Daddy's Girl

For those of you who have a Daughter or are a Daughter, you're probably smiling right now.

Today is Kaity's Birthday. At 23, she's on her way to conquering the world. She's smart––a 2-time All-Academic All Conference in college, All-Academic All Region in high school in two sports. Beautiful inside and out––she's a Special Ed teacher––and very confident. (With 3 older Brothers, you can't be insecure and shy and have survived life in our house). She's an athlete––3 sports in high school, 2 in which she was All-District and 4 years of NCAA Lacrosse, Team Captain––an avid reader, a tutor and about the toughest person I know. She almost had the tip of her finger cut off at 2 years-old––while we were on vacation in Baja Mexico––had her nose broken, battles with poly cystic ovarian disease every day and can more than hold her own in discussions on the NBA, MLB, NFL and other sports. (She wakes up and watches ESPN Sportscenter every day before work). She's even had to endure me coaching her in two sports for many years, at the youth and high school level.

Yeah, I love her.

But what I love about her most is her love for her Daddy. At 23, she still calls me Daddy. When I was going through treatments for cancer, it really hit her hard. I could see the fear, pain and helplessness is her face. In her actions. I found out I had cancer right before she was going back to college for her Senior year––August 7, 2007. She didn't want to go. She wanted to stay home with me. She wanted to help Teresa take care of me. I even overheard a few conversations the two of them had. I knew she couldn't stay. I knew it would hurt her if she saw what cancer––and the chemo and radiation––was doing to my body on a daily basis. But one thing about Kaity, when she makes up her mind it's awfully hard to get her change it––just like her Dad.

I told her that she had to go to back to college. She was so close to graduating. She was getting ready to have one of the best years of her life. She didn't care. She wanted to be with her Daddy. I remember telling her this––the best thing you can do to help me beat this thing is to go to school. I told her nothing would make me happier than watching her walk across that stage and receive her diploma. If she didn't go back, she might never finish school. I didn't after my 3rd year of college. I never finished. I know my Daughter. She'd find something else to excel in. But being a teacher and coach meant the world to her--but so did her Daddy. She had to go back.

I told her to tell her Coach that I had cancer––I knew he would watch out for her at school. He thought she was a special person. He kept an eye on her. Thank you, Bruce. I know I told you that many times. But never enough. So off she went. Graduated with a stellar GPA. Graduated with all her classmates. Roommates/teammates. On one of the most beautiful days you could ever imagine. And you know what was the best part? I was alive to see it. I will never forget it. Thank you, Kaity, for the best present you ever gave me. 

No matter how old you get, you'll always be Daddy's Girl.

Skin In The Game

Skin. Many thoughts run through your head when I mention skin?

OK, now that you've had your own personal skin flick, let's talk about skin. My skin, to be exact. A year ago, almost to the day, I heard the word skin attached to the word cancer. As in, "we got all the cancer from the skin on your neck. Let this heal a week and we'll get the other skin cancer spot on your back taken care of, OK?" Damn right it's OK! Why not get that baby off my skin right now!

As if learning you have cancer THE FIRST TIME is not bad enough, it's even more devastating, disheartening, disturbing and down right scary to hear again. After fighting through head & neck cancer, I now had to get through skin cancer? Now for those who have never had cancer, any time the word "cancer" is spoken and especially directly related to you, it's like a gunshot to the heart. Even when you beat it, you always have this voice in the back of your head: is it going to come back? When? Where? Will I have the strength--mentally, emotionally and physically––to get rid of it?

I remember the look on Teresa's face when I told her––at the Skin Doctor's Office––that I have cancer. Again. She's been through this before, with her Sisters Connie and Claudia. They both did not survive cancer, as it spread and took their lives at too young of an age. Her look was one of fear and determination at the same time. I wish her eyes would've become projectors, so I could see what she was really thinking inside of that beautiful head of hers. (Kinda like a cartoon or a superhero––we would call her "Emulsion". For film buffs, you know what that means). I knew what her heart was thinking. Not again.

So now I watch my time in the sun. I'm a disciple of SPF. Floppy hats are cool with me. Long sleeve t-shirts? I'll take 5-6. The beach? Let me put up this umbrella first. Me, a SoCal kid, running in the shadows to stay out of the sun. Does this mean I have to body surf with a wet suit? I can live in that skin. Exactly, that's what I'll do.

I'll live with it.

Swine Flu

Think you've been freaked out enough already?

I was in NoCal over the weekend and on Monday for a new business pitch. As new business pitches go, I spent a lot of time with the team––Jeff, Jennifer, Rachel and Emily––getting good and ready for the presentation. Which means a lot of time in front of a computer, staring at power point (my God, when we will ever get rid of power point) decks and discussing the topics of the day. Which meant seeing a TON of coverage regarding the Swine Flu. The Swine Flu––now there's a catchy name––received so much coverage it was almost as exhausting as the NFL Draft on ESPN. I'm always amazed at the way the press handles statistics in regards to human life. Over 2,000 infected in Mexico. Fourteen cases in California. One death in the United States. These are not just numbers––these are people, plus the people who are now scared to death they will catch the Swine Flu from the infected.

After zig-zagging our way through the airport on our way back east, our pitch team sat down for some food. Along the way, we saw people with surgical masks. People watching the news at the bars. Newspapers with Swine Flu headlines in the hands of passengers. Even as we sat and ate our food, the TV was swine fluing the news. We were surrounded. So I did the only thing I could do––I people watched. I watched the looks of fright, uncertainty and nervousness on their faces. Those that had the masks, they were being stared at with amazement and recognition that this was serious. I decided to bring some levity to the situation to our tired and road-weary group.

"I can't help but sit here and think that after all I've been through the last 2 years, wouldn't it be a bitch if I caught the Swine Flu and THAT'S what killed me?" I started to chuckle, so the group wouldn't feel uncomfortable and say, "through all the radiation, the chemo and the medications and side effects, a pig does me in." They laughed. I laughed. And while it's no laughing matter, it did put things into perspective for me. I'm still prone to infection, no matter how much crap they put into my body in order to fight cancer. I could catch the Swine Flu on my flight––that's recycled air we breath up there, right?––or even worse, pass it on to my family back home.

Fighting and surviving cancer has taught me many things. But one of the most important things is knowing what I can and can't control. I can control my hygiene habits. I can't control others and make them wash their hands or sneeze into their sleeves. I can get rest, eat well and be happy every day. I can't fight what I can't see. I also learned that time is the most precious thing we have. Never take it for granted. Spend time wisely.

That's what keeps ME from freaking out. No matter what the news.

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.