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.

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.