Can You Hear Me Now?

You hear me. But are you listening?

Listening is a wonderful attribute to have. It's a sign of caring. Some even say it's an art form. It's more personal than hearing. We don't need to be able to hear to listen. Huh? What the hell does that mean?

Your body talks to you all the time. As you get older, it talks to you more and more. I remember playing basketball against my younger Brother, Jeff, a few years ago. Jeff came out from Los Angeles with my Dad to visit. I think he was a Sophomore in high school at the time, maybe going to be a Junior. So Jeff was 15-16 at the time. I'm 31 years older than Jeff, so I had to be 46 or 47. And he wanted to show his big brother how good he was at basketball by playing me one-on-one. Probably thought I'll show this old man how we do it, right? I'm no Kobe, but I did play in college and high school (in Los Angeles) and I spent a lot of time playing all around LA growing up––Baker Park, Venice, McCambridge, Maple Park, Pasadena, South Central, Elysian Park––and let's just say that you could pick me out on the court pretty easily.

Jeff was bringing it. I was giving it back to him. In fact, class was in session and I was schoolin' him. But what I remember most that day was trying to make a move that I had made a million times before out of sheer instinct. My mind was saying, "yeah Man. Here, here, bucket." Now my body was telling me something completely different. "No way, dude. You're kidding me, right? You do this and I'll snap your ass back to reality. How old are you? Don't you know I'm in control? Your mind is writing checks your body can't cash." This conversation taking place in the blink of an eye. And I lost the ball.

Before I knew I had cancer, my body was speaking to me. "Do you know why you feel run down? Do you know why you're losing weight all of a sudden? You can't keep going at this pace. This ain't right." And then the strangest, most bizzare voice came to me while I was in the shower one morning. Why do I feel like I have cancer? Yeah, totally out of the blue. Totally freaky. Why do I feel like I have cancer? That's a body language I couldn't explain. It was my body speaking to me. It was trying to make me listen.

I tried to ignore it. Tried to tell myself I was just imagining things. This shit doesn't happen in real life. This isn't a movie. You don't one day wake-up and say "I feel like I have cancer." What does cancer feel like? But I couldn't get it out of my head. I couldn't tell anyone. I couldn't make it go away.

Fortunately––for my sake and for my family, friends and co-workers––I listened. I went on gut feelings, instinct. I said let's end this conversation and get checked. Let the Doctor tell me I'm over-tired, over-worked and imagining things. 

I wasn't. I had cancer. I had a level of understanding that I never had before. My body had it's say. My mind and body got together and said "let's help this guy out."

Thank God I'm a good listener.

Whiteboards

Love whiteboards. Love the fact an Art Director is making tons of cash because he can draw his ass off on a whiteboard. (My Son, Travis, hates the guy. I don't know why.) Love it when you write something really good on the whiteboard. Love when someone else makes a contribution on the whiteboard.

I take a walk by our two big whiteboards that are really wall whiteboards all the time. People draw arrows, graphs, TV storyboard boxes––that would be me because I can't draw anything else––conclusions, even draw up strategies. Sometimes. Rarely. OK, almost never. But we're making progress.

In some ways, whiteboards are big blank "your ad goes here" spaces that are just begging for attention. Try walking past one that's got stuff written all over it––with some circles and dates that beg you not to erase all the great thinking––without looking. Can't do it. It's a magnet. Today, Industry Ju-Jitsu was written in red marker on the whiteboard. Nice one, Rory. I've also seen "I think I've seen your best work already", a client issuing a challenge. One that we would later meet and exceed. The first time I saw a wiki was on a whiteboard.

I got a whiteboard from work as part of a care package to help me through the cancer. I had surgery where they took out my tonsils, scrapped my larynx and took a chunk out of my tongue. So talking was not going to happen right away. And boy, did I use that whiteboard. I think my family was ready to break it over my head after a while. But the funniest thing was trying to communicate with my Dad. I couldn't talk and he couldn't read my writing. And he was wearing hearing aids that he kept saying needed to be replaced. Man, if it didn't hurt to laugh so much back then I would have died on the floor laughing. And this happened all the time. I know it was entertaining for the rest of the family.

Whiteboards are great because you can write anything you want on it and then wipe it away. As I was battling cancer, I would write down all the dates. The names of all the medications. The surgeries. The treatments. And then, I couldn't write anymore. I didn't know how to describe the crap I was going through. My mind was only concentrating on beating cancer. Keep it strong. Don't let all the stuff they put in me, beat-up my body and knock it out. Be strong so I could be there for my family. My so called creative juices were being overtaken by chemicals and radio active stuff so I could stay alive. The creativity would have to die.

There is no whiteboard for cancer, no way you can wipe away all the bad and scary things that are written about you in Doctors offices, hospitals and pharmacies. Life doesn't work that way. But maybe that's a good thing. Because, maybe, just maybe, someone researching or studying or just looking over your information will get a step closer to finding a cure for all cancers. Any cancer. Then we can go up to the whiteboard and write the word cancer.

And then wipe it away.

This Is Only A Test

Tomorrow is a big day. It's time for my 6-month scan. For me, these are days I feel fear and hope. Strange combination, I know. Marcia told me after I had my first scan that she would dread the test days. The uncertainty. The anxiety. The million thoughts that went through her head before the test. I know exactly what she means.

This is not only a scan for me. This is scan for a lot of people. Teresa. Adam, Ryan, Travis & Kaity. The work family. My parents. My friends.They all will go through it with me in one way or another. Even the guy at the parking garage, the guy with the name I don't even attempt to spell let alone try to say. I see him every day, Monday thru Friday. He always asks me how I'm doing. I always tell him straight up. Today he told me he would pray for me. I told him I need all the prayers I can get. He told me I'm going to be alright.

You never realize how many people you touch in a day, a week or a lifetime. I've been amazed at the tremendous amount of love, well wishes and support I've received from so many people. There's no way on Earth I can ever tell them how much it has helped me get through each and every day. But I will try. I will share. (I do share, sometimes maybe a little too much.) Because I feel what is left unspoken is a waste of an opportunity to connect with people. To let people know, hey, we're all human here. We can talk to each other. We can learn from each other. We can acknowledge that there are other people in the world around us. It's OK to smile. It's OK to be yourself. UBU. Cool.

Living in the DC area for the past 14 years has been very different for me and how I was raised. I haven't found the strong friendships that I found while living in Los Angeles. People are not as open, as friendly. Say what you want about LA, but overall the people are much more open, much more accepting, much more free thinking. Maybe the government jobs have a lot to do with how people act. I don't know.

I do know that having come face-to-face with head & neck cancer and skin cancer this past year has shown me who my true friends are, who are the people that really care about more than themselves. You know who you are. You are loved. You will be with me forever. You have passed the test. Not mine. The true test of what a person is made of.

That's the only test that matters.

What's The Plan

I looked back at my journal today. I landed on the 8/8/07 entry, the day after I found out I had cancer. "I will NOT let this cancer beat me. I am going to be an advocate in the cure for cancer. Bet on me to be the voice. The voice of a cancer SURVIVOR." That's what I wrote. That was the start of the plan.

Plans are funny things, ya know? You can make all the plans you want, write them up, put them in a power point presentation, tell them to anyone who will listen 'cause damn it we have a plan here we gotta stick to. You have to have a plan to make it real, right? Plans have structure. Focus. Commitment. They are written. Revised. Approved. We make plans to make plans. (This is starting to sound like a George Carlin routine.)

Got plans for the weekend? Have you made plans to get married? What's the plan for me? What's the Master Plan? Did you plan on that happening? Did I plan on one day having cancer? Hell no. There's no planning for that. You don't ever think of that. That happens to other people. Not me.

So much for making plans. Whatever was so important before, just got the life choked of it. All other plans are put aside. Time to make new ones. Time to make the true Master Plan––beat cancer. Beat it into submission. As Cap would say, "kick it's ass."

I remember my family's reaction when I told them I was not ready to die. I am going to beat this. There's a greater purpose for me. I don't know what it is yet, but I know it's out there somewhere and I need time to find it out. I was looking into the eyes of my family, trying to convince them that I'm going to be OK. It's gonna be hard on all of us. But I will not let cancer beat me. This was now a competition. And I hate to lose. Losing was not an option. As Al Davis would say, Just Win, Baby. They weren't buying it––at least that's what their eyes said to me. They believed me, but this is cancer not the league championship at the local Optimist Club. We know too many people, too many family members, who fought. And lost.

This was the biggest news my family had ever had. Bigger than the "we're moving 2800 miles across country" bomb I dropped on them in 1994. Bigger than anything. We needed something just as big. We needed something to get us through this huge life-changing event.

We needed a plan. The one I started on 8/8/07. I plan on seeing it through.

Live Or Survive

Everything changes when you have cancer. The way you think. The way you look at your family. The way you look at yourself. You came face to face with mortality. The invinciblity you had as a kid, the craziness of your 20's and the live-and-let-die attitude that got you through the day are mere fleeting moments that never seem real. Is it time to live or time to survive?

There's an extremely fine line between living and survival. Do we survive to live another day? Do we live to survive another day? I've never been a soldier at war or been under attack––unless you consider growing-up between two gangs and getting your ass beat every now and then being under attack––but I would imagine you survive to live. cancer messes with your head and makes you figure it out yourself. cancer has no concious.

When I was going through chemo and radiation, there were days I was surviving to live. Fridays. I got the one-two punch on Fridays and by 5PM I was toast. I was in survival mode. I brought out all the survival tactics I could, talking to myself, keeping my mind strong and resting my body. I would remember what John had told me, "there will be days when you think you can't take it any more. Days where you think you can't make it to tomorrow. But you will. You will find it." 

I never met John in person. I got his phone number from my Dad, who got it from a friend of a friend whose Son––John––had head & neck cancer just like me. Talk about a blessing. John's words gave me strength on those days when I would look in the mirror and will myself to feel better. To forget that I'm throwing-up and can't get my ass off the toilet at the same time. To not give in. But you will. You will find it.

And when I was feeling better after the treatments, I was thankful for being alive. For being able to talk to my family with renewed purpose, with a passion to live and see them live with me.

Live or survive? I choose to live.

Happy cancerversary

It wasn't enough that yesterday was the "anniversary" of my diagnosis of cancer. I'll never forget 8/7/07, 2:30PM. "I wish I had better news, but" and that's when things got fuzzy.

No, it wasn't enough that I was starting to feel good about things, when WHAM. It felt like The Alien was going to fly through my stomach and Sigourney Weaver would be running down the hall at work any second now. I started to sweat profusely from my forehead. I was having trouble following my conversation with Aimee. What the hell is going on in my stomach?

This wasn't the first time it happened. It happened last week when I was in Rehoboth Beach on vacation. I just thought my stomach felt like it was going to explode because I tried to eat everything they were cooking on the Boardwalk. I mean EVERYTHING. I was trying to see what I could taste, swallow and get down my throat––my taste buds were getting tastier and I really thought my saliva was coming back a little––and I was full. Hadn't been that way in a while. But after 3 sleepless nights, the pain went away. OK. No more Boardwalk Fries, ice creams as big as my head and coconut fried shrimp.

The look on Aimee's face went from intent on making her point to one of "I don't think anyone's supposed to be that shade of pale." I was trying to gain my composure so I could tell her I wasn't feeling too good all of a sudden. But all I could do was wipe my forehead and try to remember to breathe because the Alien was about ready to hatch. "Are you OK?" "No, my stomach is killing me." "We can do this another time." "Yeah, that would be good." "Can I get anything for you?" "No. I think I'll go to the bathroom."

I wasn't in there long. Maybe a minute. Just enough time for the word to spread that I was in pain and hopefully not on the bathroom room floor squirming like a worm or even worse, passed out. Leah gave me the "you aren't driving anywhere, we'll get you a cab" directive and everyone else was trying to help me. But my mind was made up. I need to get myself the fuck outta here, because Sigourney Weaver was nowhere in sight.

I called Teresa, who called the doctor––our offices are closed between 12 noon and 1 PM––and as I found out when I got home, wasn't feeling so hot herself. Finally, as I was getting into more comfortable clothes, Teresa gets hold of the Doctor's office––but half the Doctors are on vacation. Perfect. "We'll ask our Nurse and she'll call back." (They called back @ 3:32 PM––26 hours later.) Teresa said the nurse could call back in 10 minutes or an hour. We'll give them 10 minutes, then it would be off to Reston Hospital Center.

Thank God I didn't wait. I was in the ER and in a bed with an needle in my arm by 2:30. Exactly one year to the day of my diagnosis. As I looked at the clock in the hospital, I had a hardy chuckle. This is unfuckingbelievable! After an ultra sound and x-rays and some kick-ass pain medication, the verdict was in: gallbladder disease, with gall stones. And for the coup de grau, the PA comes in and says, "oh, they also found a 4 mm cyst on your left kidney." OK, where's the hidden camera. Who's really trying to mess with me here? I'm on some good shit, but this is really giving me a buzz kill.

I looked at Teresa, Adam and Ryan––my two oldest boys who rushed to the hospital to be with me and their Mom––and said, "can you believe this shit?" They had that "Dad's in the hospital again and I'm really trying to be cool here, but this sucks" look in their eyes. Teresa was trying to be comforting and positive but I could see deep down she was worried for me. (I always tell her not to worry and she tells me she'll worry about what she wants to worry about. That's one of the reasons why I love her. She's no pushover.) But hey, I'm still here and I'll get this taken care of just like the head & neck cancer and the skin cancer. Out. Over. Done. This was just my body's way of giving me a "present" on my cancerversary.

Gee, thanks. Rat bastard.

I Don't Know What To Say

What do you say to someone with cancer? Hello works great. Pretty simple, huh?

Once I told people I had cancer, I noticed there were quite a few people who didn't know what to say to me. There would be an uncomfortable look or an awkward "how you doing. I mean, I know how you're doing. But not really. You doing OK? I mean, what's OK, right?" Someone actually said that to me. I felt really bad for them.

Kaity had referred a book to Teresa and I. Crazy Sexy cancer Tips, Kris Carr. Foreword by Sheryl Crow. My favorite part of the book is Chapter Two. Chapter Two contains tips #2 thru #14 and those tips deal with the beginning of cancer. In her book she really goes into some great detail, a lot of it about communication, expression and connections. She helped me be able to talk about cancer, my cancer. Kris, if you ever read this, thank you for the life preserver.

One of the strange things that happened to me during my cancer––and there are many strange things that happened––is I felt I had a big neon sign on my head that flashed "cancer here". Or I would feel like I had this great big secret that I was carrying with me everywhere I went. I would go to the grocery store and walk around thinking these people in here have no idea I have cancer. They don't care. They can't see it. Do any of them have it?

With head & neck cancer, the outer portion of my body didn't reveal I had cancer. No visable signs, unless you knew that I was in the midst of losing 30 pounds, knew I always had a ton of hair on my face but now shaved twice a week and knew that under my shirt I had a cable stuffed into my stomach. Most of my physical damage was on the inside––no more tonsils, missing part of my tounge from surgery, no saliva, jaw not opening all the way, no energy, chemo brain––and I tried to keep it that way. I felt being the Dad and being the Boss at work, I had to keep a smile on my face so they would be comforted. Don't let them worry. Don't let them know you're hurting 24/7. Don't let them down. Don't give cancer a chance.

Then again, that's what I saw and experienced. I sure people would tell me otherwise. Tell me things I didn't see or hear. Tell me how glad they are I'm still here. Tell me hello.

Hello has never sounded so good. I never get tired of hearing it.