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.

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.

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.