For Jackie

This is a day that changed the lives of many.

Yes, it's tax day. But more importantly to me, it's the day Jackie Robinson changed society. Today in 1947, Jackie Robinson became the first man of color to play baseball in the Major Leagues. And while he was a great athlete, the way he handled himself and what he stood for was even greater. He was soft spoken, yet powerful. He actually did more during and after his playing career ended in 1956.

He was Director of Community Activities for WNBC and WNBT. He starred in a movie about his life in 1950. And after his playing days with the Dodgers, he became the first African-American executive of a major corporation, Chock Full O' Nuts. He served on the Board of Directors of the NAACP. He built houses for low income families through the Jackie Robinson Construction Company. So what is this, a history lesson? A biography report? What does Jackie Robinson have to do with cancer?

Have you ever been the object of different treatment? Been the only one of your race (or gender) at a party, concert or in a classroom? It's a strange and uneasy feeling. I would get those feelings after I was diagnosed with cancer. People didn't know what to say to me. Some people didn't talk to me anymore. Others would tell me about their friend or relative who had cancer and tell me they know how I feel. Really?

I will never know what it is to be a black man. I will never know what it's like to be a woman. I do know that everything I thought I knew about cancer before I had it, was totally wrong. You cannot truly understand what having cancer is like unless you've survived it or are living with it now. In many ways, it's indescribable. You're body goes through so many changes. The chemo––Erbitux, in my case––gave me blisters all over my face and scrambled my brain. The radiation burned my skin and zapped my energy. My emotions came to the surface. My emotions were buried. My soul ached. Does this even compare to Jackie went through? Does this compare to what people who are different from others have to go through every day? Probably not. But if Jackie Robinson, a player from my favorite team––the Dodgers––could face a lifetime of hate, ignorance and prejudice with class, grace and dignity then I could endure the pain of cancer for however long it will be. A baseball player having that kind of effect on me?

No. A man like Jackie can. And does.

Get Off The Phone

The cell, mobile or wireless phone is the greatest invention of the last 100 years. 

In fact, in 1908, a patent was issued for a wireless telephone to some guy in Kentucky. (You can look it up here: cell phone.) Little did he know that over 100 years later, some joker with a blog––that would be me––would be writing to praise him and express lines and lines of bitter disgust. Because I continue to be amazed at how little regard people have for each other when they are on the phone. And I was so pissed-off at what just happened to me, that I had to get it out or I would explode. Or at least call somebody and vent about it. On my cell.

I was in need of some cash to pay for parking at then end of the day. Usually, I wait until the end of the work day to trudge down the street and pull some cash out of the ATM. But today, I was in an unusually planning type of mood, so what the hell, let's go to the cash machine. And there it happened. Right in front of me. A woman, who was at the ATM, telling someone how she wasn't feeling like drinking tonight. She was tired. She didn't have any energy lately. She didn't know why, but she wasn't motivated to do anything. She didn't want to be at work. She didn't want to go to the gym, although her membership to FitnessFirst didn't expire until May 1, so she could workout if she wanted to––she just didn't have the energy, you know what I'm saying? How did I know all this? Because little miss "I'm-the-only-person-in-the-world-who-matters-right-now-and-the-rest-of-you-unfortunate-bastards-have-to-wait-until-I'm-done" was on THE PHONE AT THE ATM MACHINE.

I heard every word. I waited while she took her sweet ass time getting her $20. (Yeah, I wanted to see how much Miss Thing was getting, since she was so important). Then, she almost forgot her card, which I was going to remind her until she turned around and gave a dirty look like I was in her space or invading her world. She grabbed her card, looking over her shoulder at me––still on the phone––and almost ran over some dude walking into the building. I laughed. Not because she almost dropped her phone. Because that's what I do now, as opposed to what I would have done before cancer.

Ever since I was diagnosed with cancer and have beaten it twice, I have learned to let the small things go. I used to sweat the small things––still do, sometimes––and always handle the big stuff. The little things used to drive me crazy. Oblivion used to make me nuts. Inconsiderate people used to make my blood boil. I had to catch myself on this one. I have learned that life is too short. That I'm letting others dictate my mood. That there are assholes on every corner, in every part of the world, in every profession and in every family. How I deal with them, is up to me. I can let them get under my skin or I can laugh it off and feel sorry for them. Or write about them on my blog. Hey, I have an even better idea. I'll call Larry on my cell tonight while driving home. Of course I'll be paying attention to those around me. 

Or get off the phone and wait until I get home.

The Honey-Do List

C'mon, you know what I'm talking about.

It's that never-ending list of things to do. Around the house. To the house. A list of things from cleaning out the garage––in my case, for the hundredth-millionth time––to digging holes to buying another gallon or two of paint. The Honey-Do List is not to be confused with The Bucket List. (Although I don't think I'll finish my Honey-Do List before I kick the bucket). The Honey-Do List is really a bunch of little lists that show up on the refrigerator, on the night stand and shredded in your pocket after a spin in the washer machine. (No matter how many times I try to destroy it, another one comes alive :)

When I was trying to manage the side effects from my cancer treatment, I had a list that looked a like a pharmacy order: Roxicet, Percocet, Metoclopramide, Fluconozale, Clindagel, "Magic Mouthwash", and Gel-Kam 0.4%. Not to mention the 6 cans of Jevity that was pumping into my body through my G-tube in my stomach and the I.V. sponges, yards of tape and the boxes of alcohol wipes. Plus the pump, plastic bags and syringes my back pack contained, going every where I went all the time. I had a big list of stuff. I called it my Gotta-Do To Live List. I had 5 Doctors, all telling me things to keep me alive, keep my body battling, keep me writing things down. This was a list I didn't want destroyed in the wash.

I was never much for lists before that. I kept everything in my head. I would remember things. Until the chemo and radiation. It was frying my brain. It was killing the cancer in my body. It was destroying body parts, one by one, checking them off like an internal list. Yeah, let's mess with his stomach. Oh, and while we're at it, let's give his intestines a bad time––how about diarrhea for a few days straight. And while we're at it, we'll take away your saliva so you can't swallow or chew, give you killer headaches and then for laughs that almost never end we'll give you chemo brain that's gonna last for 1, 2, 3 years. We don't know!

So now I keep lists. To-dos at work. Passwords. Birthdays. A list of all the social networks I belong to and the passwords for those. Birthdays. (Oh, I already said that. There it is, chemo brain). Hospital visits and Doctor visits. And lists of the milestones of being alive after all the treatments and surgeries. I never forget where those lists are. Which makes The Honey-Do List sweeter than ever.

If I can only remember where I put it.

Can't Do It Alone

Sometimes, we try to do too much.

I was watching a high school girls lacrosse game tonight, trying to watch as a fan but eventually falling into watching as a coach. Why? Because I have been coaching or mentoring coaches since I was 16 years old. I've coached Men's Softball, Women's Softball, Youth Baseball and Basketball, Girls High School Basketball, mentored a Girls High School Volleyball coach and other sports. I also played sports in high school and college and even played a little semi-pro baseball. So, it's tough for me to just sit back and enjoy as a fan. I'm always breaking down plays, looking at the whole playing field and figuring out what I would do to help my team win. Yeah, a little weird.

In watching the game tonight I saw players trying to force plays, play selfishly and play as if they were the only players on the field. They weren't playing for the school or for their their team to win. They were out there to show everyone how good they were. And in doing so, they showed everyone how bad they were, really. Taking the attitude of "I can do this all by myself, I'll show everyone how much of a superstar I really am." I've seen that attitude too many times as a coach and player. I've even done it a time or two myself. We all have, right? 

When I was diagnosed with cancer, I had a brief moment of thinking I can do this alone. I can do the treatments. Drive myself to the Doctors. Sit with a needle in my arm or hand while they pump chemo into my body and be there by myself. I don't want anyone to have to be there with me. I'm the one with cancer and I'm the one who is going to have to beat it. I can do it. I'm tough. Don't need anyone's help. And then it hit me––what a stubborn, pigheaded asshole I am.

You see, I was told by my Dad at 8 years old that I was going to have to be The Man Of The House. I was going to have to watch out for my Mom and my little Sister. I was going to be the only man in the house because he wasn't going to be around. I remember crying. I remember the look in my Dad's eye. I remember how that day changed my life forever. I needed to become responsible. I've felt that way ever since that day. So relying on someone else to be the strong one? C'mon, that was my job, my responsibility, my purpose in life. Hey, my Dad said so.

cancer kicks your ass up and down the street. And then kicks it again just for laughs. It plays with your ego, beats up your resolve and twists your heart and soul in knots in an effort to win. cancer plays to the death. It doesn't play fair. But one thing cancer doesn't count on is all the help you get. From your Doctors. From the radiation. From the chemo. My cancer didn't know that I wasn't going to give up. That I was going to be the toughest bastard ever. That I was bringing all the stops. From every where. From every one. cancer didn't know that I had this amazing family. An amazing family at work. An amazing group of friends, new and life long. cancer counted on me trying to do it alone.

No way was I going to try.

Happy (Belated) Birthday To Me

Self-indulgent? OK, ya got me. 

But hey, it's my birthday (it was March 25th) and I'll celebrate any way I want to. Partly because I'm an adult––most of the time––and because birthdays have such a greater meaning now more than ever. And I can thank cancer––that doesn't sound right––for that. cancer tried to take my birthdays away like the neighborhood bully takes away your lunch money. Every day you dread running into that bastard who is going to make you hand over anything you have that he doesn't have––and you pray you don't see him on the weekends, 'cause you just got your allowance and you want buy another pack of baseball cards or the next issue of Spidey.

It's somewhat morbid, but I've always thought of my tombstone around my birthday. Born March 25, 1958. Died? Because when you see a tombstone with the dates of life, you start figuring out how old that person was when they died. If it's someone who lived past 70, you figured they had a long life to live it to the fullest. When you see someone who passed away before 50, they died too young. I'm in the middle of that. And cancer has put me there.

I was talking to my friend Matt, who has been cancer free for over 15 years. Yeah, friggin' awesome. We were talking about the "what if" present that cancer gives you––what if it comes back? He said after he was told he didn't have to go to the cancer center and he could just see his GP Doctor, the "what if?" went away. He still thinks about it every now and then, but not every day, several times a day. I'm still in the stage of "what if?", thinking about it every day, sometimes 4-5 times a day. Work helps me take my mind off of it, but work also contributes to it. Work is a lot of stress. And stress brings down your immune system. And cancer strikes like a knife to the kidneys when your immune system is weak.

Leading up to my birthday, Teresa always asks me what I want for my birthday. My answer used to be, "peace and quiet for just one day." (Still waiting for that present.) This time when I was asked, I thought to myself, "I want a day without thinking about cancer." But you can't buy that at Target, Home Depot or Best Buy. So I settled for the next best thing––spending time with my family at dinner. And it was the best present I received on my birthday, full belly and all.

Yes, Happy Birthday to me.

My Own March Madness

I love this time of year. 

NCAA March Madness. Spring. (I never thought I would know the difference between the seasons growing up in Los Angeles. We had seasons in LA––fire season, mudslide season, smoggy season, earthquake season––they were just different.)

Baseball. I can smell baseball in the air. Grilling out. Man, get me something to char a little bit, cook it over too much propane and bask in the smell of bug spray. And then you gotta take a shower because you're smelling like a funky ass mix of bbq sauce, some kind of meat, bug spray and pure sweat. Now add a wet smell and you can't take a shower fast enough. (Sorry for the smell.)

The shower is a funny place if you think about it. There you are, standing naked, with a million things that could potentially happen while you're in the shower. (Hey, let's keep this clean in case my kids are reading.) You plan your day. You sing a song you shouldn't be singing––not because it's a bad song but it's probably better sung by the one who sung it or sang it––and it makes you happy. You might even stand there and think you don't look that bad, after all. The shower is where a lot of great ideas are born. At least some of my best ones happen in the shower. It's also the place I first thought about cancer. cancer for me, that is.

It was March 2007 and I was working my ass off, working every day, 7 days a week because we were in production mode. And I was in a new job. And that is what I do to get the job done and done well. But I was tired. More tired than usual, I thought. I just need a vacation. Or just two days off in a row. Or is it something else? As a former competitive athlete, I've been through enough bumps and bruises, breaks and sprains and other weird injuries to know my body pretty well. And I knew something was really wrong. And I felt that way in the shower. Why do I feel like I have cancer? That's what I asked myself. Nah, that's crazy talk. Too many elbows to the head from playing under the boards. Why do I feel like I have cancer? This wasn't going to wash away.

That's too weird for anyone to believe, including myself. But it was too strong to ignore. I was always good at listening to my body. When something wasn't right, I knew I knew. But this wasn't a strain or break or tear or concussion. This was something waaaaaaaay bigger. I didn't want the voice in my head to drive me crazy. Thank God I listened, because they caught my head & neck cancer in the early stages. So March Madness takes on whole new meaning for me now.

I love this time of year.

Hair Line

"How do you get a hair line like that at 50?"

Someone asked me that the other day. Or should I say a dude asked me that question. (Have you figured out he was losing his hair yet?). I get a lot of comments on my hair. I always have. It seems like people think it's their right to say something about my hair. Funny, I don't say anything to people about their hair. "Hey, how long you been a bald-headed bastard?", "you get a haircut after you finished that bowl of soup?", "what, they ran out of your regular hair color?", "do you think I don't notice that comb-over?", "how the hell you comb that thing on your head?", "can you stay out of the light, you're blinding me here!". Never once have I said any of those things to people. Never. (OK, maybe when I was piss drunk and bagging on my friends).

I was born with fire engine red hair, at least that's what my GrandMaree said. She said it looked like my hair was on fire it was so red. My hair was really red and curly when I was a kid. As I got older, it got darker. And people would ask me if I dyed it. Yeah, at 15-years-old, I'm gonna dye my hair. But I was asked that all time. Still am. And now that it's really long––pony tail long––I get even more comments. I even asked a former client one time about my hair. I said, "it's one thing not to like an ad. But if we don't know what you don't like about it, we'll keep making the same mistake over and over again. If I asked you if you liked my hair and you said no, I would ask you why." He said, "And I'd tell you, because it's messy." This from a man with a comb-over. Swear to God. I bit my tongue so hard I thought it was going to bleed. But hey, I asked him and he told me what he felt. Give him credit for that.

When I was going through radiation and chemo for head & neck cancer, my hair was falling out. It changed color, with a long white streak right down the middle. It looked like I hardly lost any hair at all. But I have a lot of hair. And I lost it in clumps. I just had so much, it wasn't noticeable to everyone. Maybe it was because it was so long. Maybe it was that I had such bad acne––not teenage acne, but that's what the Erbitux did to my face, make it break out like a teenager going through puberty––and no one noticed my hair falling out. Who knows? But I did. I also knew that I was trying to grow it as long as I could.

When I was going to radiation 5 days a week, for a full 7 weeks, I saw many others in the waiting room with varying stages of hair loss. It was a painful and visible reminder that this stuff was beating the crap out of our bodies. But the lasting image that got me the most was a little boy without any hair. He had to be about 7 or 8. He looked sad. He looked embarrassed. He looked me straight in the eye one day, looked at my long hair and looked back at me right in the eye. I knew what he was thinking. Why does he have hair and I don't? I felt for him. I felt he was probably getting picked on, just like I did when the kids on the playground called me carrot top, Woody Woodpecker or asked me if my hair was on fire. 

I knew then that I would grow more hair as long as I can. Cut it and donate it so someone could use it to cover their head. Kids, actually. Give my hair to those kids who have to suffer not only the pain and after effects of radiation, but the ignorance of their friends and other kids their age who tease them. Hey, kids don't know any better. But I know better. I know that the simple act of growing my hair long and getting it cut so other cancer victims can cover up their heads, is the least I can do. So the next time someone asks me about my hair, I'll give them the hair line. I'm a cancer survivor and growing it to donate it.

I'm sure I'll see some red on their head.