10% Better

This is a great idea from my Brother from another Mother, Larry. It's quite simple: if we all just gave 10% better of ourselves, how much better would the world be?

You've heard coaches say "he gives 110% every time he steps on the field." OK. I thought 100% of anything was, well, 100%. Can't get any better. No way. Not possible. But I challenge anyone to boast about giving it their all every day. Every day? B.S. Double bullshit. It just doesn't happen. We're human, for Christ sake.

I have lived my life trying to make the next day better than the last. How? Be a better person. A better Dad. Husband. Friend. Son. Boss––hate that word, unless we're talking about Bruce. Driver (I have stopped giving people the finger. Honest, Teresa). Listener. Writer––how am I doing?––even if I don't do it every day. And since cancer, making the next day better has taken on a whole new meaning. I mean, just waking up in the morning makes it better for me! Every day is a good day when you're alive.

I have strayed away from that "happy to be alive" feeling. I have allowed work to overcome my person. I'm sure the depressing state of the economy has greatly contributed to me being at least 10% worse. Hopefully it's been only 1% at a time and not 10% percent a day. Then I'd be about minus 100% now. That's scary. Don't want to live through that again, watching cancer eat away at my 100% body.

The great thing about a new day is it's a new chance. A new start. Today. Tomorrow never comes. Yesterday is gone forever. But today, I can do a whole bunch of good things today. I can be funny. Happy. Stupid––hey, being stupid sometimes is liberating. Crazy (in a good way). Loving. Caring. Helpful. Peaceful. Just better.

And 10% at a time is easy to manage.

It's Not Pass Or Fail

It's been a week since my last PET scan. (No, I didn't take my dogs to the vet). I had some stuff shot into my body, sat in a dimly lit room for 45 minutes and went in and out of a tube for another 30 minutes. The nasty, I-feel-like-the alien-will-shoot-out-of-my-forehead-headache, shakes and churning stomach were also a treat.

This was a body test, to see if the cancer is hiding or just dead. A cancer test. You can't study for this one.

Because my Doctor wanted me to get in sooner than later––there was an area "of concern, but probably scar tissue" just above where the tumor was from the head & neck cancer––I went in on a Friday. And being that it was President's Day on Monday, I would have to wait three days for my results instead of knowing in 24 hours. Now that's what I call planning.

Remember what it was like when you took that really hard test. "I nailed it. Except for that essay question. That was total B.S., but my best B.S." Yeah, no bullshitting through this. I'm being scanned. They're looking into MY BODY. I'm giving answers that I really don't control. Or do I? And just like when you were waiting for that grade back, that stamp of where you stand in your class, you go over things in your head. Over and over. And over a few hundred times after that. Just gimme the damn paper back so I can get my grade!

It was 9:34 am on Tuesday and I couldn't wait any more. I called the Doctor's office. I got the answering machine. Answering machine? It's 9:35 am, where the hell is everybody! I need some news, one way or another or I don't think I can work. My mind is all over the place. C'mon! I calmly leave my name and cell number. I put my phone back in my pocket. I get out of my office to walk the floors, get my mind right. Maybe I'll go for a cup of coffee. Shit, if I have more coffee, I'll start talking to the statues. When are they going to tell me? 

I keep my phone on vibrate, because I'm either in a meeting or someone is asking me something. I'm never lonely at work :) For some reason I reach in my pocket to check my phone, thinking if I should call them again. I see I missed a call. (I guess I need tighter pants). I stare at the number which seems familiar but not totally recognizable. Oh shit, it's them. They called back. And I ready?

"Hey Greg, it's Denise. It's about 10:35 on Tuesday and I notice you weren't supposed to have your PET scan until 2/18, but you already had it. I normally wouldn't leave this message except" oh no. Oh no. Oh no. "your PET scan is great, showing no tumors or" and that was all I heard before I broke down. Tears of fear, uncertainty, joy and relief came pouring out. I had to tell Teresa. I had to tell anyone. I passed.

 The test, that is. 

Driving With The Top Down

Earlier this week while driving home from work on 66, I saw a guy that looked like Drew Carey driving next to me with his top down. It was 32 and getting ready to rain, sleet and snow.

I laughed out loud. Man, did I need a hearty chuckle. I haven't been inspired to write. I've been working waaay too hard and my body and my mind is feeling it. As hard it may be for people to understand––I even find it hard to deal with––I'm not 100% and really don't think I will ever be. It's like being an athlete and you realize you've reached the end of your "career." You either get told you're not making it to the next level or something happens and that's it. My body is telling me, "hey Man, this is it. Take care of it."

I'm doing that this week. Back to the stable of Doctors, getting checked to see if I'm still in remission, cancer free. Marcia says every time she has to back for her check-ups, she doesn't sleep very well. She told me about that voice in your head that says, "just think about the good stuff. It will be what it will be." I know exactly what she's talking about.

I laughed at the Drew Carey look-alike because it made me think that you should be able to enjoy life on your own terms. If YOU want to ride in the dead of winter with the top down on your convertible, go for it. Who ya hurtin', right? That 2 second visual of this man did wonders for me, made me realize that life is too short to work it away. Yes, times are tough and I'm very thankful to have a job. But at what price? How much time do I have to spend away from my Wife every day? When people die, do you ever hear anyone start of by saying, "that Manny, he sure was a hard worker"? Hell no! (And no, I don't mean Manny Ramirez, Scott Boras.)

I want to live each day with a smile on face and in my heart. I want people to see me and have a laugh, feel better for having talked to me and accept me for who I am and not for what I can do for them. I just want to be myself.

Like the guy driving with top down in 32 degree weather.

44

I have always been fascinated with numbers. 

I learned to read numbers at 4 years old, sitting with my Dad reading the box scores from baseball games played the day before. It was 1962, a time when our country was in a much different place. Now, 27 years later, our 44th President, Barack Obama, is very different from the 43 Presidents before him.

As I watched the Inauguration today from my home with my Wife and Son, I kept thinking about my Dad. Why? Like our 44th President, my Dad is biracial––only he's half Mexican, half Irish. We've had a few conversations over the years about growing up in the '40's, '50's and '60's with a skin color that didn't match our last name. Once, he talked about trying to figure out if he was Mexican or White. To me, he was just Dad. But I could see the pride in his heritage––on both sides of his ancestry. He would talk about walking into a room with my Mother––who has the whitest skin of anyone I've ever known––and immediately feeling hate, ignorance and prejudice because he wasn't with "one of his kind." Little did people know that only made him more focused, more proud and more energized to prove to people that the color of your skin is only that––a color.

My Dad and I have talked more about politics before, during and after this historic election. We couldn't have more different views. But that's OK. More than OK, in fact. Because my Father also taught me––along with my Grandma Marie, Southern born and the most loving person I've ever known besides my Wife––that differences are what makes the world go 'round. It makes us smarter. Stronger. Wiser. Human. More humble. Americans.

I'm forever grateful that I have survived cancer so that I could witness the election of a person who doesn't fit the mold, the norm and the status quo. I used to love the number 44 because of my boyhood idol, Jerry West. He wore 44. He was tough. He was relentless. He was humble. But now I have another 44 to look up to and hope he delivers in the clutch, as Mr. Clutch himself did on the basketball court. This 44 also play hoops. A new idol, for today's 4 year olds to follow. 

Let the fascination begin.

Moments

I met a man this week who shared a very personal story. 

He shared his pain and suffering over the loss of his Mother to colon cancer very recently. He bared his soul. He let me in. He talked about moments of time that we take for granted. We're too busy. We'll see them next time. How about tomorrow?

As he was telling me about his Mother, I started to think about my family. My Wife & Kids. Mom (all of them) and Dad. Sister & Brothers. I thought about all those days––moments––of going to radiation. Chemo. Chemo and radiation in one day. The times I looked into my bathroom mirror and saw my body change. I watched the weight come off and the muscle tone disappear. My face aging, right before my eyes. I told myself I would remember those times. Those moments. (No chemo brain on that, thank God). This man helped me to remember.

I got a chance to really talk to this man about the horrible disease that took his Mother away from him at such an early age. When I thanked him for sharing such a personal and painful experience with me, he looked at me like he knew there was more to this thank you. I told him I was diagnosed with head & neck cancer, August 7, 2007. His face changed to sadness and he told me he was sorry. I smiled and said, " it's O.K., Man. I'm still here. It's a good day to be alive." We then engaged in one of those conversations that rarely take place––the kind that you'll never forget among the millions you've had before and the millions you'll have after––that are so meaningful, yet totally uncomplicated. We talked about watching people with cancer. I told him I watched my family watch me. I would never forget the pain and thousand other expressions on their face and in their body language. He smiled as he knew exactly what I meant.

That hit home with him. I told him I've been on both sides of the disease, as my Father is also a cancer survivor. We talked about letting people know that getting screen for colorectal cancer can help save lives. That he wished his Mother had been screened and she might still be alive. I will never forget this man and all that he is doing and will be doing to spread the word that cancer will not defeat us. That we can catch cancer and kill it before it kills us. If you ever read this someday, I want you to know that I will always remember the time we had for both of us to talk and listen. I will always be a fan. I will always remember the time you took to make ME feel better when the emotion of the day was still fresh in your mind. Thank you for the moments. Hopefully it will get us closer to a cure for cancer. Or at the least to save one life. 

What a moment that would be.

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.

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.