuries to know my body pretty well. And I knew something was really wrong. And I felt that way in the shower. Why do I feel like I have cancer? That's what I asked myself. Nah, that's crazy talk. Too many elbows to the head from playing under the boards. Why do I feel like I have cancer? This wasn't going to wash away.

That's too weird for anyone to believe, including myself. But it was too strong to ignore. I was always good at listening to my body. When something wasn't right, I knew I knew. But this wasn't a strain or break or tear or concussion. This was something waaaaaaaay bigger. I didn't want the voice in my head to drive me crazy. Thank God I listened, because they caught my head & neck cancer in the early stages. So March Madness takes on whole new meaning for me now.

I love this time of year.