Workaholic

I'm worried about you. 

When I woke up yesterday morning, my Wife grabbed my arm in bed and told me this. I knew what she was talking about. But I asked her anyway what she meant. You've been working too much. I have. Four days off––including weekends––in the month of September. Last time I worked like this, I got cancer. It could've been there the whole time or maybe it was just coincidental but this stretch of working 15 hour days––leave my house before 7 am, get home between 9 and 10 pm––brings back painful and scary memories.

Stress, a compromised immune system and not eating when you're supposed to eat are cancer ignitors. They fuel the cancer cells we all have in our body and they attack. In tumors. In your body. In my head & neck. That's why Teresa is worried. That's why she reminded me about working too hard. She said what I've been thinking about all along––I can't be working like this. It's not good for my health. But that's hard for people to understand, especially those at work. I look like I'm healthier. I act like I've put the cancer behind me. I know the threat of cancer coming back is always there.

Funny thing is, I used getting back to work as a motivator to beat the cancer. During treatments, I would imagine myself on the positive side of cancer, being cancer free and back to work creating. It's what I love to do. It's what I do best, like it or not. It's what can make me relapse. Look, I don't wake up every day and say, "boy, can't wait to put in another 14-15 hours today." But I do wake up every day knowing that today is ALL I HAVE. I just have to work on making every day more than just work.

Yep, can't get away from the word "work."

Stick It To Me

This is my anniversary of the start of chemo. And was the continuation of a fear I've had forever.

Not the fear you might be thinking about––cancer is a big fear, undoubtedly––but I have a huge fear of needles. Hate 'em. Would rather be chased with a meat clever held by Usain Bolt. In fact, sometimes I thought the nurses who couldn't "find a good vein" would break out another instrument of pain in trying to find the perfect spot to inject the poison they were putting into my body to kill the disease that was REALLY trying to kill me. During my treatments––radiation, chemo, oral surgery, exploratory surgery, follow-ups, check-ups––I've been stuck with needle more times than I'd like to remember. Most of them were successful. And there were quite a few times I was poked 3 times in each arm just to "find a good vein". (Go to Being Cancer, and read the post about Evan Handler's book).

This Friday, I have signed up to get a flu shot at work. (Don't worry, a hospital and real Doctors and Nurses will be administering the shots). And the first thing I thought about is "getting stuck with a needle". Really. I've had a tube in my stomach for 10 months, had 35 radiation treatments, had three tubes shove down my throat all the way to my liver, emergency gall bladder surgery, three skin cancer surgeries and four teeth yanked out of my head WITH PLIERS and I'm worried about a stick in the arm––hey, I'd rather get the shot in my ass, but I'm pretty sure these will be done out in the open and baring my ass at work might not be "PC"––because did I mention I hate needles?

So I'm going to try to be a big boy on Friday. Not look at the needle being stuck in my arm. Not look at the nurse or doctor. Not yell out "son of a bitch"––which I've done before. I'm going to take the attitude of, "c'mon, bring it!"

I think.

Swayze

I remember when I heard the news of Patrick Swayze being diagnosed with cancer.

Why would the news of an actor who I never met, place an indelible mark in my memory? Because when you have cancer, there is a connection that almost automatically happens. And from what I had read about Mr. Swayze, he was a good human being. A good Husband. And that was good enough for me. He married his wife in his early 20's, just like me. And his Wife, was totally dedicated to caring for him--just like my Wife, Teresa. He was diagnosed in March of 2008. That was during the time I was recovering––still am, to be honest––and I watched him whenever he came on television or would show up in the press. He was an inspiration.

This was in the press release on his passing: "Swayze was married since 1975 to Niemi, a fellow dancer who took lessons with his mother; they met when he was 19 and she was 15. A licensed pilot, Niemi would fly her husband from Los Angeles to Northern California for treatment at Stanford University Medical Center, People magazine reported in a cover story." Now you may think that of course, your spouse always stays at your side during the cancer battle. Well, you would be wrong. The "interweb" is full of stats and stories of how people just can't deal with having a loved one suffer through cancer. The reasons, are endless.

cancer touches EVERYONE. It's a nasty, frightening, confusing, depressing, unforgiving disease. If you let it, it will destroy everything in your life and try to suck the life out of those around you. The Swayzes didn't succumb to that. Mr. Swayze fought hard, lived hard and kept his optimism right in your face. He forced us to watch him battle, watch him do what he loved most––entertain. I will always admire him for that. And his Wife, Niemi, has to be one of the strongest people on the planet. Just like my Teresa.

Here's to you, Patrick Swayze. I know you had the time of your life.

Trusting Your Gut

We all have an inner voice. Now before you think I still have an imaginary friend at the advanced age of 51, let me explain myself.

I "discovered" I had cancer in the shower. No, it wasn't a previously undetected lump that I discovered. I had a small "bump" on the right side of my jaw, just below my ear which I thought was caused from being sick with a very bad cold. I've posted about this before, but my "inner voice" kept asking me a question: why do I feel like I have cancer? That's some pretty heavy duty shit. And to some, I'm sure, pretty hard to believe. But it's the God's honest truth. If it wasn't, I wouldn't be at the keyboard right now. I'd be six feet under or spread over the outfield of Dodger Stadium as my ashes became a fixture at Chavez Ravine.

But this isn't about that day in the shower that saved my life. This is about having to present myself and my group at work in front of the new Big Boss. And this was a big moment for myself and the group who works with me––and I wanted to crush it and hit it out of the park. (Sorry, I have baseball play-off fever and it's on my mind). We've been doing some really great work lately. And I wanted everyone to know it.

So I agonized. Wrote down stuff. Wrote down stuff others wanted me to say. Got on the defensive. Went on the offensive. Talked to myself––my inner voice was NOT paying much attention at the time––and even juiced up on more caffeine. I wasn't nervous. I was anxious. I love the stage. I love being able to share work that others have created. It's a positive blast to the ego, and we can all use that every now and then, right? Then about 15 minutes before we were on, one of my co-workers walks in and says, "we only have 2 minutes? What do we say that they already don't know?"

After he walked away, my inner voice finally spoke up––about time, rat bastard––and gave me the same advice Denny Kuhr gave me 20 years ago.  Go with what you know. Speak from the heart and the head will follow. Forget trying to script it or spin it or spew out somebody else's words from my mouth. I know this stuff. I live this stuff. I love doing what I'm doing. I don't know exactly where my "inner voice" lives inside my body. My head? My neck? My feet? No.

Right where it should've been all along. Right in my gut.

Losing My Voice

The emotions ran so deep, I couldn't talk about finding out my cancer free news.

OK, I'll admit. I cried like a baby. I cried every time I told someone––Teresa, my Dad, my co-workers who could see something happened to me. Ever since being diagnosed with cancer on August 7, 2007, I have had my emotions on the surface more than usual. (Alright, stop it. Just stop it those of you who know that I'm an "expressive" person already. Now you're even more so? Please). Why? Maybe all those years of building my "street face" had blocked out a lifetime of emotions. You can't let people who instinctively or who have learned to recognize fear know you're scared. Or let them see any emotion. That is a sign of weakness. A big neon sign that says, "ass-kickings here."

But tears of joy are a completely different animal. They feel different. They roll out of your eyes differently. They swell up, flood your vision and flow down your cheek, as if it's a soothing stream straight from your soul. I still feel my lids getting heavy, just writing about it. I still can't believe all the things I have had to endure. Every day. Every week. Every time my body got tweaked out of it's normal routine. It's been a hard 2 years+. It's been an emotional time. It's been bonus time, because I consider every day I wake up a GREAT DAY.

Being cancer free now doesn't mean I am free of worry. Or fear. Or all physical side effects and ailments that cancer has left for me forever. It does mean I'm farther away from the big battles. I'm healthier. Happier. I am more loving. More passionate. More emotional, so much so that I can't talk about how happy I am because I just can't verbally express my happiness. It's a good thing I have this blog, so I can share my voice but not my red, swollen eyes.

I hope you can hear my voice through my words.

cancer Free

The results are in. No cancer. Thank God. This is all I can write due to overwhelming emotion of happiness.

And worried the tears will short circuit my computer.

We. Us. Together.

It was pouring rain. So bad, Teresa was clutching to the car door and was as stiff as a board. We could hardly see 10 feet in front of us.

There was no getting off the Toll Road or pulling over. I had to get my every 6 month PET Scan. I had to be there in 20 minutes. I had to drive through the monsoon no matter what. This was a big one––the scan, not the weather––that would tell me if cancer had returned. Or not. So no backing out now. No excuses. Just do it. (Hey, I think I've heard that before). Drive, baby, drive. "I'm glad you're driving and not me", said Teresa. I had to chuckle inside, because the pouring rain was taking her mind off of having to go with me. These tests/scans have a way of really screwing my body up––no caffeine, no sugar, no exercise, limited carbs for 24 hrs, nothing to eat or drink at all 6 hrs before except water––and the test takes about 3 hrs.

When we get there, the rain stops. That's weird. What was even weirder––that's a word, right?––was the place was a mess. They were putting in a new camera I found out later. Seems the other one wasn't working. And there were construction people walking all over the place, yelling, moving, banging and just complete chaos. It was like something out of MASH. So after they stick me in the arm and shoot the dye in my body and keep me in a almost dark room for 45 minutes, they come and get me. The technician says, "follow me. We have to take you to a trailer." WTF? A trailer? Are they gonna give me test or take me to trailer park? In this weather? Isn't Hurricane Bill coming by? Isn't a trailer THE WORST place to be when the winds get nasty?

After the long walk down the entire length of the building, they walk me into a huge trailer, with all the bells and whistles. I see the monitors. I see a dude in some scrubs. I see the tube that will house my body and check for cancer. Once again, I had to chuckle inside. Weird shit happens to me all the time, so much so, that I've come to expect and accept it. Why fight it, right? Just roll with it, chalk it up to experience and live to tell the story another day––tough way to post something interesting––with the emphasis on living. By now, my head is pounding. It feels like hammering cement. Ever take a hammer to cement? Man, oh man-a-chevits.

Once I'm done, I have to sit in a chair for 10 minutes while they check and see if the scan worked. Again, WTF? Then I realized, it's a trailer, man. And the worst is over––sort of, because my head is still pounding. The tech says, "OK, I'll see you tomorrow" as he walks out the door with a big trash bag. Yeah, real funny dude. He thinks he fakes me out and then says, "I'm kidding, you can go now." So I walk out the trailer into the sunlight, down the hall and go through the front door to get Teresa, who has been patiently waiting for me for about 3 hrs. She looks up like, "what are you doing coming in the front door." I tell her my journey and we both have a laugh.

The drive home is much less adventurous. But I'm not feeling well at all. Now my stomach is starting to do back flips and my head has gone from a hammer to an ice pick being driven into my head with a hammer. When we walk in the front door, Teresa says to me, "so if this one comes back clean, we don't have to go back for another year, right?" Yes. That's right. The thought of not having to go through this for another year sounded good. But was even better was that Teresa said "we". Because that truly is the other side of cancer. Those you love, those who love you, those who are your friends and co-workers and all who count on you are right there, feeling things that they can't explain and don't want to. Those people make it worth fighting cancer EVERY DAY.

We. Us. Together.