Leasons Learned At Five

As my Daughter was telling me about another person with cancer that she knew, my mind started to think about my own mortality and battle. And how I wanted to help.

I've always been one to share. My Mom used to tell me even when I was a "big boy" as I am now, how I would always make sure whatever I had, I share it with my Sister. Or a neighbor. Or somone who didn't have as much as we did. (And we didn't have a lot). As a so-called adult, I've continued to share my stories and events of my life. Some would say too much and too often :)

Then I thought about this little blog I started 5 years ago. It was actually 6 years ago this month when I started to realize something was not right with me––I was always tired, always cranky and felt like I was in the worse physical shape of my life. I started banging on the keyboards for myself, to get my exact thoughts on everything I was going through mentally & physically in a place so I could review. Or someone else should I not make it. It was important to me and hopefully to my family and close friends that they had a little understanding of what people with cancer experience––without ever having to go through the disease themselves. What I found was that I actually learned more about myself than anything else. I wouldn't say everything was a great find––but it was and is honest, pure and true.

I learned that I was much stronger mentally than I originally thought. That I had an extremely high tolerance for pain––which is good and bad. I learned that my family was more afraid of me dying than I was. That I had fallen into a bad attitude that pervaded my entire life––and was mainly driven by the fact I was miserable at my job. I learned that I needed help. And accepting help was not a sign of weakness but a sign of loving and caring. I learned who my real friends were. And disappointed in those who used my illness against me. But the most important lesson I learned out of all the shit I went through, takes the smallest amount of effort.

Listen.

Where Does Love Go After Valentine's Day?

Right after Christmas––ok, not RIGHT after Christmas but close enough––the race for your attention is front and center with Valentine's Day.

Valentine's Day has become an angst filled moment for millions of Americans, trying to show their love for one another on this special day. Candy. Flowers. Teddy bears with clothes on and supposedly cute sweet sayings attached. Bling. Rings and all kinds of special things for this special day.

Now I'm all for romance––no really, you can ask my Wife––but I have a simple question: what happens after the "love day"? Do we just stop loving? Stop showing our love to those who we love every day? We are loving people every day, aren't we? It's not "I REALLY, REALLY love you today on Valentine's Day. Tomorrow we'll go back to being our normal, take-you-for-granted selves, OK?

I don't profess to have all the answers. Hell if I did, I wouldn't be sitting here blogging about it I'd be making big $$$. But I don know one thing I'll do today that I did this past Valentine's Day. Tell those who I love, "I love you." Without any pretense or presents.

Just with love.

TV Imitates Life

It's been awhile––too long––since my last post.

Why? As I wrote in an earlier post, since clearing the 5-year cancer-free mark I've been searching internally for a spark, reason, cause in order to keep this blog going. The conclusion? Shut-up and write already.

I was thinking about how we as a society treat our discussions when it come to cancer. There is the reverent, hushed tones so as not to offend anyone. There's what I call the "cancer grab", as we have efforts against breast cancer, prostate cancer, lung cancer which causes us to compartmentalize cancer as if it were a department store? Breast cancer? That's on the 1st floor, right before you get to gynecological cancer. The 2nd floor is where you'll find prostate cancer and lung cancer. Yes, it sounds ridiculous. After all, cancer is cancer no matter where, how or why it decides to take over your life. We all have a stake in the cure.

Which brings me to the somewhat innocuous headline of "TV Imitates Life." There is a fantastically written TV show on NBC, "Parenthood." As I was watching this show, one of the lead characters is diagnosed with breast cancer. The depiction, acting, story and emotions that come from this group of people is spot on. I kept telling my Wife, "whoever wrote this must have gone through the cancer battle. This shit is almost too real for me to watch." But I did watch. Every week. And every week I cried like a baby when it came to the cancer story arc and the performances of the actors. One of the main reasons I started this blog in 2008 was to chronicle the emotions, actions and situations that arise every day in the lives of people around me. (Hence the title, Other Side Of Cancer).

Thank you NBC. Thank you David Hudgins (Executive Producer) for telling the story so honestly. Thank you to the cast of "Parenthood", who have made me realize how precious each moment we live and how if effects others. Now there's only one thing left to do.

Take it from TV and let's talk more openly about this stuff.

When Death Has A Face. Your Own.

OK, so the headline may be a bit ghoulish. But it describes the threat we face when we hear the word "cancer".

I have a family member who is in really bad shape, fighting for his life while battling this nasty, ugly and unforgiving disease. (I'm praying for you, Dan). The thoughts running through his head are hard to imagine for those on the other side, watching what cancer is doing to his mind, body and spirit. It's the main reason I started this blog over 4 years ago, to help shed light on the view from the cancer patient.

When I was diagnosed with head & neck cancer, my Wife made me promise that I would talk to her about what I was feeling and thinking. That's an extremely hard promise to keep, for many reasons. The pain and fear that comes over someone when you tell them how bad you really feel––no energy, fighting against giving up because this shit is hard and the feeling of losing control of your bodily functions and your mind––is hard to see and deal with when you're fighting. So I was judicious in what I told her and the family. And I kept telling everyone who would listen, "I'm going to be fine. I'm not ready to go. I'm going to kick cancer right between the balls and take it down." I did this just as much for myself, as for them. Why? Because I needed to hear it out loud, to motivate myself, for the people that love me, care for me. And I felt a tremendous obligation to stay alive.

I have written before there were more than a few occasions I didn't know if I would make it to the next morning light. I would stay up––usually in my bathroom trying not to throw up any more and/or trying to stay off the toilet––until the sun started to do it's thing. It was as if death was "teasing me", trying to get me to join. Strangely, I wasn't afraid––it made me more determined. I didn't want death to win. And I did look like death warmed over. Now for all of you who believe in God and/or life thereafter, this is not a denouncement––it's the human side of life that we only know all too well. And having "seen" death, it's what I felt.

And it was my face I had to face, every day.

What Am I Fighting For?

I don't know if this happens to any other cancer survivor. But after being given the positive thumbs up for 5 years of remission and the tears of joy, I found myself in an odd position/feeling: now what?

So I take personal inventory. Do I feel stronger? Check. Do I feel like a huge burden has been lifted? Sort of a check (I'll get to that). Do I stop doing what I've been doing? Uh, I don't know. My focus has been my health both physically and mentally for 5 years, fighting, hurting, recovering, masking the side effects (some which will live forever with me) and trying to take it one day at a time. Because I had a "cause". I had a purpose––to live. I even have a blog. And as you can tell by the length of time between posts, I've been struggling with this feeling and didn't think it was worthy of the space.

And that was stupid. I do have more to say. (For those who know me, I know that comes as a shocker, insert sarcasm here). And I still need the help of others. cancer is always lurking, like a shadow from a dimly lit alley. I have to watch my time in the sun, as skin cancer is always at the surface. Which is why the "burden" hasn't been totally lifted. I also have been able to decipher who my friends and friendly colleagues are through these last 5 years. That has been humbling and eye-opening at the same time and I'm not going to try to understand it completely. It is what it is.

I'm sure I'll figure something else out. I'm still supporting others who are going through cancer and donating time and money to the effort to find a cure. I'll keep writing, even if it's only for me and my well-being.

Yeah, that will work.

Hard To Believe

I have been putting off writing this post until I told my family.

No, not bad news. The best news. Ever. On August 23––which also happens to by my youngest Son's birthday––I had an appointment with my ENT, Dr. Patty Lee. Dr. Lee is my last stop before my annual CT scan, with contrast. A procedure that messes up my body completely and one that I don't look forward to at all. And since it has now been five years since I was diagnosed with head & neck cancer, this was a biggie. Could the 5 year remission landmark be that close? What if they find something? Am I strong enough––physically and mentally––to handle cancer if it is there?

My appointment was at 7:30am. And since Teresa was in Los Angeles, I was going alone. I also was alone at the pathologist when I found out I had cancer––this was starting to feel somewhat familiar so of course my mind started moving like a computer operating system. Too much data, too many windows open, too much distracting me from just concentrating on asking the right questions and see what my future may hold beyond today. And of course, I waited. And waited and waited.

As I sat in the exam chair, I thought of the time five years ago, with Teresa and my Dad sitting in the two chairs to my right. This was the appointment to tell me what my options were for treatment. And some other stuff that is now a blur. I thought about what would I do if I had to get that CT scan. And then thought "what if I am alright?" Yeah, both a good and scary thought. Why scary? I had grown to depend on these people to help save my life. They are my support system. And Dr. Lee has always been a straight shooter with me––some don't like that but I want to know the truth, in plain English and what do I have to do to survive.

A knock on the door happens and in walks Dr. Lee. She has my chart and starts talking to me about my unexpected scan in March. "What happened, why did you get a scan?" I almost said, "what, it's not written down in that 10lb file of mine?" But it was early in the morning and I just said, "I wasn't feeling great and I wanted to be sure it wasn't something serious. It had been going on for 4-5 weeks." She looked in my throat for about 3-4 minutes. Checked my ear and asked about my hearing––one of the side effects of the radiation is I have some hearing loss in my right era. (And I think this is the first time I've publicly admitted that). She then looks over the chart again, with special attention to the scan results. "You don't have to see me anymore." What? "Everything looks great. You're taking great care of your mouth and teeth. You hopefully won't ever have to see me again." I'm still in a little bit of shock. I AM cancer FREE and have reached the 5 year remission mark.

I still can't believe it.

Celebrating A King's Life

Today marks the 35th Anniversary of the death of Elvis Presley, arguably one of the world's greatest entertainers ever.

My Mother was the biggest Elvis fan I have ever known. Since her passing in October, 2011, every time I see or hear Elvis it makes me think of her. So here's to Elvis and Mary Grace.

I hope you find each other in heaven.