Gifts That Don't Fit Under The Tree

The Holidays always come and go way to fast. The preparation––do we go for full Griswold Family decorations?, can we ALL sit at the same table, who's NOT coming this year?––is overpowering, overwhelming and over before you know.

These last couple of years have taught me more about the Holidays than all my years combined. This time of year used to mean what I call "The Great Human Taffy Pull", in reference to who I spend the Holidays with and where. It happens when you're the product of a divorce. It doesn't get any easier when you get older. It never really goes away. 

This year, I did a lot of looking and listening. My kids––Adam, Ryan, Travis & Kaity––were with Teresa and I, along with our Grand kids, Lucky & Eli. We were also fortunate to have Jen & Joey with us this year. But that meant no Sarah for the first time in at least 10 years. Yes, it was different but it was family, nonetheless. Spending time with those you love––and yes, we all love our families and we all do it in our own dysfunctional way––is what this time of year is really about.

The smiles on the faces of my big kids as they open their gifts, is priceless. The sugar induced running around the house by my little kids brings back countless fond memories and creates new ones. The meal, a wonderful menu of traditional dishes and new explorations, is always flawless. While I did capture most of the day on my Flip cam or digital camera, it's hard to capture the true moment of just being there. After my battles with cancer––and a clean biopsy result just last week from a skin cancer exam––these moments are more special than ever. Somehow, it's too bad that I couldn't have seen this before my cancer.

It was there. I just took it for granted, thinking that we've done this before and we'll do it again, right? We'll open gifts, have a few rounds of adult beverages, eat a big meal, pass out watching the Lakers-Celtics www.latimes.com/sports/basketball/nba/lakers/la-sp-lakers26-2008dec26,0,4885439.story and that will be that until next year. Unless next year never comes, as was the possibility when my cancer diagnosis and treatment almost got the best of me. My life today, is a daily gift. A gift that keeps on giving me so many unforgettable twists and turns, for better and for worse. A gift that never will fit under the tree.

Thank God, it never will.

My 3rd Nipple

Ok, it's not really a third nipple. (Some of you who know me are probably thinking, TMI right about now.) But a mole had been sprouting right in the middle of my chest FOREVER. And because of the forrest that covers my chest––hair, that is, and again I'm hearing, "hey, too much information––it wasn't getting a whole lot of attention. (Now that's funny on a whole lotta levels.)

I had my 3rd nipple removed today. I didn't know it was going to happen, but I had my 6-month check-up for skin cancer. The Doctor took a look and said, "you want this removed?" I asked if it needed to be removed. He took a closer look and said, "yeah, we better get that out." So I'm thinking I'm going to put my clothes back on and come back another day. Wrong.

"You're going to feel a little pinch." Pinch? Pinch my ass––not literally, of course. I came here for a body scan, not a removal––sounds like an old Monty Python routine The Monty Python Channel on YouTube. And what am I going to do with a gown on, my ass hanging out for everyone to see and in a chair that's about a foot or two off the ground. So he sticks me. And he starts to cut my 3rd nipple out. And of course, I can feel it. So he sticks me again with the numbing stuff. And starts to cut again. And I feel it again as he cuts it out. Just when I tell him I can still feel it––I wasn't watching him do it––he says, "we're all done. Sorry about that. But we'll get this to the lab and let you know in 7-10 days if it's cancerous."

That's OK, Doc. I'll just take my 3rd nipple back and we'll pretend this never happened. Yeah, wouldn't that be great. No pain. No worries. No biopsy. Besides, it's a great conversation piece. "Hey, did you know I have 3 nipples?"

But it doesn't work that way. It's better to know what's going on than not know at all. Since I've had skin cancer, every little mark on my body is under suspicion. I feel like I need a full-body-photo-catalog-clearly-marked-map so I can keep my sanity. I feel like I have to stay out of the sun all the time. (Maybe I could become a vampire, seeing as how popular they are these days.) I'll miss my 3rd nipple. We've had a lot of laughs over the years.

I hope I'm laughing when I get the results.

Forgetting cancer

It's sometimes hard to believe that I ever had cancer. Of course, there are many reminders––dry mouth, wacky taste buds and that hole in my stomach. That's a beauty. But it's been over a year since my last treatment. And it seems like it was another lifetime.

Maybe that's a good thing. When you find out you have cancer, it consumes your every moment. The questions are never ending. When will it be gone? Will it spread? What can I do to get it out of my body right now? What is it going to do to my family? When can I be normal? What will normal be like? Is this normal? Why? Why? Why? A thousand times, why?

In trying to fight cancer you constantly try to forget you have it, because you don't WANT to have it. No one does. No one wants you to have cancer. No one knows what it does to you. Lonely? Yes. I felt as if I didn't want other people to be burdened with the knowledge that I had cancer. I didn't want to be treated any differently. I didn't want people to stay in touch with me only because I had cancer. I didn't want my family to know the pain. I didn't want cancer to beat me, no matter what it took to stay alive. I wanted to keep it to myself.

Tomorrow is a check-up, with my skin cancer Doctor. Besides the head & neck cancer team of Doctors and the stomach Doctors, I have a skin cancer Doctor to help me fight any MORE skin cancer that might creep up on my body. Check all the moles, every inch of exposed skin. For some crazy reason, the skin cancer worries me most. And that's a cancer I can actually see! Skin cancer was caused by all those years in the sun. And being a SoCal boy, I love the sun. (It doesn't love me so much). And when I feel the warmth, I just forget everything else. Until my mouth starts to get dry and reminds me I need to find my water bottle.

No, I don't think I'll ever forget cancer. But I hope to have at least one day where I don't think about it at all.

Thanks

For my Wife.

For my Children, Adam, Ryan, Travis & Kaity.

For Lucas & Eli.

For family.

For my Mom, Dad, Angie, Wanda, Shan, Chris, Jeff and Marina.

For the God given ability to think.

For the little things.

For having a good job. (Any job, for that matter).

For having the strength to beat cancer. Twice.

For making the right decisions at the right time.

For having the intuition that I knew I had cancer––even before my diagnosis.

For good people to work with.

For best friends––Fred, Ben, Ted, Larry, Francis, Tom, & Jim.

For the opportunity to be there for others who are battling cancer.

For the love I receive every day.

For remembering all the pain––physical, emotional & mental––from my treatment.

For never forgetting how fragile life really is.

For having a new perspective.

For JB, Cap, Stevie Ramone, Andy, Lisa, Marcia, Rob, Paul, VW, Ally, Aimee, Jill, Leah, Chris, Juanita, Reem, JP, Richard, Kristin––KS & KF––Rachel, Nancy, the whole CS/DI and Sheri, who really is an angel.

For those who are fighting for our freedom.

For being alive to write this today.

Happy Thanksgiving.

87 @ 29

My Son, Adam, is 29 today. His Grandfather called him today and told him, "you can't be 29 because I'm not that old." It was a nice generational connection, as my Dad––Adam's Grandfather––and I had just talked last night. And my Dad said the same thing to me.

Being the oldest of my four kids, I knew Adam would be the most outwardly concerned of all of them. He's a Dad. A great Dad. And I saw him go through a ton of emotions through my diagnosis, treatments and various other surgeries and attacks on my body. My kids had never seen me sick for more than a day or so. And this was cancer, not the flu.

I especially watched as Adam was looking to help his Mom, my Wife. Not really knowing what to do but just be there, share his love and try to be a rock 'cause Dad's in pretty bad shape. And that's all that was needed. We just needed to be together as much as we could as a family. I know it was hard for Lucas and Eli to not be able to wrestle––or "wrassel" as Teresa calls it––with me for about a year. Having the boys around me helped me a lot.

I'm so grateful to God that Adam came into my life. He's a wonderful Son. And a lot like me––more than I think he even realizes, ha! It was great spending time with the family tonight. Even got to see Sarah, too. cancer gives you a new set of eyes, helping you see the love in family. Sure, there's going to be some strange shit, but it's your strange shit. And there's some strange pride of ownership thing going on.

So here's to you, Adam. Those who know you will know what 87 means. (Did that come out right?). It's the 29 that's obvious. Happy 29th Birthday. But you can't be 29.

I'm not that old.

Common Sense

Lately, I've been wondering how we all keep getting further away from using common sense. We seem to be overly impressed with intelligence––Mensa, PhD, MBA, Big Name College Goes Here––but somehow common sense gets overlooked. We try too hard to impress each other with our smarts.

It's funny, I'm more impressed by our new President's––OK, he's not officially our new President––common sense. He has the ability to use his God given intelligence AND common sense. I heard him talk about towns that want to pass laws banning baggy pants.  Obama said those laws are "a waste of time. Having said that, brothers should pull up their pants". http://gawker.com/5076025/youth-to-pull-up-pants-for-obama

Maybe I'm just not that smart, I don't know. I try to make things simple for myself, my family and the people I work with. The simpler, the better. Right? It drives me crazy when we try to out think what the other person will think. We try to "over intellectualize" things instead of stepping back and seeing the issue for what it really is. Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with being smart. But smart comes in many forms––street smarts, comes to mind. And Doctors. Now we're talking brain power.

Makes me chuckle, really. I have six Doctors. Well, I don't have them, they have me as a patient. Six very smart people. But man, can they make things seem complicated. When I was diagnosed with cancer, I had a ton of information being thrown at me by all these Doctors. I know I'm not the only patient who has been diagnosed with cancer, but I really had to grill some of my Doctors to get them to speak to me as a common person. I didn't spend years and years studying the human body. (Well, at least not to help cure diseases).

I wanted to know the real deal. What were my chances of surviving? Do I have to have surgery, radiation and chemo? What are the long term damages to my body? How long before I'm better? When do we start? I got all different kinds of answers from all of them. I got many opinions. I got pissed and told each one of them they better appoint a project manager, because I needed all of them on the same page. Let's get some communication here. You guys better talk to each other, check your egos at the door and come to agreement on all the shit you're doing to me. This is my life, people. Make sense?

Made perfect sense to me.

The Mask

It's my favorite holiday. Halloween. Why Halloween? You don't have to stuff yourself with food, sitting around an over-crowded table. You don't have to buy anyone a gift. And, as a bonus for those who have dysfunctional families––all of us?––you don't have to spend time with ANY family members if you don't want to. I don't think anyone says, "but it's Halloween. Our family always spends it together." (Maybe if you're still trick or treating with your kids you'll hear that. But if you've reached puberty and don't have kids, you're free baby!). Yeah, it's your time to spend however you like. And you get to dress up and be someone else. How cool is that?

We have a Halloween party every year––The Freaky Fest, so dubbed by Mr. Rick "Bubba", "Tex", "Rusty" Abel in 1982. Well, we did have a party every year until last year. In 2007, I was at the end of my treatment for cancer. I didn't have the energy or strength to have a party at my house. I wanted so bad to be well. We had a party every year, from 1981 until 2006, in California and Virginia. No matter where we lived, how good or bad the weather was or how bad the economy was, we PARTIED. This was our Mardi Gras.

So instead of bemoaning the fact that The Freaky Fest was not going to happen, I thought how could I still celebrate. How could I keep things as normal as possible, so I didn't have to show my disappointment to my family? After all, I was always the one who wanted to host the party every year, dreaming up new things to do––palm readers, astrologists, dance contests, murder mysteries, Most Disgusting Joke Contest––and generally using the party as an excuse to see people who I don't get to see very often. (And my kids are all grown up now, so they have their friends over too). My Wife & Kids tried to cheer me up by telling that we would have a Halloween Party after I was better, no matter what time of year it was. That was great, but then it wouldn't be Halloween. I am a traditionalist, ya know.

Then it hit me like a ton of bricks––I already have a mask. My mask was fitted over my face every day, keeping my head still and the radiation targeted at the tumor in my neck. Five days a week, for seven weeks I had to wear that mask. 20 minutes at a time. It made me sweat. It made me itch. But most of all, it helped me get better. So what's the big deal, right? On October 31, 2007, I was dressed as a cancer patient. Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know I was already a cancer patient with or without the mask. But it's my costume so I'll do whatever the hell I want.

This year, the party was back on. We had a great time, seeing old and new friends and sharing lots of laughs, stories, hugs and even tears. A full boat of emotions. But there was something that I never knew, until I brought out that mask to show some friends that had come into town for the party––Teresa didn't like the mask. She told me to put it away, she didn't want to see it. I asked her why. She told me it reminded her of all that I had to do to beat cancer––bad memories. Really bad memories for Teresa. To her, it was not a Halloween mask. 

It was much scarier than that.