Nine Years Extended Warranty.

August 7, 2007 was the day I was told I had cancer. I can still see myself sitting alone in my car, shocked and angry and crying. Tears of anger, despair and uncertainty streamed down my face as I sat in the parking lot of the Pathologist's office.

As I reflected on that day nine years ago, I talked to Wife about what I was feeling at that moment. My biggest fear was how to tell her and my kids I had cancer. I was more worried about what they would do, how they would act and how they would feel. The reason: control. I cannot control the emotions and reactions of others. But I wanted to, to tell them I'm going to live and beat the shit outta cancer no matter how bad it was or where it was in my body.

This is not a "I told you so" post. While there is great joy in the satisfaction that I lived through that first cancer, I have had to face "cancer" a few times after that day. Skin cancer is the next cancer I'm battling. In 2008, I had two surgeries to remove huge chunks of cancer. I just recently had another chunk frozen off of may face and a biopsy on my finger to see if it was cancer. Thank God it is not.

This is a post of hope, happiness, fear and anger. Hopefully that I can have another nine years of life. Happy that I get to personally experience so much love and joy in my family. Fearful that the cancer will come back again in another form. And angry that we keep losing loved ones to this nasty, fucking disease.

My cancerversary is also close to my Father's sobriety birthday. He has been sober for 40 years. One day at a time. Living on an extended warranty.

I'd like to continue to do the same.

So, How Did That List Thing Work Out?

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.

cancer Awareness Month?

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.

Personal Inventory

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.

Losing My Voice

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.

My 2008 Best/Worst

After reading, viewing and searching thru the millions of "2008 Lists", I thought I'd throw mine out there. So I'm breaking form here––Cap, take note––and post The World According To Greg.

Best Memories

1. Cancer-free news after 6-month check-up. Teresa and I cried for joy together.

2. Skin-cancer free news right before Christmas. Best present not under the tree.

3. Ryan's Championship Ring. Proud of you, Son.

4. Kaity's Graduation, with Adam, Ryan, Travis––all of us––in attendance.

5. Adam getting his first client.

6. Travis getting his first Head Coaching job.

7. Waking up alive every day.

Worst Memories

1. Not having my Grandkids for Thanksgiving.

2. Chemo Brain.

3. The "Emergency Room Visit-Of-The Month".

4. Not being able to eat for 4 days in the hospital, tubes everywhere in my body.

5. Chemo Brain. Oh, I already said that.

Best Simple Moment

1. Smiling at things that used to make me angry.

Worst Single Moment

1. Back in the hospital, 12 hours after I had just left.

Most Historic Event

1. O-ba-ma. O-ba-ma. O-ba-ma.

Least Favorite Historic Event

1. The "C's" beating my Lakers.

Best Song

1. Ne-Yo, "Closer."

Worst Song

1. Too many to choose from.

Best TV Show

1. Supernatural

Worst TV Show

1. Once again, too many to choose from.

Best Time

1. Spending the Holidays with my family.

Worst Time

1. Thinking about whether or not cancer will come back. Every day.

But my best of 2008 is being able to share my innermost thoughts here. I look forward to being able to post another list like this in 2010. 

Thanks for all the love in 2008.

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.