Respect

I was at the office late one night, trying to manage the day and the days that lie ahead. And I was pissed beyond belief.

John Bell, my next door office neighbor and avid supporter in my fight against cancer, saw me as he was heading out the door and stopped. "What are you still doing here? You should be going home, right?" I must have gave him a look that made him stop. Or perhaps he knew that I was not having a good day. He was right. I wasn't having a good day. And it was because for the umpteenth time, I felt disrespected at work.

You can hate me, call me names and generally just don't like me. But when I'm not respected, that gets my blood boiling. Why? Because I was brought up to respect people. For who they are. For the work they do. For how they have to live their lives in order to get through their day. We all have our quirks, our issues and problems. We all are different in some way. And that's more than OK. It's life.

Now John and I don't always see eye-to-eye. But ever since the day he hired me, he has respected my opinion and dedication to making the work better every day. And most of all, he respects me as a person, a human being. He's one of the smartest people I know and at the same time somewhat enigmatic. But he has a good heart and a good soul. I'll never forget when I told him I thought I had cancer. He said, "Nah, it's just probably something else related to all the crazy hours you've been putting." He was just trying to ease my mind. And he was right. All the crazy hours lead to extra stress, which is a bad trigger to your immune system.

And here I was, letting the stress and the actions of others get to me because of how I was treated. I was feeling that I didn't survive cancer to work my life away and have people dis me. I was feeling my purpose in life being twisted. I was feeling like I did before I had cancer. And that scared me. I guess there's only one thing to do––don't let others control how I feel.

And respect the fact that I'm alive.

Hey, Who Cut Your Hair?

I laughed my ass off the first time I heard Cheech & Chong do this routine. (I was 14).

I remember me and my friends would channel Cheech & Chong whenever we saw someone who just got a haircut. We would just bag on (that was our word for making fun of someone) the poor dude who got a haircut. Of course, the worst was, "hey, who cut your hair. Your old lady? Your Mom?" (I think a few blows came out of that one, once or twice). And this was the '70's, so there was no such thing as PC, no PDA's, security checks and all the things school kids face today. It was merciless, unabashed, "your mama" jokes, out-in-the-open taunts––all in good fun. No, really.

So when I cut my hair last Sunday (or should I say when Teresa cut my hair) I thought about the main reason I had grown it past the middle of my back––to donate it to Locks of Love, an organization that takes hair donations and makes wigs for kids who have lost their hair due to cancer. Teresa even asked me twice if wanted her to cut it. Twice I said yes. This was the least I could do for those children who have to face every day at school, at the mall and at the mirror without their hair.

When I would wait for my radiation treatments, I would see a few kids who were also in treatment. I'd talk to them or their parents. Ask them how they felt. How did it feel without the hair. Tell them I was losing my hair, too. Just not as much. But I could feel their pain of having been teased or called "baldy" or "skinhead" or "scully." And I decided right then and there if I survived cancer––actually, when I beat cancer––I would grow my hair so some little dude or girl could not have to worry about some kid asking, "hey, what happened to your hair." So when I had 10 inches of hair to donate––I donated over 10––and Teresa was cutting it and cutting last week, I was smiling. Because it felt so good inside to do this simple little act. And because I could hear rattling in my head, Cheech & Chong, saying "hey, who cut your hair?"

My ol' lady did.

Dads

Sometimes I think Dads don't get enough credit. (Yeah, I'm a Dad).

But that doesn't make me a deadbeat. An absentee. A weekend Dad. All not very nice, but well publicized. It makes good headlines, I guess. And there's a difference between being a Dad and being a Father. Anyone can be a Father. Not everyone is a Dad.

I listened to a friend today talk about his Dad. In front of a packed house. He talked about the one theme that keeps popping up in my blog. Time. The one thing we can't get enough of. That we can't change––OK, daylight savings excluded––no matter how many things we do to our body. He talked about spending time with his Dad. He talked about the time he's going to miss. He talked about a good Dad. He was probably a great Dad.

I think we sometimes forget Dads are human. Just like Moms. I've always believed that you're really an adult when you realize your parents are human. They make mistakes. They don't know everything. They have fun. (I'll leave it at that. I can hear Kaity ringing the therapy cash register). And we Dads do screw up all the time. We don't have an instruction book. Not that we would read it, anyway. So we're making most of this shit up as we go along. Then we learn what works and doesn't work and go from there. Some scary stuff, huh?

But that's OK. Because we Dads come in all sizes, colors, shapes, price ranges and geographic regions. And we are tough. My Dad has had more close encounters of the death kind than any human should have. From heart attacks to cancer. So every time I talk to him, I want to make sure it's a good one. Good Dads are hard to come by.

So they say.

Looking Forward

This time of year, we see a lot of lists.

Best music of the decade––according to Rolling Stone Magazine. Best play of the year. Worst movies. Best this, worst that. C'mon, do we really need anyone to tell us what is best or worst? So, to jump on the bandwagon––or at least in front of it––I decided to leave all the old and past pleasures alone and look ahead to 2010. Here's what I'd like to see, I'm going to see and see how the hell I'm going to get all these things done before the new New Year.

Spend more time with my Wife.

Spend more time with my kids, Adam, Ryan, Travis and Kaity.

Spend more time with Lucky & Eli.

Write more. About stuff I like. In any format. Style. Any subject. Whenever I get the urge.

Inner peace. Really. I'm not kidding. It's gonna happen. Soon.

More time for me.

Be nicer to people I love.

Be nicer to people I work with. At least once.

Smile more.

Laugh.

Cry.

Cry while laughing. (It's the best).

Tell people I appreciate them.

Clarity. On anything. At least once.

Laugh.

Volunteer. More.

Learn something new every day.

Cry.

The smell of cut grass.

Celebrating birthdays. Especially my own.

Have a heart to heart talk with God. At least once.

A clean PET scan, so I'm cancer free.

Cry while laughing. (It's still the best).

Yeah, that should take all year. But it should also take place every day, right? So what's next?

Looking forward to accomplish the list above.

Personal Inventory

It's that time of year. The end of one year, the beginning of another.

It's the time of year I take personal inventory. Have those "internal conversations" we all have. (Yes, you do to. And it's OK to only admit it to yourself). Strip the ego, pride, insecurities and all else that goes into my persona. Take an honest look at my actions, my lack of action––hey now, keep your mind out of the gutter––and purpose. Yeah, that's been a tough one this year. Why? Because it was the first time since August 7, 2007 I've been in relatively good health. And lately, I've gone BACK to a Greg before cancer that I don't like. But I can change.

I've decided that I'm not going to let work drive my life. When I get caught up in trying to make the perfect TV commercial or the perfect work environment for the team I lead, I lose focus of what's really important. I need to LIVE every day, not just SURVIVE. (Yes, I am using a lot of CAPS. Sorry for the shouting). I need to understand that the pursuit of perfection is a distance that will never be covered. And that's more than OK. It's humbling. It's unattainable. It's human. Work should be work. Not the definition of my life. That line is getting blurred. And I rationalize my 60 hour work weeks with the thought of "it beats the alternative, not working at all."

While that's true, it's also not sustainable. And work is NOT the reason I fought so hard to survive cancer. I didn't struggle to be cancer free to work my life away or for a group of shareholders I will never meet or at the very least, give me a "thank you." The reason I struggled, fought, cried, hurt, prayed to make it through the night and had surgery after surgery was to LIVE. Live for the moment. The day. My family. My friends. It's going to be tough, because I know myself better than anyone––yes, even you, Teresa––and I will have many more conversations with myself.

Only this time, I'll be a better listener.

A Matter Of Control?

A lot has changed since I was diagnosed and beaten cancer. Some good, some bad.

But one thing that hasn't changed is trying to figure out what I can manage––or control––and what I can't. The Serenity prayer, when I remember it, usually snaps me out of it. "God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and the Wisdom to know the difference." Lately, it hasn't been what's been within my control, but as it relates to others. And I haven't been doing a very good job managing myself and others.

What the good people who help save your life physically don't tell you is, the mental aspect of recovering from cancer is the toughest. Most of you probably scoff at that notion, as cancer and the treatments beat the hell outta your body. And the physical side effects last 3-5 years or depending on the type of cancer you have, forever. (I still can't produce enough saliva 2 years after treatment for head & neck cancer). Even worse, it ages your body. I look like I've aged 10 years in the last 2.

But mentally, the scars remain. I still have "chemo brain." Which means synapse problems galore. Disconnected thoughts. Your mind racing faster than your tongue. Trying to say a word you can see in your head, but you just can't say it. Which makes you frustrated, feel inadequate and then can lead to anger. For me, I usually get the trifecta when that happens. And that's where I lose control. And that's no good for anyone. Because even as I'm writing trying to express my emotions right now, all the stuff I've written above is happening. I didn't plan it that way and it is somewhat ironic as I try to post my thoughts.

I will have to work on that. And that, I can control.

Snow Day

I didn't grow up seeing the seasons change. It was always sunny. Always green. Always the same 350-355 days of the year. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

I moved my family 2800 miles and two zones away from SoCal and the extended family and lifelong friends. It was the most difficult decision I ever had to make up until that time of my life. But I had to do it, as the advertising business in Los Angeles was beginning to wither. Jobs were tough. And I was going to work for a world class advertising agency and with some extremely talented people.

When we landed in Northern Virginia, the kids were unusually quiet. And cold. They were wearing shorts and playing outside on Christmas only 5 days ago. I think they were in shock. I tried my best to point out how great this move was going to be. They weren't buying it. They were telling Teresa they just wanted to go back home. Teresa was trying her best, but she wanted to go back. I had been traveling the country for 16 months, freelancing to pay the mortgage. I also paid the price of not seeing my kids enough, as I would be gone 2 weeks at a time every now and then.

We had a little celebration at the hotel we were staying in, a suite that had a loft and a basketball court right outside our door. (We would have to stay here for a week before we could move into our house and all our stuff was still being driven across the country). Fred, Karol, Norman, Kris and Tara joined the 6 of us. I remember hearing my kids laugh, seeming to forget they had been dragged into another time zone. Teresa and Karol were having an adult beverage. We can do this.

It's the little things that change for you when you have and survive cancer. I know I keep posting that over and over again. But it's so amazingly true. The first smell of Spring. The cool night air of an early Fall night. (The only "season" smells of change were, unfortunately, fire season). The first snowfall, today. Ryan had a boyish grin and lilt in his voice. Kaity called and said how beautiful it is looking out her front room window. Teresa loved the picture I sent her via cell phone––we couldn't do that before we got here––and was somewhat jealous that she was missing 3-5 inches of snow. And she's in Los Angeles with Travis right now.

What a snow day.