It’s frightening to think where I’d be right now without music. I’ve been without a band for far too long and my time lately is too pressed to practice as much as I’d like, but my guitar, my heroes, and all their songs have still managed to be there when I’ve needed them most. I remember the week after my first chemo treatment; I came home from a lousy day at work. I felt fatigued from the drugs, weary from my mind-numbing job, and I knew exactly what I needed. When I got home, I went straight for my amplifier. I turned the volume up as loud I could stand – to hell with my neighbors – and played along to the Ramones until my hands went numb.
Two Ramones died from cancer. As a matter of fact, Joey died of lymphoma. For some reason, it’s sadder knowing that than not knowing exactly how he died. I wish I could repay him because, without songs like the ones he helped create, I’m not sure how I’d make it through my own ordeal with this disease. Whatever. Now my head bangs and my right hand strums harder thinking that Joey’s shouting “Hey ho let’s go!” from his perch in Rock ‘n’ Roll Heaven while I do my best impression of Johnny.
***
The more things I went through this year, the more songs I added to my DO NOT PLAY list. The songs on that list are the ones I love dearly, but can’t listen to because of the memories they conjure and the associations they carry with them. This past weekend, though, as things started to settle for the first time in ages, I found myself able to listen to certain songs on that list again. The memories and associations were still there, but they didn’t come first. That meant that I got to be a fan again.
On Saturday night, I sat down with my notebook and listened to the song “Maps” by Yeah Yeah Yeahs on repeat. I don’t know how long I sat there writing like that; it could have been hours. For so long, that song led me astray whenever I heard it. Gentle, wild, maddeningly beautiful as it is, it was aural hemlock to me for months.
I can’t tell you all the reasons why without revealing certain names and disclosing events that need not be aired right here, but I remember exactly when it started. I was in LA last March. I walked into a tattoo shop on Hollywood Boulevard with my former boss. We were supposed to be on a sales call – the old, fat Jew mini-entrepreneur with his disinterested young Ecuadorian apprentice – but I clocked out the second I entered the shop and heard a familiar voice. It was Karen O, lead vocalist for Yeah Yeah Yeahs, singing more sweetly and with more vulnerability than I’d ever heard from her.
“Wait, they don’t love you like I love you...”
…Was all I heard in front of a gentle rockabilly drum beat and a deceptively unassuming guitar melody. She sang soft and low at first then, all of a sudden, her voice leapt an octave as she began shouting her proclamation from West Village rooftop during a summer storm. She drew blood from my heart with each repetition.
Almost immediately after that, I embarked on a heartbreaking odyssey, and “Maps” was the closing song on the soundtrack. Night after night, I’d drive aimlessly for hours, holding back tears in a green haze as the song blasted from my stereo. In my tortured-euphoric state, I’d ascend along the guitar melody until I reached the cloud from which Karen O sang that hypnotic chorus:
“Wait, they don’t love you like I love you…”
Sometimes it’s impossible to tell whether something is saving or killing you.
This past Saturday was the first time I’ve been able to listen to this song without feeling so pained. Again, I recognized the same things that hurt before, but first I recognized the song’s beauty and power. It was as it should be when you love a song; just me and the band. That tells me things are getting better, and it makes me excited about the possibility of new, better memories and associations I’ll make with songs that I already love and songs I have yet to hear. That’s what is so wonderful about music: It is infinite. You could spend eternity trying to discover all the great things it has to offer, and it is there for every turn and nuance in life.
Friday, December 19, 2008
Catching Up
I waited far too long to write this. I wrote my first entry shortly before my second chemotherapy treatment, when I was still miles away from understanding all that I was up against. I think I still have a ways to go, but at least I know that much. The past couple months have been an adventure; the final trials in maybe the most challenging year of my life. I’ve got plenty of time to write tonight, but I know I’ll leave a lot of things out.
I want to begin by thanking, in particular, those of you reading this blog. Last time I said that I’ve got the best family and friends in the world, and the comments I received proved as much. I can’t respond to any of you individually (or I haven’t figured out that feature yet, at least), but I want you to know how much your words and thoughts mean to me. I miss you more than I can say; we’ve all got lives to live and most days I’m either left without the stamina to chat over the phone or I don’t feel personable enough to reach out to anyone, or both. I’ll be back soon, though. Last weekend I made that promise to all of you and to myself.
One of the best parts about emerging from a difficult time or event is waking up on the other side and remembering all the things you love; the things that kept you going when you could find nothing else within. Some of those are things that I miss right now. Boxing is the first thing that comes to mind. I’m still learning just how far chemo sets you back physically. When I did twenty-five push-ups and sit-ups the other day, my pulse went through the roof and wouldn’t calm down for nearly ten minutes. I thought I might be ready to go back to the gym and start some light training, but that made me think twice.
It’s not easy; I miss it terribly. I miss the rush of a good workout; how your muscles burn, your heart pounds, and your chest heaves, but your lips spread to a slight grin knowing what you’ve gained in that hour or two. I miss sparring; the sparks you see in the back of your head in the instant your opponents fist connects with your face; the split-second rush that happens when you land a good shot or combination; and the mutual respect that can only be understood by those who have stepped through the ropes. Like I said, though, I’ll be back. Just like I know more good times with my family and friends are waiting for me once this bullshit is through, I know I’ll be back in the gym before too long. And, in the meantime, I still get to enjoy going out with my guys and watching the latest boxing or MMA event. I was in pretty bad shape a couple weekends ago, but seeing Manny Pacquiao kick the living hell out of Oscar De La Hoya cheered me right up.
Boxing may be the only thing that I’m truly cut off from right now, though. Since I can’t make my annual trip to LA, members from both sides of my family have come to Chicago instead. The trips aren’t long, typically lasting only a few days, but we’ve managed to make some indelible memories, nonetheless. Lately I find myself thinking about my two grandfathers, in particular. I know I won’t ever forget some of the conversations I’ve had with them in recent weeks. On Thanksgiving, for instance, my Grandpa Bruce pulled me aside before dinner. He and I hadn’t had the chance to talk one-on-one since everyone found out about my having cancer, and he had some things he wanted to tell me. We went over a lot, and both of us got pretty emotional. Towards the end, I told him how one of the toughest things about all of this has been the idea that so many people are worried about me, and having to get used to people helping me with so much. My grandpa responded with a beautiful explanation:
“This is just how family works,” he said, “You can never pay your family back for everything they’re doing for you right now, but that’s OK. That’s how it’s supposed to be. There have been times in my life when I needed help, even though I probably didn’t want to admit it or accept it, but I wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for the help I got from my parents or my grandparents or my aunts and uncles. I’m making it up to them by being there for you.
The same thing is going to happen to you. One day you’ll have to be there for your kids or for your grandkids or nieces or nephews or whatever, and I have no doubt that you’ll be up for it. That’s when you’ll pay us back. In the meantime, just accept that you’ve got a lot of people who love you a lot and have your back for whatever you need.”
I don’t want to think of any loved one of mine going through something like this, but if they do, my grandpa is right: I’ll be the first one on the scene, and if the situation calls for it, I’ll have his words to pass on.
My Grandpa Mario provides me with a different kind of inspiration. His is almost purely one of example. We’ve always been extremely close, but now we share a very unique – and, in a lot of ways, unfortunate – bond that can’t ever be broken. Almost a year exactly before I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, he was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I remember how sad and terrified my whole family was when we found out, but we watched him beat the disease with the grace and resolve we’d come to expect from him. That is one major reason why, to this day, I have not spent one second feeling scared about my chances. I’ve always followed Grandpa Mario’s lead, so if he made it through cancer, that means I have to do the same.
He arrived here on Wednesday along with my Grandma Marcia. At dinner that night, he and I talked about our respective experiences so far with lymphoma. It was the first time I can ever remember conversing with him on an equal level, which – to my surprise – gave me more strength than our talks in the past, when I spoke to him from a distance below. He is, after all, one of my heroes. When we talked on Wednesday night, though, we could relate to each other. We talked about the disbelief one feels when they’re told for the first time that they’ve got cancer; about the illness and fatigue brought on by the chemo; looking around the waiting room at the hospital, observing the other patients, and seeing who remains and who disappears from week-to-week; and how the hardest part is not the physical discomfort and setbacks, but rather the prospect of change. Your body is not what it used to be and your life will never be the same, but you won’t know for a while what exactly that means. After that conversation, though, I have to believe that that part is largely up to me. Furthermore, I know I’m strong enough to make whatever meaning I choose. Those were two things my grandpa didn’t have to tell me, like all of the greatest things he’s taught me, I suppose.
I want to begin by thanking, in particular, those of you reading this blog. Last time I said that I’ve got the best family and friends in the world, and the comments I received proved as much. I can’t respond to any of you individually (or I haven’t figured out that feature yet, at least), but I want you to know how much your words and thoughts mean to me. I miss you more than I can say; we’ve all got lives to live and most days I’m either left without the stamina to chat over the phone or I don’t feel personable enough to reach out to anyone, or both. I’ll be back soon, though. Last weekend I made that promise to all of you and to myself.
One of the best parts about emerging from a difficult time or event is waking up on the other side and remembering all the things you love; the things that kept you going when you could find nothing else within. Some of those are things that I miss right now. Boxing is the first thing that comes to mind. I’m still learning just how far chemo sets you back physically. When I did twenty-five push-ups and sit-ups the other day, my pulse went through the roof and wouldn’t calm down for nearly ten minutes. I thought I might be ready to go back to the gym and start some light training, but that made me think twice.
It’s not easy; I miss it terribly. I miss the rush of a good workout; how your muscles burn, your heart pounds, and your chest heaves, but your lips spread to a slight grin knowing what you’ve gained in that hour or two. I miss sparring; the sparks you see in the back of your head in the instant your opponents fist connects with your face; the split-second rush that happens when you land a good shot or combination; and the mutual respect that can only be understood by those who have stepped through the ropes. Like I said, though, I’ll be back. Just like I know more good times with my family and friends are waiting for me once this bullshit is through, I know I’ll be back in the gym before too long. And, in the meantime, I still get to enjoy going out with my guys and watching the latest boxing or MMA event. I was in pretty bad shape a couple weekends ago, but seeing Manny Pacquiao kick the living hell out of Oscar De La Hoya cheered me right up.
Boxing may be the only thing that I’m truly cut off from right now, though. Since I can’t make my annual trip to LA, members from both sides of my family have come to Chicago instead. The trips aren’t long, typically lasting only a few days, but we’ve managed to make some indelible memories, nonetheless. Lately I find myself thinking about my two grandfathers, in particular. I know I won’t ever forget some of the conversations I’ve had with them in recent weeks. On Thanksgiving, for instance, my Grandpa Bruce pulled me aside before dinner. He and I hadn’t had the chance to talk one-on-one since everyone found out about my having cancer, and he had some things he wanted to tell me. We went over a lot, and both of us got pretty emotional. Towards the end, I told him how one of the toughest things about all of this has been the idea that so many people are worried about me, and having to get used to people helping me with so much. My grandpa responded with a beautiful explanation:
“This is just how family works,” he said, “You can never pay your family back for everything they’re doing for you right now, but that’s OK. That’s how it’s supposed to be. There have been times in my life when I needed help, even though I probably didn’t want to admit it or accept it, but I wouldn’t be where I am today if it wasn’t for the help I got from my parents or my grandparents or my aunts and uncles. I’m making it up to them by being there for you.
The same thing is going to happen to you. One day you’ll have to be there for your kids or for your grandkids or nieces or nephews or whatever, and I have no doubt that you’ll be up for it. That’s when you’ll pay us back. In the meantime, just accept that you’ve got a lot of people who love you a lot and have your back for whatever you need.”
I don’t want to think of any loved one of mine going through something like this, but if they do, my grandpa is right: I’ll be the first one on the scene, and if the situation calls for it, I’ll have his words to pass on.
My Grandpa Mario provides me with a different kind of inspiration. His is almost purely one of example. We’ve always been extremely close, but now we share a very unique – and, in a lot of ways, unfortunate – bond that can’t ever be broken. Almost a year exactly before I was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s lymphoma, he was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I remember how sad and terrified my whole family was when we found out, but we watched him beat the disease with the grace and resolve we’d come to expect from him. That is one major reason why, to this day, I have not spent one second feeling scared about my chances. I’ve always followed Grandpa Mario’s lead, so if he made it through cancer, that means I have to do the same.
He arrived here on Wednesday along with my Grandma Marcia. At dinner that night, he and I talked about our respective experiences so far with lymphoma. It was the first time I can ever remember conversing with him on an equal level, which – to my surprise – gave me more strength than our talks in the past, when I spoke to him from a distance below. He is, after all, one of my heroes. When we talked on Wednesday night, though, we could relate to each other. We talked about the disbelief one feels when they’re told for the first time that they’ve got cancer; about the illness and fatigue brought on by the chemo; looking around the waiting room at the hospital, observing the other patients, and seeing who remains and who disappears from week-to-week; and how the hardest part is not the physical discomfort and setbacks, but rather the prospect of change. Your body is not what it used to be and your life will never be the same, but you won’t know for a while what exactly that means. After that conversation, though, I have to believe that that part is largely up to me. Furthermore, I know I’m strong enough to make whatever meaning I choose. Those were two things my grandpa didn’t have to tell me, like all of the greatest things he’s taught me, I suppose.
Monday, December 1, 2008
Round 1
After being an avid blogger since I was 15, this past summer I deleted my blog and stopped using any networking site I’d been affiliated with (MySpace, Facebook, etc.). Contrary to what I expected, I felt so liberated when I did that that when it was suggested that I start this blog, I was quite reluctant. I hardly mean to blame my starting this on anyone else, though; I hate to admit it, but it didn’t take too much nagging to get me to post my writing online again.
Of course, when I deleted all those things this summer, cancer wasn’t high on the list of things I expected to deal with this fall and winter. The main reason it was suggested I start this was because I am blessed with so many people who care about what is going on with me, I can’t possibly keep them all updated. As I said, at first I was reluctant, but I think that was because I was very much in denial over many of the truths about my condition. I really hate to think of anyone worrying about me, but part of the process I’ve undergone recently has been admitting to myself that perhaps all these people are worried about me because they have valid reasons, and that if any of them were going through what I’m going through, my reaction would be the same as theirs, if not stronger. That being said, I’ve managed to maintain my overall outlook while chipping away at my denial. There is still no part of me that doesn’t believe that I’ll have this beaten by next summer.
Those of you who know me well enough know that this first entry could be at least 100 pages long if I tried to describe everything I’ve been thinking and feeling over the past few weeks. I’m fairly certain I’ll get to most of it eventually. I figured I’d begin this blog with a story I’ve told a few of you already. It was one of the first things I thought of when cancer initially entered the picture. As many of you know, over the past couple years I’ve become a very avid boxing fan. Some time last August – about a week before my first symptoms started, actually – I went to work out with a good friend of mine at the gym where I was first introduced to boxing (as well as other fighting styles they teach). I thought it would just be the two of us going through drills and sparring a little bit, but when I got there, my friend was already in the ring with this 6’1”, 250-pound monster. This man was a former U.S. Marine who was training for a professional mixed martial arts fight in Indiana that weekend.
My friend is a fighter at heart and was putting up a valiant effort, but his opponent that night outweighed him by almost 90 pounds. Sure enough, the big guy threw a massive cross that landed squarely on my friend’s upper jawbone, and that put him out for at least a few rounds. I was still just wrapping my hands and wrists, but the big guy’s trainers – instructors at the school who knew me well from having taught me for almost a year – looked at me immediately and said, “Perez, get in there next.” It is one of the unspoken rules at those kinds of schools that when a trainer issues that kind of order, you obey or you don’t show your face there again.
I remember exactly what went through my mind as I put my gloves on and prepared to cross the ropes. I only weighed 187 pounds myself at the time, and I’d just seen this beast demolish a guy who I knew was more-or-less on my level as a fighter. I wasn’t scared, but nor was I eager to face this man. I remember a moment, though, where I paused and told myself, “All right: This guy has more training than you do, he’s in fighting shape and you’re not, and he has about 60 pounds of muscle on you. You’re not going to beat him, and there’s a chance he could hurt you. But you’re getting in that ring.”
This was one of those cliché moments where I had the chance to prove some things to myself (though I was surrounded by people whose opinions I had the utmost respect for, I wasn’t too concerned with them). First, I wanted to see if I could actually get in the ring with this guy, knowing what I knew. That wasn’t enough for me, though. I also needed to know whether I could fight this guy hard; like I didn’t know I couldn’t beat him. I think passing the first test merely proves that you have some measure of fortitude, which is nothing too exceptional. When you pass the second test, you start to see just how much you have.
I passed both. I lost the rounds we fought because he caught me with two huge hooks to my abdomen, and given the weight disparity, that was all it took. After the first, I had to sit out one round to catch my breath. When the second hit the same spot with just as much force, I knew I was done for the night. I passed my tests, though, because I kept my cool and fought him the way my instructors taught me to. The truth is I out-boxed him (which I don’t want to take too much credit for since most MMA fighters are much better on the ground than they are standing up. If he had been allowed to take me down, he’d have ruined me in a matter of seconds). As I left the ring (holding my side where he’d just hit me), I smiled and said, “You’re strong, bro. You hit pretty hard.” He responded, “Yeah, but it doesn’t matter if I can’t block anything” as he touched gloves with me. The gesture and the comment amounted to more than enough respect to grant me a sense of accomplishment that night.
I first told this story to my grandpa and my uncle when they first heard I might have cancer, and my point at the time was that I was again faced with a daunting opponent, except this time he wasn’t that much bigger than me and that’s why I knew I’d beat it. I wrote earlier, though, about coming to terms with certain things and ridding myself of denial. I know now that, like the guy I faced in August, this opponent is bigger than me. More than that, though, this opponent can hurt me much worse than any boxer could, which is why I can’t beat it on my own. This has been so difficult to admit to myself – and I don’t think I’ve completed that process yet – but I need the people who have gathered around me so quickly and so eagerly. But that is precisely why I’ve maintained my overall outlook: I am being treated at a world-class hospital by doctors who are not only some of the best at what they do but, so far, have also been exceedingly friendly, sympathetic, and supportive. Most importantly, though, I have the best family and friends in the world. I can never begin to repay them for the love and care they’ve shown even so far, so the least I can do is beat this handily. I don’t need to prove anything else to myself. Everything I do now is because I owe my loved one strength and success which, when you think about it, are the easiest parts in all of this.
Of course, when I deleted all those things this summer, cancer wasn’t high on the list of things I expected to deal with this fall and winter. The main reason it was suggested I start this was because I am blessed with so many people who care about what is going on with me, I can’t possibly keep them all updated. As I said, at first I was reluctant, but I think that was because I was very much in denial over many of the truths about my condition. I really hate to think of anyone worrying about me, but part of the process I’ve undergone recently has been admitting to myself that perhaps all these people are worried about me because they have valid reasons, and that if any of them were going through what I’m going through, my reaction would be the same as theirs, if not stronger. That being said, I’ve managed to maintain my overall outlook while chipping away at my denial. There is still no part of me that doesn’t believe that I’ll have this beaten by next summer.
Those of you who know me well enough know that this first entry could be at least 100 pages long if I tried to describe everything I’ve been thinking and feeling over the past few weeks. I’m fairly certain I’ll get to most of it eventually. I figured I’d begin this blog with a story I’ve told a few of you already. It was one of the first things I thought of when cancer initially entered the picture. As many of you know, over the past couple years I’ve become a very avid boxing fan. Some time last August – about a week before my first symptoms started, actually – I went to work out with a good friend of mine at the gym where I was first introduced to boxing (as well as other fighting styles they teach). I thought it would just be the two of us going through drills and sparring a little bit, but when I got there, my friend was already in the ring with this 6’1”, 250-pound monster. This man was a former U.S. Marine who was training for a professional mixed martial arts fight in Indiana that weekend.
My friend is a fighter at heart and was putting up a valiant effort, but his opponent that night outweighed him by almost 90 pounds. Sure enough, the big guy threw a massive cross that landed squarely on my friend’s upper jawbone, and that put him out for at least a few rounds. I was still just wrapping my hands and wrists, but the big guy’s trainers – instructors at the school who knew me well from having taught me for almost a year – looked at me immediately and said, “Perez, get in there next.” It is one of the unspoken rules at those kinds of schools that when a trainer issues that kind of order, you obey or you don’t show your face there again.
I remember exactly what went through my mind as I put my gloves on and prepared to cross the ropes. I only weighed 187 pounds myself at the time, and I’d just seen this beast demolish a guy who I knew was more-or-less on my level as a fighter. I wasn’t scared, but nor was I eager to face this man. I remember a moment, though, where I paused and told myself, “All right: This guy has more training than you do, he’s in fighting shape and you’re not, and he has about 60 pounds of muscle on you. You’re not going to beat him, and there’s a chance he could hurt you. But you’re getting in that ring.”
This was one of those cliché moments where I had the chance to prove some things to myself (though I was surrounded by people whose opinions I had the utmost respect for, I wasn’t too concerned with them). First, I wanted to see if I could actually get in the ring with this guy, knowing what I knew. That wasn’t enough for me, though. I also needed to know whether I could fight this guy hard; like I didn’t know I couldn’t beat him. I think passing the first test merely proves that you have some measure of fortitude, which is nothing too exceptional. When you pass the second test, you start to see just how much you have.
I passed both. I lost the rounds we fought because he caught me with two huge hooks to my abdomen, and given the weight disparity, that was all it took. After the first, I had to sit out one round to catch my breath. When the second hit the same spot with just as much force, I knew I was done for the night. I passed my tests, though, because I kept my cool and fought him the way my instructors taught me to. The truth is I out-boxed him (which I don’t want to take too much credit for since most MMA fighters are much better on the ground than they are standing up. If he had been allowed to take me down, he’d have ruined me in a matter of seconds). As I left the ring (holding my side where he’d just hit me), I smiled and said, “You’re strong, bro. You hit pretty hard.” He responded, “Yeah, but it doesn’t matter if I can’t block anything” as he touched gloves with me. The gesture and the comment amounted to more than enough respect to grant me a sense of accomplishment that night.
I first told this story to my grandpa and my uncle when they first heard I might have cancer, and my point at the time was that I was again faced with a daunting opponent, except this time he wasn’t that much bigger than me and that’s why I knew I’d beat it. I wrote earlier, though, about coming to terms with certain things and ridding myself of denial. I know now that, like the guy I faced in August, this opponent is bigger than me. More than that, though, this opponent can hurt me much worse than any boxer could, which is why I can’t beat it on my own. This has been so difficult to admit to myself – and I don’t think I’ve completed that process yet – but I need the people who have gathered around me so quickly and so eagerly. But that is precisely why I’ve maintained my overall outlook: I am being treated at a world-class hospital by doctors who are not only some of the best at what they do but, so far, have also been exceedingly friendly, sympathetic, and supportive. Most importantly, though, I have the best family and friends in the world. I can never begin to repay them for the love and care they’ve shown even so far, so the least I can do is beat this handily. I don’t need to prove anything else to myself. Everything I do now is because I owe my loved one strength and success which, when you think about it, are the easiest parts in all of this.
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