The Camera Doesn't Lie

As the world changes, we need to keep up. We also need to pay attention to the little things that remind us the world hasn't changed that much. People still take time for granted. Laughing is better than crying––unless you're crying laughing, which Richard Pryor used to make me do. Sundays are much better during football season. And the camera doesn't lie.

I'm working on trying some new things at work––changes to stay competitive––that will surely be met with resistance. But if we don't progress, we digress. (Which I'm doing now and do very well, I might add. There I go again.) So I had the idea of presenting our ideas in video or images. Drop the keypad, put the Crackberry away and get thinking in pictures. We are SO much the visual society that we should have done this waaay back.

The idea is ironically being used for the first time on a communications effort about cancer. Yeah, ain't that a kick in the nuts. So what the hell, let's do a "documonial"––that's someone telling their story on camera because their stories are real and compelling but need to be told in a way that is NOT a testimonial. But using part of the "T" word helps sell the idea. Ya still with me?

So Aimee gets the flip-cam and we're going to see if I can tell my story of beating cancer twice in the last year in a way that will convince clients this is the way to go. We'll put it on air, online, on your desktop and on your mobile. (Soon, we'll be doing this every week and we'll wonder why it took so long.) But first we have to put it on camera and see how it flies.

It has been awhile since I've seen myself on camera or video. It's been a rough 14 months since I found out I had cancer. And I turned 50––kind of sounds like "I turned into a vampire", doesn't it––and the gall bladder being yanked out of my body hasn't helped either. I've lost at least 40 pounds and that kind of weight loss has changed the way I look.

I didn't look like myself when I saw the footage. Even though I look in the mirror every day to see if I shaved my face right and comb my hair, I didn't get the full picture until I saw the video that we needed to cut for our idea. Who is that guy on the screen? That dude isn't me. I'm the healthy looking one, the one who has always looked young for his age––I could buy a kids General Admission ticket at the Dodger Stadium until I was 15––this is my Dad. I was trying to figure out what we could do with the video to bring it to life and share as a concept. But I couldn't concentrate on anything other than the fact that THIS is how I look to my family, my friends and my work family. And then it hit me like a 15-pound bass upside the head.

The camera doesn't lie.

What You Can't See

It has been an interesting week for me, to say the least. I have started to feel better, stronger and more like my old self. I have managed to stay out of the hospital––that's something to celebrate––for three weeks. No doctors. No needles. No one poking me, looking at me like I'm going to die, no pain. At least nothing you can see. And I've had to battle, yes battle, to keep my integrity and my cool in a hostile environment. But that's another post, I'm sure.

At one time in my life, I was an athlete. I still think like an athlete––competitive, prepared, always trying to get better every day––but my body reminds me that my better days are behind me. During my days of playing just about every sport––I even played soccer for a while but don't tell anyone––I was fearless. And a little crazy. Some would say stupid.

When I was 11, I was playing quarterback at the Hollywood YMCA and dislocated my kneecap. Some kid dove right at my left knee to try and tackle me. We were playing flag football. I tried so hard not to cry. My Dad ran onto the field from the sideline and picked me up. I was more embarrased than hurt. And I wanted to go back in the game but I was going to the hospital because my kneecap was about to poke out of my skin. Fortunately for me, my Dad was driving fast and we hit a bump in the road. My leg got bounced around and my kneecap went back into place. Long story short, I was back in the game right after half-time. Good thing my Mom wasn't there or she would've taken me home.

That began a long and strange list of injuries that happened to me: broken thumb while running across the street, broken bone in my left foot my Senior year in high school––which I didn't know until a physical months later––two cracked ribs and dislocated shoulder playing softball (finished the game), broken nose playing basketball and way too many times on crutches because of knees, ankles and hip injuries. Even hurt my back bowling.

I can feel all them now. I can see some scars, as others do from all the sports injuries and surgeries. But there's a lot no one can see. No one can see the scars––physical and mental––from having to fight cancer two times. The "scar tissue" stays with you. If I had cancer twice, will I get it again? What do my insides look like after all the crap I had to put into my body to stay alive, to live another day? Hey man, I'm hurting in here! Does anyone notice? Do they care? 

It's not self-pity. I don't believe in that. There are millions of humans who have it much, much worse that me. But it's only human nature to be fearful of what we can't see. The things that go bump in the night. The scary movies that don't show an ounce of blood––ya know, the kind Hitchcock used to make. We can't see the internal pain we cause others when we treat them badly, when we only care about our own agenda, when all we think about is ME. 

I'm terrified to see what's going on in my body. I still have a ways to go. My body is fragile. It' still healing and will be for a few more months or even a year––at least that's what the doctors tell me. My body's jacked-up more than any injury I've ever had.

I just don't let you see it.

Stock You Can Count On

As the financial world and the stock market seems to be crumbling around us by the minute, it got me thinking about the word "stock". The dictionary lists 39 entries of the noun "stock". Some of the most notable include "the share of capital held by an individual investor", "a supply of goods for sale, kept on the premises by a store or business" and " a theater company's repertoire of plays". (In my mind, these three seemed to fit together!)

But the meaning of "stock" that has the most, well, meaning to me is when stock is used to define someone's standing and reputation. I once had someone say about me that "Greg thinks his reputation is much greater than it actually is." Now mind you this person didn't have the balls to tell me that to my face––I heard it from someone else. And he had known me for all of maybe 2-3 months and not very well at that. (My Wife thought he looked like someone who had a collection of child pornography. Which after she told me that, it was as clear to me as the cheesy, '80's porno-moustache on his upper lip that she was dead on in her assessment!).

Reputations are a tricky thing. They can be built on a single instance, over time or created by others who may never even meet us face-to-face. They can take years to build––on the positive side––and an instant to destroy. Think of the phrase "his reputation preceeds him". That can be good or bad. Reputations can be entirely fabricated. Is there someone you met whose reputation was the exact opposite of what you thought or was told? (Go back to your high school days for that one!)

When I was choosing my team of doctors and a hospital for my treatment of cancer, I had to do my homework. Who were the reputable doctors? What hospital was in good standing for cancer care and treatment? Was Hopkins really better than UPenn or the hundreds of others across the country? What about the radical treatment my Sister-In-Law received in Mexico? Doesn't Farrah Fawcett get treatment in Germany? Yeah, lots to think about. Lots of uncertainty. Lots of information to sort through. Lots of reputations to sift through. Not a lot of time when you are diagnosed with cancer. Time is not your friend. Time is what you're trying to save, not waste.

Who could I count on? Who would make my family feel comfortable. Hell, who would treat my family with care, respect and understanding. So I did the only thing I knew. I relied on the one person whose reputation and standing on issues of trust, respect, compassion, knowledge and understanding I could count on.

I put stock in myself. Because my "internal" reputation had been built over a period of time of making good decisions, honest decisions, decisions that took into account not only myself but those who I love and the effect it had on them. Did I invest in the right stock?

You bet I did.

Eyes Wide Open

I've always considered myself an observer. I like to watch. (Hey now, I'm not a voyeur.) And there's a difference between seeing, looking, watching and observing.

With all due respect to Webster and Wikipedia, seeing is automatic for those of us blessed enough with the sense of sight. Looking is a way to alert, warn or direct us to where we want to get to. Watching is can be passive and active. Observing is breaking it down––the way people walk, talk, react, position themselves and is a sense of discovery. It's paying attention to the details.

I do even more observing since I've had cancer. It's almost as if I can read more––and I'm not talking about reading text. I notice if people are happy. Sad. Confused. Angry. I notice how people drive. (I believe the worst drivers in the country are in the DC Metro area. Yes, you Virginia and Maryland are included. Don't believe me? Observe how many people know how to merge, know what to do at a 4-way stop sign, know that pedestrians have the right of way. And don't get me started with cell phones and driving. In fact, I saw something last week that floored me––a woman putting on her make-up, talking on the phone, eating something in a wrapper and drinking from a Starbucks cup. Mind you she wasn't doing all of this at the same time. Just 3 at a time.)

Today I took 5 minutes to sit on a street corner in DC. My observations?

A co-worker in his own zone, ignoring me as I called his name.

Two women talking on their own mobile phones AND talking to each other.

A woman in a car almost run over another woman in the crosswalk––and yell at the pedestrian to "get outta my way, BITCH!"

A man taking a picture of his lunch group while walking backwards up a hill.

A homeless man watching me watching.

A man selling jewelry.

Two guys trying to pick-up a woman on the street corner. And I don't mean by lifting her up.

An old man bent over at the waist, looking at the sidewalk below.

More combovers than I've seen in a long time.

Two old friends looking for a place to eat. (I talked to them.)

A bike messenger darting in and out of traffic.

People talking politics––this is DC.

Someone actually buying the homeless newspaper.

People dodging Greenpeace people.

Toenails with crazy designs.

That's what happens when you don't know if today will be your last day on Earth. You take life one hour at a time. One slice of life at a time. One day at time. There's no guarantee that you'll get to the weekend. Or across the street.

That's why I keep my eyes wide open.

Call Me 25¢

Now I have 5 holes in my stomach. One from my feeding tube––it's out, but the skin is still pushed in––and four from the emergency gallbladder surgery I had September 2nd. And since I have a big rectangle of skin showing on my chest and stomach from the shaving they gave me before surgery, the holes show very nicely. (I could sell ad space on my chest and stomach. Hey, Virgin is using bald guys to display tattoos of their logo. And takers out there?).

I was talking to a friend who said, "you can tell all kinds of wild stories with those marks." Which reminded me of 50 Cent, who was shot 9 times and has the scars to prove it. Scars are cool for men. Makes us macho. Makes us tough. Makes me remember how I got them all. And none of them are incidents I wish to relive.

The most damaging scars are mental ones. The scars from a bad relationship. From a terrible job or workplace. From loved ones. And don't think mental scars don't leave a mark. You can see them when you're trying to start a romantic relationship––why won't he/she trust me, what does this person REALLY want, he's after wham, bam thank you ma'am––if you really look. You can see them when you're trying to coach or teach someone something new––c'mon you've seen that look of "oh crap, here we go again. I don't know if I can do this!"

I can see the scars from my battles when I look into the faces of my family and friends when I talk about all the crap I've been through the last 13 months. I really saw it this Tuesday when I walked into a production meeting at work. They were extremely glad to see me. They wanted to know what the hell was I doing back at work so quickly. They also looked at me like "oh my God. He doesn't look so good." And I didn't. But the fact that I was able to stand before them and talk to them was good for me. I also believe it was good for them, too.

My gallbladder Doctor told me," you are a great patient. Having cancer makes people more accepting of what we do as Doctors. They know we're human, just like them. They know nothing is guaranteed. And because of what you've been through, only you know what's really good for you." He's right.

And I have the scars to prove it.

Pain Is A Four Letter Word

I saw the fear turn to anger on her face. She had had enough. Here she was––again––in the ER of Reston Hospital and she wanted some answers. She wanted to know why. Why was her Husband––me––just lying on a too small gurney with his twig and berries hanging out and another IV line in his arm and no one was DOING ANYTHING.

I'm in pain. Teresa is ready to kick some ass. And rightfully so. This was the fifth time in four weeks she was at the hospital. Three with me, two with Travis. And she was tired of waiting for the Doctor, after she was told to "go to the hospital and have the Doctor paged." So we went. We had him paged. Did I tell you I was in pain? Oh, and scared shitless. What the hell is going here? Why am I back in the ER? Miss the food? The atmosphere? Being woke-up every two hours? Pissing in a water jug?

Teresa was tired of seeing her Husband like this. No pain medication––"we can't give him anything until we know what's wrong and the Doctor sees him"––no food, no word about when the Doctor would be, no, nothing, zilch. And I watched her face the whole time. All 6 hours. I was worrying about her worrying about me. Funny, huh? I watched the pain and anger trade places in her forehead. I watched her try to be strong and try to be in charge. I watched her stare down every person that walked by the curtain in the ER. I watched her.

I can deal with my pain. I would say that after all I've been through the last 13 months––two bouts of cancer, 8 surgeries, 10 months of a feeding tube in my stomach, 12 chemo treatments, 35 radiation treatments and losing 35-40 pounds––I can deal with a lot of pain. Bring it, baby. But I have a real hard time when I can feel and see the pain in Teresa. To know that my illnesses have caused her tremendous emotional, spiritual and mental anguish. That's a pain I can't control for her. I can't make it disappear. I can't give her something to take to make it go away. I can't rub it away. It's the worst kind of pain.

The four letter kind.

The cancer Cup

I was sitting in an 8:30 AM meeting, the one we have every Tuesday. This is a meeting where it seems as if everyone has an "assigned" seat. I always sit in different spots, just to "shake" things loose. But I like to beat Michael to "his" spot. So I sat next to Sheri. No Michael. Next time. (I just broke the world record for "quote marks" around words in a paragraph.)

As I'm sitting next to Sheri, she pushes her coffee cup towards me and motions with her eyes to look at it. The Way I See It # 295. Can we laugh at cancer? That was all I got to read. Until Sheri got another # 295 coffee cup. Can we laugh at cancer? Is it funny to lose your breasts? Am I crazy to have humor when I lose my hair? Should I ignore the giggles while receiving chemo? What if I nudge someone and sneak a smile, even though I have no eyebrows? Is it inappropriate? Don't be offended, it beats waxing! ––Judy Wade, Starbucks customer and cancer survivor from Seattle, Washington. Judy, ya nailed. Thanks.

I thought I was crazy, laughing privately at some of the things I went through during my treatment. I woke up one day and my face was covered with pimples. More than I ever had as a teenager. Shit, 10 times worse. It was the Erbotux, the chemo. And it was a good sign that they were all over my face. Dr. Felice said it "shows it's working." So I had to laugh. Laugh at wanting to have zits. I laughed when I would be in the shower and look down––easy now––and see a blue tube sticking out of my stomach and dangling 10" down my body. Can I get cable with this thing?

I laughed when it took Nurses and Doctors and more Nurses and Doctors almost two months to find the right fitting for my feeding tube so I could EAT through it. It was comical. You gotta laugh 'cause you can't cry.

Hell yes, Judy, we can laugh at cancer. cancer isn't funny, but we can laugh at it. Ridicule it. Make fun of it. Because it makes you feel good.  Gives it a face. A persona. A target.

As I sit here, Barack Obama is on the biggest stage in the history of the United States. He just announced he accepts the nomination for the Presidency of the United States. Change. Yes, we can change things for the better. For our families. For our friends. For our family at work. We can change the course of cancer.

So the only time we see cancer, it's on a coffee cup.