Yes, Prayers Are Answered

Prayers are private conversations with our own God, or higher power. (As I told Juanita today, I'm not a religious person but I am a spiritual person. I was an altar boy for many years––but that's another post for another time).

I have been asking my higher power to keep cancer away from my Daughter. While I was waiting for my PET scan results, Kaity had a biopsy and was waiting for her results. I said, "give it to me. I can handle it." I felt it was my obligation––as a parent––to keep her away from the enormous pain of cancer. The mental pain is excruciating. The physical pain from treatments brings you to death's door. The combination kills way too many. I have survived two forms of cancer. I can and would survive more cancer. Just don't let Kaity have it.

I put aside everything so I could be there with her. I know she's old enough to go herself––she's 22, after all––but her Mom and I needed to be there when she got her results. Good or bad, we needed to be there for her. For us. For each other. Nothing in the world, not work, not the economic crisis, not a pack of foaming-at-the-mouth-wolves with knives could keep me away. (Wolves with knives? Where did that come from?) So off we went. And got there almost an hour before her appointment. Even DC traffic couldn't stop us.

After a couple of egg burritos and a short wait in the waiting area, her name was called. I moved across the room to sit next to Teresa, not saying a thing. Grabbing Teresa's hand. Telling her I love her. Telling myself this is all too familiar. Telling all the Gods to smile upon my Daughter. Watching the minutes move like hours. And wanting sooooo bad to be in the room with Kaity. That's what parents do. We worry. We wait. We want to take away any pain. As Teresa told Kaity when Kaity told her not to worry, "we worry when you have a fever."

When the door opened and she walked back into the waiting room, it seemed like time stood still. I tried to read her face. Look for tears. Look for clues. Look for inner strength. I really can't remember exactly what Kaity said, because I saw in her eyes that it wasn't cancer. She told us it wasn't––like I said, I don't what exactly and I call myself a writer?––cancer and my heart filled with hope again. Joy. Love. Pain from happiness. Someone or some thing did listen. Listened to me––probably because I wouldn't shut-up. (OK all you smart-asses who are thinking "he never shuts up").

I got my answer. Thank you.

Be Strong

We are strong, us humans.

We are much stronger than we realize. I realized it this week when my Daughter, Kaity, came to watch the Lakers on TV with on Friday. It was a late game by east coast time––10:30PM––but there she was, full of life and happy to be here. The fact that she left home to move into her place has made the time we spend together that much more special. But it's more than the visits. It's her. She is full of life. Independent. Smart. Strong. And beautiful inside and out.

But this isn't about how perfect I think she is––it's about how she's handling her most recent challenge. Two weeks ago, she had a biopsy. As a parent, you never want to hear that. As someone who is a cancer survivor like me, it hurts me to the bone. It hurts in my heart. It hurts in my soul. As I was waiting for my results from my PET scan, I asked God to give me the bad news if there was any to be had. Give me the cancer, if one of us has to have to it. I can take it. I can handle it. Give it to ME.

My news was good––cancer free, now for a year––but I somehow couldn't stop thinking of Kaity. I still can't. I think about her all the time, my only little girl. I think about how proud of her I am. She teaches special education. She tutors. She coaches lacrosse at her former high school. She works on the weekends to make extra money. She keeps herself busy and always has. I wish I had her energy.

As I think about Kaity as I write this, I'm smiling. Wondering what she's doing at this very minute. Wondering if she's planning her Monday, planning her practices or just planning on making dinner. The week ahead will be a tough one for me, as I wait for her to tell me when she goes to the Doctor and get the results from her biopsy. I want to go with her. I want to be there for her. I want to be strong.

As strong as humanly possible.

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.