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.