I blame this entry on my family. Last month, on my final morning at the River, a few of my dad’s cousins asked whether I’d continue writing in my blog. I shrugged and said “I don’t know.” I hadn’t really planned to since the original idea behind the blog was to keep everyone posted while I was going through chemo. Chemo’s done, so I’m moving on to other things.
My family wanted none of that. They showered my writing with praise and flattered me to the point that I really had no choice. So here we go.
Even if I hadn’t had that conversation, I still would have begun this entry by thanking my family for the two weeks I had back home. For months, LA was the light at the end of the tunnel. I gritted my teeth and endured everything cancer could throw at me knowing my reward would be seeing my family and my hometown again.
I’ve learned so much this past year, but one thing that became very apparent while I was in LA was the truth about love. I think most people are fine with accepting love as a very basic emotion with little rhyme or reason to it. For the most part, I can go along with that. When I really think about it, though, it’s not that simple. I believe that you can’t truly love something unless you know its faults. This goes for anything that might be important to you: Your family, a boyfriend or girlfriend, a place, a band, a sports team, anything. When you witness and acknowledge its flaws and love it because of some and in spite of others, then you know that love is true.
If you don’t do this, then what you’re feeling is not true love. It is more like blind devotion. That might get you by for a while, but ultimately it isn’t as fulfilling as true love and will probably lead to problems down the road.
I love my family and I love Los Angeles. Neither is perfect – they fall well short, actually – but I wouldn’t have it any other way. They will always provide all the support I need and, if nothing else, seeing them for exactly what they are makes a lot more sense out of who I am, who I’ve been, and what I will become.
***
Not many things in life end up happening exactly as you hoped they would. Usually there are too many factors along the way for everything to happen perfectly. I was lucky enough to experience something almost perfect on my second night in LA. Earlier I mentioned how LA was the light at the end of my tunnel. It was the thought of one thing in particular that gave me courage to keep going.
Manhattan Beach will always be a special place for me. It started when I was a kid and my dad took me and my brother there for afternoons at the beach. That was the place where he spent many of his teenage beach bum days in the late 70s. It will always mean something different to me because I don’t know the beach or the ocean like he does, but it is special to me because it offers the greatest atmosphere for reflective solitude that I know. I’ve spent so many hours from so many nights there, listening to the waves, trying to absorb the vastness of the ocean, watching birds scamper along the wet sand as the tide rises, and rarely do my thoughts ever come through so clearly. I perceive things in memories and floating ideas that aren’t as apparent to me anywhere else.
For six months all I wanted was to get back there so I could look back on everything I had accomplished, knowing I would be able to see it all from my spot on the beach.
I went there on my second night in LA, long after it had turned dark. I walked along the pier for a while, then went down to sit in the sand. My initial feelings and impressions were so strange. There are so many instances throughout life when you long to go back in time. Perhaps you wish you’d done something differently or have some great memories that you want to relive. I don’t know that I fit into either category – or maybe I fit into both – but for a little while, I got to go back. The last time I went to Manhattan Beach was right before my 24th birthday. Sitting there almost exactly a year later, everything looked and felt the same. That made me wonder: Had I changed at all? Was I exactly the same person I had been a year ago or was I completely different? The space between the two seemed so small, almost imperceptible. I was back in June of 2008, so from there, in a matter of minutes, I went through everything that had happened to me since then.
It all hit me at once. I felt the first tear coming and I fought like hell to hold it back but it was too strong. Once I felt it drop from my cheek, I lost all control. I sobbed and sobbed and the sound of the ocean grew until it nearly drowned out the music on my iPod. At first, I didn’t know why I cried so hard. Then I remembered, it wasn’t just cancer this past year, though that would have been plenty. Life ripped me to shreds. For a few minutes I felt the weight of every loss, every shock, every discovery, every gift, every ounce of pain and joy.
Amidst all of this, through my headphones I heard John Frusciante sing one of my favorite lyrics ever:
“I’ve flown through mirrors,
Almost disappearing.”
I cried because I actually made it back to my spot on Manhattan Beach, and as I finished crying I kept hearing a voice repeat one thing over and over:
I did it.
***
I did it. I made it out of everything, and now I’m pissed.
When I was a kid I figured out that anger is much easier to deal with than sadness, rejection, frustration, or any other negative emotion. Those other ones all make me feel lost. I turn them into anger and I feel right at home.
Once that last tear fell on the beach, everything turned to rage. I thought about all the hours I lost to chemo and everything that was taken from me last year, and I want it back. I want it all back and then some. I want everything I had before I got sick, then I want all the things I was too scared to go for in my first 25 years. I used to wait for things to come to me, but I’m done with that. There’s nothing to do except reach out and take them. I know what I have to lose, and none of it is anything I haven’t lost before.
One thing that hasn’t changed, though, is my inability to motivate myself. I’ve always needed some external factor and I always do better when I’m angry and feel like I have something to prove.
I did great in my last three years of college because I was pissed at myself for screwing up my first year and I wanted to prove to my family that I wasn’t a loser who slept through class and got grades that were far beneath him, like I did in high school.
When I was 23, I started practicing guitar like a man possessed after a run-in I had with the guitarist of a rival band. Though I knew I’d never see the guy again, I knew I was better than him and I had to prove it.
Throughout chemo, all I wanted was to show my family that I was tough, that cancer couldn’t beat me.
Right now I don’t have to look very far for motivation. It is readily available in the memories I have of all the people who fucked me over and turned their backs on me, not to mention the disease that tried to kill me and the treatment which made me a shut-in for six months. Slowly but surely, I’m leaving them all behind, at least in my own mind. For the past few weeks, I’ve been running at least four times per week, and I’m back at the gym at least twice a week. My stamina still is not anywhere near where I’d like it to be, but it is improving faster than even I would have guessed. I may not be able to throw punches for as long as I did before, but you still wouldn’t want to feel my left hook or my right cross.
And the memories of the past year drive me every day. On my daily run, my lungs start to burn as I turn the corner of Armitage and Pulaski. I’ll have none of that, though, because I’ve still got 15 minutes left to go, so I tell myself,
You went through six months of chemo and you can’t run for 15 more minutes? Quit being a bitch and just finish this.
At the gym, my left shoulder gets sore during my second round of shadow boxing. That’s too bad, because I’ve still got four rounds to go on the heavy bag and speed bag. I imagine the pain is cancer’s death rattle, its last attempt to bring me down, so I tell it to fuck off:
You still think you can hold me back, huh? You’re wrong. You had your shot and you couldn’t knock me out. Now don’t come back unless you’re carrying a loaded gun.
People keep telling me to listen to my body. I get why they say that and I appreciate their concern, but they can’t understand where I’m coming from. I had to listen to my body for almost 8 months, while it was being held hostage. That’s over now. I’m ecstatic about having my body back – we’re working together again – but I’m calling the shots. If it could take all that abuse which made it weaker then it should have no problem with the kind that makes it stronger.
I’m happy to work hard all the time now. In fact, I get restless if I’m still for more than an hour. It feels like wasted time, time that could be spent trying to accomplish something. I’m not down for that, because here is something else I’ve learned:
Lasting happiness never comes for free. There are no shortcuts because nothing is perfect. There are no fairy tales.
These facts are not to be lamented but celebrated. This world is exciting because of its flaws. Some we could do without, for sure, but who would really want perfect? Perfect is a straight road. Before long perfect would become predictable. It would be boring. We tell fairy tales to children to preserve their innocence and help give them some sort of moral and ethical base. By the time we’re adults, we know better. We may still enjoy fairy tales, but only as escapist pleasures. Those who still chase fairy tales as adults are always disappointed.
Again, this is not necessarily a bad thing, but it does mean we have to work for anything enduring. If something comes for free or happens over night, chances are it will not last. You can ruin lasting happiness in a matter of seconds, but it takes some substantial time to attain it. It requires patience, discipline, attentiveness, and honesty.
I get that now. All that time I spent waiting for things to come to me or looking for an easy way out was a waste. I was scared and I was not completely honest with myself or many of the people around.
I know what I’m going for in the immediate future. I’m going to find a way back home. It is difficult because we’re living in unprecedented and scary times. This is not the America we were raised to believe in, but that just means I have to work a little harder and exercise a little more patience. My first few ideas for moving back to LA didn’t work so now I’m trying some new ones, and I think I may have found something.
Once that is taken care of, who knows?
Maybe I’ll finish the music and writing projects I started during my time off and see if they get me anywhere. Maybe I’ll go to law school. Maybe I’ll do both.
The fight against cancer is much longer than you might think. Just because you’ve finished chemotherapy does not mean you are done. You merely enter a new phase. Chemo gets cancer off your back and places your foot on its throat. Once it is done, your job is to step down hard and twist. You do that by building your body back up, reclaiming the quality of life you had before, then improving all of that.
I’m proud to be where I’m at right now, but I am not finished. I am still fighting. It is with me every day. Maybe that’s why I can’t sit still.
Would I go back in time if I had the chance? Back before all this happened, to the places and people which now exist only in the stories and songs I write? Six months ago I would have said “Yes,” but now the future looks too good to want to go back. I’ll see hard times again – no doubt – but I’m ready for that. There are far more good things in store for me. There has to be. And I know whatever I get, it will last. I’ve paid too high a price for it to happen otherwise.
Monday, June 22, 2009
Sunday, March 29, 2009
Quarter-Life Crisis
Last Tuesday, my dad was kind enough to remind me that in a couple months, I will be closer to 30 years old than to 20. It’s not like I needed to be reminded of that, but his words did give me cause to reflect on a few things (surprise, surprise).
The next day, I met up with a dear friend who I’d not seen in a while. During our conversation, I confessed some bitterness to her. I’m going to be 25 soon, and I feel like I didn’t get 24 at all. I wasted most of the first six months on some bullshit I won’t go into here, then cancer stole the rest. I told my friend I’m going to end up being 25 for a year-and-a-half because 24 ended back in November, when I was diagnosed.
Once I was through with the brief pity-party, my friend looked at me with scolding eyes and asked rhetorically, “You really think this past year was a waste?” I could already see where this was headed, but I decided to pout a little longer, shrugging my shoulders and taking a sip from my glass of water. She continued, “Would you be able to maintain a steady relationship right now without the stuff you went through last year? And how much stronger are you because of what you’ve gone through with cancer? How much more do you appreciate your life and your family?” She paused for a second before saying, “I don’t know. I think 24 could be the most important year of your life so far.”
This is why you have good friends.
A couple days later I was in downtown Chicago, walking to the Chicago Red Line stop from my parents’ condo near the lake. I passed through the Water Tower square on Michigan Avenue and I started thinking about how much I’ve loved this town. I’ve lived here for over four years now and I often take for granted how comfortable I’ve become. I started looking up at all the buildings around me, remembering how it felt to look at them when I didn’t know the city as well, and going through some of the most important memories I’ve made in my time here.
When the temperature isn’t down to Arctic extremes, it’s hard to find a more beautiful city anywhere.
Once I thought about it long enough, though, I remembered how I was never going to stay here forever. Once I thought about that, I thought about my family and what my friend said to me the day before. I’ve been so lucky to have received the kind of support and care my parents and stepparents have provided while I’ve been sick, but the truth is this whole ordeal has made me miss the rest of my family even more. It’s nice to receive phone calls, emails, and text messages from everyone, but it’s not enough.
Then I went back to what my dad said earlier in the week. I am going to be 25. I am going to be closer to 30 than I am to 20. I’m not really ready to grow up, but, at the very least, it might be time to get my life started.
It might be time to go home.
The next day, I met up with a dear friend who I’d not seen in a while. During our conversation, I confessed some bitterness to her. I’m going to be 25 soon, and I feel like I didn’t get 24 at all. I wasted most of the first six months on some bullshit I won’t go into here, then cancer stole the rest. I told my friend I’m going to end up being 25 for a year-and-a-half because 24 ended back in November, when I was diagnosed.
Once I was through with the brief pity-party, my friend looked at me with scolding eyes and asked rhetorically, “You really think this past year was a waste?” I could already see where this was headed, but I decided to pout a little longer, shrugging my shoulders and taking a sip from my glass of water. She continued, “Would you be able to maintain a steady relationship right now without the stuff you went through last year? And how much stronger are you because of what you’ve gone through with cancer? How much more do you appreciate your life and your family?” She paused for a second before saying, “I don’t know. I think 24 could be the most important year of your life so far.”
This is why you have good friends.
A couple days later I was in downtown Chicago, walking to the Chicago Red Line stop from my parents’ condo near the lake. I passed through the Water Tower square on Michigan Avenue and I started thinking about how much I’ve loved this town. I’ve lived here for over four years now and I often take for granted how comfortable I’ve become. I started looking up at all the buildings around me, remembering how it felt to look at them when I didn’t know the city as well, and going through some of the most important memories I’ve made in my time here.
When the temperature isn’t down to Arctic extremes, it’s hard to find a more beautiful city anywhere.
Once I thought about it long enough, though, I remembered how I was never going to stay here forever. Once I thought about that, I thought about my family and what my friend said to me the day before. I’ve been so lucky to have received the kind of support and care my parents and stepparents have provided while I’ve been sick, but the truth is this whole ordeal has made me miss the rest of my family even more. It’s nice to receive phone calls, emails, and text messages from everyone, but it’s not enough.
Then I went back to what my dad said earlier in the week. I am going to be 25. I am going to be closer to 30 than I am to 20. I’m not really ready to grow up, but, at the very least, it might be time to get my life started.
It might be time to go home.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Remission
For those who haven’t heard yet, I got some good news today. After taking a series of tests over the past week-and-a-half, today my doctors told me that I am in full remission. That means that I am totally cancer-free. I still have to finish chemo – I had one treatment today, then three more left – and that’s going to suck, but whatever. I’ve expected that for a while, and it’s certainly going to be easier knowing that everything has been worth it. So six more weeks of this, and then I get my body back.
I don’t know that the news quite sunk in fully, but, at the very least, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten any good news, and news doesn’t get much better than this. I won’t start the real celebrations until chemo is finished, so I’m considering this entry my first mini-celebration; or a prelude to the real celebration, if you will. You know that ego that I’ve mentioned in the last couple entries? He’s sitting next to me right now, helping me write this. He’s reminding me of all the tough times I’ve made it out of in my life, this latest period being one of the toughest, and he’s busy brainstorming ideas for all the things I need to do once chemo is done.
I feel like whenever you hear about someone beating cancer or surviving some sort of life-threatening ordeal, the person usually talks about “living life to its fullest,” “treasuring every second,” feeling grateful because they’ve got a “new lease on life,” etc. I can’t say I’m totally part of that group, but I can definitely understand those sentiments right now. I think “living life to it’s fullest” generally implies some great revelation and reforms in one’s lifestyle, but, to me, it’s a very simple change. I think life is just meant to be appreciated for exactly what it is. It’s not meant to be wasted on worry. You’re not supposed to dwell on things you had and lost or things that you never had and want right now. You’re supposed to treasure the things you have right now while appreciating everything that got you here and keeping an idea of where you’d like to be.
And that’s another thing I’ve learned: The distinct differences between dreams, goals, and illusions. Dreams are a wonderful thing. Every great advancement or contribution in this world begins with a dream. Goals represent the steps you take to achieve those dreams. Illusions, though, are what often stand in the way of both your goals and your dreams. It’s tough, because they often appear to be either the goal or the dream, but they typically occur because you’re not being honest with yourself (or you’re simply being stupid). Consequently, they cause you to waste time and effort chasing something that isn’t real. I treasure my dreams, but I feel like I’ve spent way too much time allowing myself to be blinded by illusions when I should’ve been focused on goals. If I really can live life to its fullest once all this shit is over, that’s how I hope to do it.
This past week I went to two of my favorite clubs in town to watch some bands play. It had been a long time since I last got to do that, and I’d forgotten how much I love being around live music. It was like going home. I realized I’d forgotten something more important, though: My hands aren’t in playing shape right now, but I still can out-play almost every guitarist I see in Chicago. So I’m going to get back on stage. I’m going to have a band again, and I know exactly how I’ll get farther than I got with my last two bands. I know the kind of musicians I need; I know the quality of people I want to work with; I have a much better idea of the sound I’m going for; I know a lot more about the business and politics of being in a working band. I’m going to get that back and I’m going to make some real noise. You will hear from us.
I no longer feel the need to worry so much about work. Low numbers? Unemployment? Um, yeah, I just beat cancer. I think I can deal.
I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me to get back in the kind of physical shape I was in before I got sick. I’m looking forward to that, though. I’ve been running a few times in the last couple weeks, and while it’s been really tough, it feels like I’m beating this thing in a more tangible way. When my lungs burn and my legs ache, I tell myself that’s my body working hard to beat this shit out of me, and it feels great. I can only imagine how great it’ll feel once I’m not hindered by chemo and I get to hit the bags, spar, and leave the gym pouring sweat again.
I’ve been a ghost for almost six months now. Pretty soon I’ll have the energy to enjoy my friends again. More importantly, I’ve got a girlfriend who’s had to deal with a sick boyfriend for most of the time we’ve known each other. Pretty soon I’ll have the energy to start paying her back for everything she’s done for me. And, looking down the road a bit, eventually I’ll want to start a family and enjoy everything that comes with that. Now, there’s nothing stopping me from that: Not cancer, not any of the stupid things I used to do before I really grew up, nothing.
I want to close this entry with two points: First, I recently wrote about my stance on religion and spirituality. Since learning of my disease, I’ve received an overwhelming amount of good wishes and prayers, in particular. Many of those have come from people who may read this blog, and I hope none of you took my entry the wrong way. Truthfully, despite my disdain for organized religion, I couldn’t possibly feel more grateful for all the prayers that have been sent my way. As I said, I do believe in a higher power, in something greater than us and the world we see, so any prayer is just a positive vibe sent in someone’s own way. That can’t be a bad thing. So, really, my most sincere thanks to any and all who have sent me good wishes and prayers. You don’t know how much that has meant to me.
Secondly, I don’t think I did a good job of conveying my main point in my last entry, the one where I described the difference between medicine and chemotherapy. I wanted anyone reading to understand that if you meet someone who has beat cancer and undergone chemotherapy, that person deserves your utmost respect and admiration because they’ve gone through something you can never understand and – TRUST ME – you don’t ever want to understand. I don’t mean that to sound so exclusionary or elitist; it’s the truth. My best friend spent two years in Afghanistan serving in the army. He’s described some of what he went through, and I always just shake my head in appreciation for how tough that must have been for him. That’s all I can do since I’ll never have any idea what that was really like for him. I feel like cancer and chemotherapy have become so openly accepted nowadays, people who haven’t experienced it don’t appreciate how truly terrible it is. I think I was guilty of that before I went through this. Now I know, so if there’s one small contribution I can make from this, it’s to make sure as many people as possible realize that this is no joke. This thing strikes indiscriminately; it will kill you happily, like that’s its sole function (because it is); and there is no easy, pleasant way to beat it. If you know someone who has beaten it, then you know someone who has been to hell and back. Trust me.
I don’t know that the news quite sunk in fully, but, at the very least, it’s been a while since I’ve gotten any good news, and news doesn’t get much better than this. I won’t start the real celebrations until chemo is finished, so I’m considering this entry my first mini-celebration; or a prelude to the real celebration, if you will. You know that ego that I’ve mentioned in the last couple entries? He’s sitting next to me right now, helping me write this. He’s reminding me of all the tough times I’ve made it out of in my life, this latest period being one of the toughest, and he’s busy brainstorming ideas for all the things I need to do once chemo is done.
I feel like whenever you hear about someone beating cancer or surviving some sort of life-threatening ordeal, the person usually talks about “living life to its fullest,” “treasuring every second,” feeling grateful because they’ve got a “new lease on life,” etc. I can’t say I’m totally part of that group, but I can definitely understand those sentiments right now. I think “living life to it’s fullest” generally implies some great revelation and reforms in one’s lifestyle, but, to me, it’s a very simple change. I think life is just meant to be appreciated for exactly what it is. It’s not meant to be wasted on worry. You’re not supposed to dwell on things you had and lost or things that you never had and want right now. You’re supposed to treasure the things you have right now while appreciating everything that got you here and keeping an idea of where you’d like to be.
And that’s another thing I’ve learned: The distinct differences between dreams, goals, and illusions. Dreams are a wonderful thing. Every great advancement or contribution in this world begins with a dream. Goals represent the steps you take to achieve those dreams. Illusions, though, are what often stand in the way of both your goals and your dreams. It’s tough, because they often appear to be either the goal or the dream, but they typically occur because you’re not being honest with yourself (or you’re simply being stupid). Consequently, they cause you to waste time and effort chasing something that isn’t real. I treasure my dreams, but I feel like I’ve spent way too much time allowing myself to be blinded by illusions when I should’ve been focused on goals. If I really can live life to its fullest once all this shit is over, that’s how I hope to do it.
This past week I went to two of my favorite clubs in town to watch some bands play. It had been a long time since I last got to do that, and I’d forgotten how much I love being around live music. It was like going home. I realized I’d forgotten something more important, though: My hands aren’t in playing shape right now, but I still can out-play almost every guitarist I see in Chicago. So I’m going to get back on stage. I’m going to have a band again, and I know exactly how I’ll get farther than I got with my last two bands. I know the kind of musicians I need; I know the quality of people I want to work with; I have a much better idea of the sound I’m going for; I know a lot more about the business and politics of being in a working band. I’m going to get that back and I’m going to make some real noise. You will hear from us.
I no longer feel the need to worry so much about work. Low numbers? Unemployment? Um, yeah, I just beat cancer. I think I can deal.
I’ve got a lot of work ahead of me to get back in the kind of physical shape I was in before I got sick. I’m looking forward to that, though. I’ve been running a few times in the last couple weeks, and while it’s been really tough, it feels like I’m beating this thing in a more tangible way. When my lungs burn and my legs ache, I tell myself that’s my body working hard to beat this shit out of me, and it feels great. I can only imagine how great it’ll feel once I’m not hindered by chemo and I get to hit the bags, spar, and leave the gym pouring sweat again.
I’ve been a ghost for almost six months now. Pretty soon I’ll have the energy to enjoy my friends again. More importantly, I’ve got a girlfriend who’s had to deal with a sick boyfriend for most of the time we’ve known each other. Pretty soon I’ll have the energy to start paying her back for everything she’s done for me. And, looking down the road a bit, eventually I’ll want to start a family and enjoy everything that comes with that. Now, there’s nothing stopping me from that: Not cancer, not any of the stupid things I used to do before I really grew up, nothing.
I want to close this entry with two points: First, I recently wrote about my stance on religion and spirituality. Since learning of my disease, I’ve received an overwhelming amount of good wishes and prayers, in particular. Many of those have come from people who may read this blog, and I hope none of you took my entry the wrong way. Truthfully, despite my disdain for organized religion, I couldn’t possibly feel more grateful for all the prayers that have been sent my way. As I said, I do believe in a higher power, in something greater than us and the world we see, so any prayer is just a positive vibe sent in someone’s own way. That can’t be a bad thing. So, really, my most sincere thanks to any and all who have sent me good wishes and prayers. You don’t know how much that has meant to me.
Secondly, I don’t think I did a good job of conveying my main point in my last entry, the one where I described the difference between medicine and chemotherapy. I wanted anyone reading to understand that if you meet someone who has beat cancer and undergone chemotherapy, that person deserves your utmost respect and admiration because they’ve gone through something you can never understand and – TRUST ME – you don’t ever want to understand. I don’t mean that to sound so exclusionary or elitist; it’s the truth. My best friend spent two years in Afghanistan serving in the army. He’s described some of what he went through, and I always just shake my head in appreciation for how tough that must have been for him. That’s all I can do since I’ll never have any idea what that was really like for him. I feel like cancer and chemotherapy have become so openly accepted nowadays, people who haven’t experienced it don’t appreciate how truly terrible it is. I think I was guilty of that before I went through this. Now I know, so if there’s one small contribution I can make from this, it’s to make sure as many people as possible realize that this is no joke. This thing strikes indiscriminately; it will kill you happily, like that’s its sole function (because it is); and there is no easy, pleasant way to beat it. If you know someone who has beaten it, then you know someone who has been to hell and back. Trust me.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
What I Got
I have this nagging thought. People keep bringing up things like “strength” and “courage.” It’s flattering, and I greatly appreciate it when people refer to me in such terms, but I can’t help doubting whether I deserve it. To me, it doesn’t seem courageous to do something you’re forced into. I was never given a choice in any of this. The fact that I’m getting through it isn’t strength or courage. That’s just life. What else am I supposed to do?
“You’ve shown strength and character by not being bitter and wondering why this happened to you,” someone will tell me, for example.
Really? To me, that’s simply acting like a man and not being a bitch about this. I never spent one second wondering why this happened to me because I honestly don’t care. Would it make me feel better to find out why? Would it change my situation at all? And did I really need cancer to teach me that life isn’t fair?
I do, however, think I’m stronger today than I was six months ago, because strength comes with perspective, wisdom, and appreciation. Last year, I was like many others, I suppose, who had never been exposed to cancer and can’t understand anything about it. Any time I ever heard about someone having cancer and going through chemo, all I could think was, “That’s bad.” That was all it could be to me.
Now I understand.
Chemotherapy is not medicine.
Taking medicine is turning to a friend in a time of need. Undergoing chemotherapy is shaking hands with a terrorist because you’ve got nowhere else to turn.
Medicine cures your ailment and makes you feel better with no strings attached. Chemotherapy says, with a grin, “OK, I’ll make you feel better eventually, but first I need a few things. I’m going to take the hair on your body. Hope you have a lot. I’m going to take any athleticism and stamina you had before for safe keeping while I work. I’m going to put a little animal inside your stomach, and try to be nice because this little bastard has a furious temper. You never know what will set him off. I think he finds it funny when he throws a tantrum in the middle of the night. Oh, and I’ll need your ego and pride as collateral until we’re done.”
I used one of my fight analogies to explain this to a friend. Your body grows accustomed to medicine. They work together. Your body is in a two-fisted battle with chemotherapy. The punches in the first round get your attention, but you shake them off, thinking you can take more. By the eighth round, the impact is growing, as you’ve taken a few good shots by now. Your recovery time gets longer and longer, and you start to wonder if you're really as tough as you boasted when the fight began.
Doesn’t this sound like a blast? Of course it doesn’t. But there’s nothing else to do.
“You’ve shown strength and character by not being bitter and wondering why this happened to you,” someone will tell me, for example.
Really? To me, that’s simply acting like a man and not being a bitch about this. I never spent one second wondering why this happened to me because I honestly don’t care. Would it make me feel better to find out why? Would it change my situation at all? And did I really need cancer to teach me that life isn’t fair?
I do, however, think I’m stronger today than I was six months ago, because strength comes with perspective, wisdom, and appreciation. Last year, I was like many others, I suppose, who had never been exposed to cancer and can’t understand anything about it. Any time I ever heard about someone having cancer and going through chemo, all I could think was, “That’s bad.” That was all it could be to me.
Now I understand.
Chemotherapy is not medicine.
Taking medicine is turning to a friend in a time of need. Undergoing chemotherapy is shaking hands with a terrorist because you’ve got nowhere else to turn.
Medicine cures your ailment and makes you feel better with no strings attached. Chemotherapy says, with a grin, “OK, I’ll make you feel better eventually, but first I need a few things. I’m going to take the hair on your body. Hope you have a lot. I’m going to take any athleticism and stamina you had before for safe keeping while I work. I’m going to put a little animal inside your stomach, and try to be nice because this little bastard has a furious temper. You never know what will set him off. I think he finds it funny when he throws a tantrum in the middle of the night. Oh, and I’ll need your ego and pride as collateral until we’re done.”
I used one of my fight analogies to explain this to a friend. Your body grows accustomed to medicine. They work together. Your body is in a two-fisted battle with chemotherapy. The punches in the first round get your attention, but you shake them off, thinking you can take more. By the eighth round, the impact is growing, as you’ve taken a few good shots by now. Your recovery time gets longer and longer, and you start to wonder if you're really as tough as you boasted when the fight began.
Doesn’t this sound like a blast? Of course it doesn’t. But there’s nothing else to do.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
What Is Soul?
I’m four cycles into this now. I’d be lying if I said I’m having fun, but that’s the point, I guess. I was told to expect this. And, by all indications, I’m kicking ass. I’m back at my normal weight (and then some, unfortunately), my blood counts have been solid for the past several weeks, and now I’ve got some time off work so I can just focus on my health and feeling as good as I can for the next two months.
56 days and counting down. Each day that passes makes me feel stronger, even if I’m doubled over with stomach pain. Like I’ve told several people, I was never worried about dying in the first place, but now it seems fairly certain that I’m past all that. In all likelihood, the disease is already eradicated from my body. Chemo has gotten tough and will continue to get tougher right up until I’m done, but it won’t kill me, so, if anything, I’m actually interested to see how bad it gets, if that makes any sense.
***
I’m not religious at all. I consider myself deeply spiritual, but I hate organized religion and I don’t subscribe to the conventional idea of a God. I like to think I’m finding my way along my own path toward spiritual enlightenment. Along the way, I’m guided by things like a rough notion of karma and a belief that everything happens for a reason. Cancer and chemotherapy will certainly change one’s perspective; it’s like before I was staring at my feet as I strayed down that road. Now I’m surveying the entire landscape.
As a result, I’m starting to read more between the lines of things I was taught as kid being raised in the Catholic Church. The best example I can think of is the story of Job. He’s the man from the Old Testament who had all his wealth and family taken from him by God as a test of his faith. The story is famous for the end when, broke, lonely, and destitute, Job proclaims, “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!”
I remember studying this story in college and thinking, Bullshit. Now I think I was taking too shallow of an approach in my interpretation. The Church wants you to think the story is about faith, but I think it’s more a story about perseverance.
A couple weeks ago, my grandpa asked me how my experience has affected my thoughts on religion. As I told him, the truth is that this whole thing has done nothing to move me closer to any church, but it has enhanced my spiritual curiosities. I’ve always believed that there is a higher power at work, but I also believe that that power isn’t concerned with us the way the “just and loving” Christian God is portrayed as being. It sets things in motion, and that’s why things happen for a reason, but the ultimate results are largely up to us.
I look at what happened to me this past year. On some levels, I feel I can relate to Job in his story. Starting almost a year ago exactly, things which had meant a great deal to me were removed from life. It wasn’t merely that I loved these things; these were things that made me who I was. They were integral parts in a life I loved. One-by-one I lost them, until I finally lost my health and my body as I’d known it.
I couldn’t see it then, but I was also given a few things which could help me find my way out of this period and build a new life. It was like something or someone was saying, “OK, this is what you’re left with. Now what are you going to do?” As some of you know, I almost gave in toward the end of last year. The weight of the things I’d lost and the knowledge that some of it was my fault felt like too much to carry.
This is where I’m supposed to tell you about the inspiring rally cry I heard, and how that was the turning point. I don’t have one of those to share, but I’m still here. And since I am here and can still remember vividly the things I had and lost, now I’m pissed. Most of them are things that can’t be reclaimed, but I can reclaim my life and rebuild it with things that give me the same kind of joy and satisfaction. I’m still unsure of exactly how I’ll do that, but now I know that I can.
I told someone recently that one of the worst side effects of chemotherapy is all the cliché and corny things you find yourself buying into and preaching. Another awful side effect is the one it has on a person’s ego. I don’t think I’ve seen mine for six months, maybe more. Now it’s waking up. So forgive me if I start to sound arrogant, but I’m 2/3 of the way to beating cancer and surviving chemotherapy. It’s nice to believe in my own strength and potential again, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
56 days and counting down. Each day that passes makes me feel stronger, even if I’m doubled over with stomach pain. Like I’ve told several people, I was never worried about dying in the first place, but now it seems fairly certain that I’m past all that. In all likelihood, the disease is already eradicated from my body. Chemo has gotten tough and will continue to get tougher right up until I’m done, but it won’t kill me, so, if anything, I’m actually interested to see how bad it gets, if that makes any sense.
***
I’m not religious at all. I consider myself deeply spiritual, but I hate organized religion and I don’t subscribe to the conventional idea of a God. I like to think I’m finding my way along my own path toward spiritual enlightenment. Along the way, I’m guided by things like a rough notion of karma and a belief that everything happens for a reason. Cancer and chemotherapy will certainly change one’s perspective; it’s like before I was staring at my feet as I strayed down that road. Now I’m surveying the entire landscape.
As a result, I’m starting to read more between the lines of things I was taught as kid being raised in the Catholic Church. The best example I can think of is the story of Job. He’s the man from the Old Testament who had all his wealth and family taken from him by God as a test of his faith. The story is famous for the end when, broke, lonely, and destitute, Job proclaims, “The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord!”
I remember studying this story in college and thinking, Bullshit. Now I think I was taking too shallow of an approach in my interpretation. The Church wants you to think the story is about faith, but I think it’s more a story about perseverance.
A couple weeks ago, my grandpa asked me how my experience has affected my thoughts on religion. As I told him, the truth is that this whole thing has done nothing to move me closer to any church, but it has enhanced my spiritual curiosities. I’ve always believed that there is a higher power at work, but I also believe that that power isn’t concerned with us the way the “just and loving” Christian God is portrayed as being. It sets things in motion, and that’s why things happen for a reason, but the ultimate results are largely up to us.
I look at what happened to me this past year. On some levels, I feel I can relate to Job in his story. Starting almost a year ago exactly, things which had meant a great deal to me were removed from life. It wasn’t merely that I loved these things; these were things that made me who I was. They were integral parts in a life I loved. One-by-one I lost them, until I finally lost my health and my body as I’d known it.
I couldn’t see it then, but I was also given a few things which could help me find my way out of this period and build a new life. It was like something or someone was saying, “OK, this is what you’re left with. Now what are you going to do?” As some of you know, I almost gave in toward the end of last year. The weight of the things I’d lost and the knowledge that some of it was my fault felt like too much to carry.
This is where I’m supposed to tell you about the inspiring rally cry I heard, and how that was the turning point. I don’t have one of those to share, but I’m still here. And since I am here and can still remember vividly the things I had and lost, now I’m pissed. Most of them are things that can’t be reclaimed, but I can reclaim my life and rebuild it with things that give me the same kind of joy and satisfaction. I’m still unsure of exactly how I’ll do that, but now I know that I can.
I told someone recently that one of the worst side effects of chemotherapy is all the cliché and corny things you find yourself buying into and preaching. Another awful side effect is the one it has on a person’s ego. I don’t think I’ve seen mine for six months, maybe more. Now it’s waking up. So forgive me if I start to sound arrogant, but I’m 2/3 of the way to beating cancer and surviving chemotherapy. It’s nice to believe in my own strength and potential again, even if it’s only for a few minutes.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
Resolution 9
I must begin this entry with a big shout-out to my two grandmothers. My grandma Lois came to visit me for Thanksgiving and stayed into early December, and my Grandma Marcia came shortly thereafter. At the time Grandma Lois came, most of my symptoms had all but vanished after my first chemotherapy treatment so I felt much better, but I was still struggling hard to maintain a healthy weight. After the cancer had spent months trying to destroy my appetite, I was down to 165 pounds, my lowest weight since early high school. Perhaps the best part of any family crisis, though, is watching your loved ones respond. The way my family works in such situations, there is almost certainly some time to grieve when the news arrives, but soon enough everyone springs to action, ready to do their jobs as the best parent, grandparent, aunt, uncle, or cousin they can be to the person in need. My situation in late November was clear: I needed to eat. Who better to answer that call than two first-ballot members of the Grandmothers’ Hall of Fame?
This morning I went in for my fourth chemo treatment and during the preliminary tests and measurements, I tipped the scales at just over 190 pounds. I swear, one helping of my grandmothers’ cooking could find Gandhi’s appetite for him. I spent most of December happily devouring any and everything they put in front of me, and the results have been swift and obvious. In one recent entry, I paid tribute to my grandfathers for strengthening my heart and mind with their wisdom, insight, and courage. This is my tribute to my grandmothers for strengthening my body with their skill, care, and love. Their boy began a fight in 2008 that will throw its hardest, most devastating punches in 2009. Thanks to them, though, he’s ready.
***
It is officially winter, and it came a week early this year. You see, normally at this time I’m just getting back to Chicago, preparing to go back to work (or school, in earlier years) after spending Christmas and New Year’s with my family in LA. This year, though, of course, I am unable to travel (for those who don’t know, chemotherapy drastically reduces a person’s white blood cell count, making them very susceptible to disease and infection. That’s why doctors typically advise against long-distance travel, if they don’t prohibit it entirely).
This has not been easy to deal with. I love Christmas and, to me, Christmas has always meant sun and palm trees; not gray skies, freezing winds, bare branches, and snow. I need a trip back home in December to recharge my psyche before facing the dreary Midwestern months of January and February. And that’s to say nothing of how much I love being around my family during the holidays.
This year, I barely noticed Christmas. It was not the typical montage of parties, laughs, hugs, food, drinks, and gifts. This year, it was a single pleasant-though-largely-uneventful day.
Now, it’s the year 2009, and before I go on I must send an emphatic farewell and “Fuck You” to 2008. I don’t have nearly enough time, energy, or creativity to adequately express how bitterly I recall this past year. Time will almost certainly alter that perception, but for now, it’s hard for me to think of 2008 as anything but my most challenging, unmerciful year ever.
It is 2009, though, and I’m still here. I believe everything happens for a reason, so that means I’ve got things to do. What, exactly? The first one is obvious: I need to beat Hodgkin’s disease. Call this my New Year’s Resolution, if you will; the first one I’ve made since I was a little kid. I’m now a third of the way there and, by all of my doctors’ indications, everything is going according to plan. So they’ll keep doing their thing, I’ll maintain my end of the bargain, and we should have this bitch beat entirely by late April.
After that…who knows? And I shouldn’t be worrying about that, really, but I can’t help it. My life began long before cancer found me, and when this is all said and done, I want it to be little more than an unexpected detour in the early part of my journey.
What still keeps me going are my dreams. I’ve always been a dreamer, but that has often worked against me, largely because I tend to start on the wrong end of the spectrum of ambitions. Take my dreams in music, for example. Before I could play my first full song, I began with the biggest dreams: sold-out stadium crowds singing my songs; records that not only sold well but, more importantly, changed the world the way Jimi Hendrix’s, John Lennons, and Bob Marley’s did; the glory; the decadence; the highs; the lows; and, eventually, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The problem, of course, was that while I fumbled along trying to learn how to play “Under the Bridge” and “Stairway to Heaven,” those dreams – as splendid as they appeared – seemed so impossible to attain, I became too scared to play my guitar outside of my bedroom until I was almost 23 years old.
Now, I find that my courage and drive has increased as my dreams have diminished in scale. I haven’t abandoned my old dreams. Refreshingly, they remain as strong as ever. But it does me no good to shoot for any of them immediately, and right now nothing would make me happier than playing to fifteen people in any one of my favorite dive bars or clubs here in town. I don’t need to party to the rock star extremes, I just can’t wait to have a beer again at the L&L Tavern or with my grandpas or my uncles. I’ll probably never know what it’s like to hold a major championship belt, but the next time I step in the boxing ring will mean as much to me as if I were standing opposite Muhammad Ali or Sugar Ray Robinson.
One of my biggest problems is that I’m not content to live in the present; I spend far too much time pondering either the past or future. That is quite the case right now. My thoughts are sifting through a pile of images, words, people, places, and events from the past year. Everything happens for a reason, there is always a lesson to be learned, so what’s behind each of these things? Against my better logic, I need to know now. Some of that is due to my natural impatience; the rest is because I’m sick of recalling each thing painfully. If I can find the sense in it all, then I can see why it was all worth going through, thus rendering the pain inconsequential. Or, at least, that’s my theory.
I once told a good friend of mine that, even if you feel lonely and out-of-place, if you let it, this world can be a pretty beautiful place with some wonderful things to teach you. I never told her, though, that I was saying that as much to myself as to her. Now I’m telling myself to remember that. Perhaps I should make a joint-resolution for 2009, since beating Hodgkin’s will only take me to April. After that, I’ll be back on my way. I’m interested to know, for the first time ever, what it’s like to focus on my immediate surrounding rather than constantly surveying the horizon.
This morning I went in for my fourth chemo treatment and during the preliminary tests and measurements, I tipped the scales at just over 190 pounds. I swear, one helping of my grandmothers’ cooking could find Gandhi’s appetite for him. I spent most of December happily devouring any and everything they put in front of me, and the results have been swift and obvious. In one recent entry, I paid tribute to my grandfathers for strengthening my heart and mind with their wisdom, insight, and courage. This is my tribute to my grandmothers for strengthening my body with their skill, care, and love. Their boy began a fight in 2008 that will throw its hardest, most devastating punches in 2009. Thanks to them, though, he’s ready.
***
It is officially winter, and it came a week early this year. You see, normally at this time I’m just getting back to Chicago, preparing to go back to work (or school, in earlier years) after spending Christmas and New Year’s with my family in LA. This year, though, of course, I am unable to travel (for those who don’t know, chemotherapy drastically reduces a person’s white blood cell count, making them very susceptible to disease and infection. That’s why doctors typically advise against long-distance travel, if they don’t prohibit it entirely).
This has not been easy to deal with. I love Christmas and, to me, Christmas has always meant sun and palm trees; not gray skies, freezing winds, bare branches, and snow. I need a trip back home in December to recharge my psyche before facing the dreary Midwestern months of January and February. And that’s to say nothing of how much I love being around my family during the holidays.
This year, I barely noticed Christmas. It was not the typical montage of parties, laughs, hugs, food, drinks, and gifts. This year, it was a single pleasant-though-largely-uneventful day.
Now, it’s the year 2009, and before I go on I must send an emphatic farewell and “Fuck You” to 2008. I don’t have nearly enough time, energy, or creativity to adequately express how bitterly I recall this past year. Time will almost certainly alter that perception, but for now, it’s hard for me to think of 2008 as anything but my most challenging, unmerciful year ever.
It is 2009, though, and I’m still here. I believe everything happens for a reason, so that means I’ve got things to do. What, exactly? The first one is obvious: I need to beat Hodgkin’s disease. Call this my New Year’s Resolution, if you will; the first one I’ve made since I was a little kid. I’m now a third of the way there and, by all of my doctors’ indications, everything is going according to plan. So they’ll keep doing their thing, I’ll maintain my end of the bargain, and we should have this bitch beat entirely by late April.
After that…who knows? And I shouldn’t be worrying about that, really, but I can’t help it. My life began long before cancer found me, and when this is all said and done, I want it to be little more than an unexpected detour in the early part of my journey.
What still keeps me going are my dreams. I’ve always been a dreamer, but that has often worked against me, largely because I tend to start on the wrong end of the spectrum of ambitions. Take my dreams in music, for example. Before I could play my first full song, I began with the biggest dreams: sold-out stadium crowds singing my songs; records that not only sold well but, more importantly, changed the world the way Jimi Hendrix’s, John Lennons, and Bob Marley’s did; the glory; the decadence; the highs; the lows; and, eventually, the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. The problem, of course, was that while I fumbled along trying to learn how to play “Under the Bridge” and “Stairway to Heaven,” those dreams – as splendid as they appeared – seemed so impossible to attain, I became too scared to play my guitar outside of my bedroom until I was almost 23 years old.
Now, I find that my courage and drive has increased as my dreams have diminished in scale. I haven’t abandoned my old dreams. Refreshingly, they remain as strong as ever. But it does me no good to shoot for any of them immediately, and right now nothing would make me happier than playing to fifteen people in any one of my favorite dive bars or clubs here in town. I don’t need to party to the rock star extremes, I just can’t wait to have a beer again at the L&L Tavern or with my grandpas or my uncles. I’ll probably never know what it’s like to hold a major championship belt, but the next time I step in the boxing ring will mean as much to me as if I were standing opposite Muhammad Ali or Sugar Ray Robinson.
One of my biggest problems is that I’m not content to live in the present; I spend far too much time pondering either the past or future. That is quite the case right now. My thoughts are sifting through a pile of images, words, people, places, and events from the past year. Everything happens for a reason, there is always a lesson to be learned, so what’s behind each of these things? Against my better logic, I need to know now. Some of that is due to my natural impatience; the rest is because I’m sick of recalling each thing painfully. If I can find the sense in it all, then I can see why it was all worth going through, thus rendering the pain inconsequential. Or, at least, that’s my theory.
I once told a good friend of mine that, even if you feel lonely and out-of-place, if you let it, this world can be a pretty beautiful place with some wonderful things to teach you. I never told her, though, that I was saying that as much to myself as to her. Now I’m telling myself to remember that. Perhaps I should make a joint-resolution for 2009, since beating Hodgkin’s will only take me to April. After that, I’ll be back on my way. I’m interested to know, for the first time ever, what it’s like to focus on my immediate surrounding rather than constantly surveying the horizon.
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