A long overdue thank-you

Six left.

I have been waiting for the day when I had six treatments left because the number 6 has been very important in my life. The reason that it's so important to me is that it's the number worn by my Uncle, Mark Church.

When I was seven years old, my dad was killed in a car accident. His brother, my uncle, stepped in and became a father figure to me and my brothers. He frequently asked us if we wanted to go with him and his family to softball tournaments and he used to pick us up for open gym so that we could go and play with our cousins. My first ever Tiger game was with him. It was a double-header against Toronto, and this was back when they let you pay for one and stay for both. I will never forget that night at Tiger Stadium yelling for Rusty Staub to get a hit. The Tigers lost both games that night and I couldn't have cared less. I was there, finally getting to go to a pro game.

Some of my favorite times as a kid were going to those softball tournaments, especially the ones in Midland. When my Uncle's team played at the stadium there, all of us kids were in heaven. We lived and died with the team. Even though my dad was no longer playing, my mom remained as the scorekeeper and so we were able to go to most of the games. When they would lose, there would be crying and silence on the way home and it was always the umpire's fault that we had lost.

I loved watching my uncle pitch. As far as I was concerned, he was a God on the mound. He threw the best knuckle ball I've ever seen and when that pitch was working, Uncle Mark was unhittable. Period. I can't even tell you how many times I watched him after a game, putting some kind of new skin stuff on the tips of his cracked and bleeding fingers. He would let them sit for a couple of hours and then go out and throw another game.

Uncle Mark was the uncle who would always play with the kids. He would play dead and when one of us would get close enough to him, he'd latch on to a foot or a shirt and pull you in. Then you'd escape and the game would start over again. Once, while playing some variation of this game at his house, I jumped on his back when he was facing the other way. I jumped off a bed because he was taller than me and as my hand reached around the front of him, I hit him right in the nose. It bled a lot and I thought for sure I had broken it. After we got home, I cried for an hour because I thought he'd never play with us again because of what I had done.

After a time, mom decided that she wasn't going to go to all the games. Uncle Mark took us to the games, and often pay for our meals and things like that. I never gave that a second thought and certainly never thanked him for it. It's not that I wasn't grateful because I was, extremely so. I just don't think that at that age I thought about any other aspect of a softball trip than simply being there.

When I graduated from high school, I wanted nothing more than to play for his softball team. He tried to warn me off, telling me that they had a lot of guys and that he wasn't sure how much playing time I'd get. He suggested that I may want to look for a team that would be able to play me more than he was going to be able to. I wasn't hearing any of that business though. I told him that I just wanted to be on a winning team and I didn't mind sitting. At the time, I think I actually believed that.

And it wasn't as though I didn't get my chances. I did sit a lot in my first couple years, but after that, there were a lot of guys who were just showing up for tournaments, so I'd get to play in the league games. There are a couple of things that are important to note at this point. The first is, that most everyone on that team was extremely confident in their abilities, and I was not. The second thing, is that no matter how much I wish it would have been otherwise, I was simply, flat-out not good enough to play as a regular on that team. I remember the day that I came to this conclusion, even though I didn't accept it at the time.

I didn't help myself either. Most everyone on that team had a nickname and my Uncle's was Hambone, which immediately got shortened to Hammy. Instead of simply calling him Hammy like everyone else, I called him Uncle Hammy. Yes, during the games too. I mean, he was my uncle. I don't think I ever addressed him without calling him Uncle. In my head, it was a law or something. Looking back at it now, I think the law actually read “if you have an uncle with a nickname and you call him Uncle prior to using the nickname, you shall forever be known as the team doofus.”

G.H. Johnston Builders was the name (sponsor) of Uncle Mark's team and while I can't remember what their rival team was called at the time, it was always the same group of guys playing. It may have been the Fire House Bar out of Rose City. Some of the regular guys couldn't be there that night so I got to play. I was in left field and just praying for a lot of ground balls so I didn't screw up. Midway through the game, it was my turn to bat and I could see Uncle Mark looking at me as I went to the plate. He called time out and came over to talk to me and his direct quote to me was “Get a hit, you little dick.” I was thrilled because that's how he talked to the guys, not his nephew. Their pitcher was a guy named Clare something (I can't remember his last name) I took a couple of pitches and then hit a ball right back up the middle. I remember being pumped as I ran to first base and then crushed as the first baseman took the throw a half-step before I got to the bag. The shortstop (Brian Hill) had made a great play on me almost behind the bag at second and threw me out. It's probably not true, but I still remember that play as a make or break moment for me with that team. If I had gotten that hit and driven in that run, maybe things would have turned out differently.

I went to another team after a couple more years and although I enjoyed playing more often, I missed the atmosphere and the winning that surrounded his team. At the time though, I was mad. It was somehow his fault that I wasn't confident or good enough to play with that team. The only thing worse than playing for him was playing against him. Like I said earlier, playing on GH meant exuding confidence, and I simply didn't have it. I would get so geeked up when we played them that I never played worth a shit. One of these games really sticks in my head. I was having my usual terrible game against GH and had already committed three errors playing second base. Uncle Mark came up to bat and hit a ground ball right at me. I immediately tensed up and bobbled the ball so badly that Fat Albert could have picked up the rest of the gang and carried them down to first base and been safe by two feet. Instead, as I finally got a handle on the ball, I picked it up and realized that Uncle Mark had not even run it out and had just gone back into the dugout. I realize now that he was trying to be decent to me, but at the time I hated him for it. I was embarrassed because I couldn't catch a cold, and again, he got all the blame.

We also went through the same thing on the basketball court, although to a much smaller degree. I was a better basketball player than a softball player, although one thing held true in both sports. When I played for his team, I always played so nervously that I was terrible. When I started playing for another team, some of the girlfriends on the team taped the games. There was a play where I put a pump fake on a guy and got around him only to go up for a shot and collide with Uncle Mark. I made the shot and was yelling for a foul at the same time he was yelling for a charge. I think I watched that part of the tape so many times, it just wore out.

I know a lot of this may sound negative, but thinking about it now, it really wasn't. I eventually gained that confidence that I lacked as a kid, and I know that's because of the lessons I learned from Uncle Mark.

A lot of what I am today is made up of things I learned from him. My competitiveness, confidence, and aggressiveness are all directly from him, and all have come in handy in my current battle.

I want to tell you Thank-You Uncle Mark. Even though I don't know if I've ever said it to you or not, but if I couldn't have my dad, I was and am lucky to have you as my uncle. You have impacted my life in a lot of ways, and not all in the sports realm.

I have six treatments left. I will beat this thing, and in part, it will be because of things I learned from my Uncle Mark.

I Will Win

Thank You

As far as days go, Tuesday was a good one. It may have been one of the most heartwarming, humbling days of my entire life. Nothing can compare to some life events like the birth of a child or the joy of saying and hearing the words “I do,” but there are other events in ones life that create some of the same emotions.

Some of the people who work with my wife at the courthouse have been adamant that they wanted to do something for us after my cancer diagnosis. They decided that they wanted to throw a benefit lunch for us to help defray the costs of the constant trips to Petoskey and the mountain of medical bills that are sure to be rolling in shortly. In the spirit of honesty that I have maintained in this blog, I have to admit that I was really uncomfortable with the idea. I have always been on the other end of things like this, donating to causes, buying stuff from student-athletes to help support them and lending a hand where I can. Kelly is the same way. We talked about it a couple times and while neither of us was overly comfortable with it, who were we to respond negatively to people who cared enough about us to want to do something to help?

As I drove back from Petoskey yesterday, I caught myself wondering what it was going to be like. How many people would show up? As the person benefitting from this, do I stay in one spot, or mingle? Do I make an effort to seek everybody out or do I let them come to me? I just didn’t know.

Due to circumstances beyond my control, I ended up being a couple minutes late in getting back to town, and when I pulled into the courthouse, Kelly was waiting for me outside the doors. I knew that she was thinking some of the same thoughts that had been going through my head. We exchanged smiles and she asked if I was ready and I said I

was, so in we went.

As most of you probably know, I work as a corrections officer, which is a fancy way of saying prison guard. I keep track of 96 guys every night who have been convicted of a felony heinous enough to earn them a few years in prison. This place is not a flowing well spewing forth the positivity of the human spirit – in fact, just the opposite. In there I see guys who vary in temperament from resigned and downtrodden to angry and rebellious. Neither of which is exactly inspiring. The goodness of people is not easily seen in this environment and it’s not hard to get jaded and start seeing the worst in people and situations.

This wasn’t the case at all though. Margie, Carmen, Suzanne, and Vicki had everything so organized that all we had to do was show up and get some food and the rest took care of itself. I don’t know why I had this idea in my head that it was going to be a bunch of strangers there that I would have to make awkward conversation with, because obviously, if it’s a benefit for us, it stands to reason that the people there would know us.

I can’t even begin to tell you how appreciative and grateful Kelly and I are to each and every person that showed up to express their support for us. The money that was raised will certainly help, but even more than that, the friendship that was exhibited by even taking the time to be there was more than enough.

Also, I know that a lot of people brought in snacks, desserts, and pop in addition to all the paper plates and the necessities for the benefit. Thank you so much for taking the time to make or buy whatever it is that you brought. It is much appreciated.

On a personal note, yesterday sort of restored my faith in people. That, in itself, made the day worthwhile for me. Thanks to all of you for that.

With this in mind, I have decided to make a few changes regarding a few of the people who helped me come to this realization.

1: Carmen Fazari – I will no longer leave the toilet seat up in the courthouse bathroom and laugh as I walk out the door.

2: Micah Corbiere – I will stop thinking bad things about you when I back out of my driveway and don’t hit my mailbox.

3: Libby LaJoie – I will try (try, mind you) to not blow my nose at The Evening News and leave the kleenex on your keyboard while you’re not looking.

4: Kelly Church – I will beat this thing as quickly as I can so that we can get back to living the life that I promised you four years, two months, and 11 days ago.





I Will Win

Hump Day

Guess what day it is people, Guess-What-Day-It-Is.

That’s right, it’s hump day. Actually, it’s Thursday, but today marks the halfway point of my chemo and radiation treatments prior to surgery. Fourteen down and 14 to go. So far, the only side effect that has shown itself is the peeing issue. I mentioned before that when I have to go, it’s a RIGHT NOW kind of thing. Now imagine the Hoover Dam and all the water trapped behind it being forced through a hole the size of a dime. That’s how it feels to pee right now. The doctor said it’s a common side effect of the radiation and so if there has to be one, I’m glad that it’s not one of the big ticket items like the hair or the cracked skin on the hands and feet or even the nausea. I understand that any of these things could still happen, but they haven’t yet and for that, I’m counting myself lucky. They offered me some medication to make it easier to pee (I hate the word urinate or any form of it), but I told them to hold off because I don’t think there’s any room in my pill box for even one more small tablet.

If you’re reading this and it seems hastily thrown together, it is. My schedule right now does not allow for much of anything outside of working, sleeping, driving, and making sure that I take some food with my medications. There just isn’t time for much else. I feel terrible for our dogs because they are kenneled while I’m in Petoskey, and then they are in again while I sleep until Kelly gets home. They sleep when Kelly does too, so it doesn’t leave them much time to go out other than to do their business and get right back in. So if anyone feels like being dragged around by a 160-pound St. Bernard while trying to keep the 10-pound yapper from getting tangled up in the big one’s legs, please let me know. I’m sure they’d appreciate the exercise.

My other new development is that I have a tentative surgery date. It’s January 20, but I’m trying to get that pushed back just a bit so that I can go to the Sault vs. Brimley Cancer vs. Rivals game, which is scheduled to be played on Jan. 21.

In other posts, I have talked about things that I’ve taken from other people to help me fight this thing. I have taken Graham’s will, and Clay’s ability to just go with things. I have used Erick’s ability to make me laugh and put all these things together to not let the cancer get me down. Soon comes the surgery and the recovery from being laid open and having part of me removed. This takes courage among other things.

I have found that courage is like a sense of humor in that everybody thinks that they have it. But despite that, not everyone is funny, and even fewer people are truly brave. I don’t know if I’m brave or not, and hopefully, I’ll never have to find out.

I say that because my definition of bravery can be summed up in one name: Ruth-Jean Church .

She was my paternal grandmother and she died of breast cancer when I was in my early teens. The technology then wasn’t even close to what it is now and she never really stood a chance once it started to spread.

What I am about to write is how I remember things. It may not be entirely accurate, but through my eyes, this is how I saw it.

My Grandma Church was a forceful personality and the glue that held the Church clan together. Not that we were in danger of coming apart at the seams or anything, but even if we had been, Grandma never would have let it happen.

Thanksgiving dinner was at their house every year and to this day, it remains my favorite holiday, in part, because of the memories of those dinners and playing with my cousins and brothers.

You didn’t misbehave at Grandma Church ’s house either. Her weapon of choice was the pancake turner and she wielded it like Zorro, whacking away bad manners or any behavior that she deemed unchurchlike. We often stayed the night at Grandma and Grandpa Church ’s house and the one rule that I always remembered was that in the morning, you don’t wake up your grandparents. They had a bar that separated the kitchen and the entry way and when we got up we sat at the bar and had Wheaties. If you woke Grandma or Grandpa up, there wasn’t going to be pancakes for breakfast, but the pancake turner would be out.

Despite her aptitude with the spatula, my grandma’s bravery was forged in my memory by the way she handled the cancer. They tried treatment after treatment and nothing worked. At some point, I’m sure the doctors told her that she was going to die. She fought to hang on as long as she could and must have endured incredible pain to do so.

I remember that all of us grandkids were able to visit her once in the hospital towards the end. We went in one at a time, and I don’t remember if there was any particular order or not, but when it was my turn, I remember her telling me that I was the oldest and to take care of my brothers and cousins. She told me that she loved me and that she was proud of me. She held my hand the whole time and kissed me before I left the room. Her voice was weak and I didn’t realize until much later how much effort it took for her to speak for as long as she did. I knew that she was telling me good-bye even though she never said it. She smiled the whole time she talked to me and she winked at me as I walked out the door.

Bravery is Ruth-Jean Church. Knowing that you aren’t going to live to see your grandchildren grow up, but summoning the strength to talk to them one last time and to try and make it easy on them by not talking about sad things. Bravery is keeping a smile on your face while you look at theirs for the last time.

Could I do that? Could I be that brave? Yes, because I am Ruth-Jean Church's grandson. I hope with all that I have though that I never have to be.

I Will Win





Since I'm posting this on Friday instead of Thursday, I have one update to add. I was able to get my surgery moved to January 27^th so that I will be able to attend the Pink Game. Now, I just have to figure out a way to talk them into letting me out in time to watch the Super Bowl from my own couch instead of a hospital bed.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vs5QJi-dX-4

Two Weeks Down

I left Petoskey today having completed two weeks of radiation and chemotherapy.  Three weeks and three days to go.  So far, things have gone pretty well.  No major side effects from either, save for the fact that when I have to pee, I have to pee NOW. 

I have spent a lot of time today trying to decide whether to talk about this in my post, but I decided that since I've promised myself to be honest in how I'm feeling, I'd better stick to that.
Mark Fenlon is someone who used to work at the same prison as me.  He left shortly after I started there, after he was diagnosed with cancer.  It was his story, told to me by a mutual friend who works in the same unit as me, that prompted me to go the doctor when I started noticing that things were getting weird in the bathroom.  I have silently thanked him many times because if I hadn't known that some of my symptoms were the same ones as he had, I don't know how long I would have waited to go and get checked out.

I don't know if inspiration is the right word, but Mark is someone who I have looked at as a symbol of hope.  I know it can be beaten because I know someone who has beaten it.  Those of you who know Mark know that he has posted on facebook that his battle with cancer is back on.  They found a tumor in his intestines and he is gathering information right now as to how to fight it best.
I know who Mark is, but I don't really know him personally.  I definitely feel a connection with him though, because of the common battle that we are fighting.  I had a hard time sitting down to write this tonight because I have been focused single-mindedly on beating this things ass.  After reading Mark's post, I am forced to confront the possibility that cancer might want a rematch once this thing is over.  I wasn't ready for that just yet.

After putting a lot of thought into it and reading Mark's post a couple more times, I got something else out of it.  Yeah, it sucks that someone should have to hear the words "you have cancer" even once, much less twice.  But the courage that Mark is showing through this is extraordinary. He has not complained once about it or asked "Why me?"  All I've heard and read from him are thank-yous for the people who are supporting him and a very factual account of what's happening with him.
If you read this Mark, please know that I will be thinking of you and hoping that you beat this thing again.  You have provided me no small amount of hope during my short ordeal, and I know that there will be a day that the two of us can sit down together and talk about what it used to be like to have cancer. 

On to brighter topics.
The other night, I watched my youngest daughter earn her second yellow stripe on her white belt in kuk sool won.  She was thrilled as she got called up to the front of the gym to receive her promotion, and I was thrilled to watch it.  It's kind of funny how cancer makes you appreciate things a little more than you might normally.  I also got a couple of envelopes in the mail today from the school that Andrew and Callie go to.  I opened the envelopes and saw report cards.  I immediately smiled looking at Andrew's grades. He doesn't like school so much, so I wasn't sure what I was going to see on the report.  There are a couple of grades that could use improvement, but there were more that were better than average.  I couldn't stop smiling when I saw it.  When I saw Callie's report card, I was just as proud.  Callie has always enjoyed her schoolwork, whether she admits it or not.  She had all As and A-s on her card.  Good Job Guys!!!

I will post again on Thursday as this will mark the halfway point of my treatment.

I Will Win

One Week down

Well, one week down and four to go. I’m knocking on wood as I type this, but so far I haven’t had any side effects from the radiation or the chemo. I have 23 more treatments to go and have been marking them off on the calendar as I go. I’m looking for a more emphatic way to count the days down, so if anyone has any ideas, I’d love to hear them. My favorite suggestion so far has been to get some cheap plates and break one every day.

As I had mentioned in an earlier post, I was a little nervous about riding the van to Petoskey every day due to my general dislike for public transportation. As it turns out, that fear was groundless. There are typically me and two other guys who ride down there so there’s plenty of room for everyone and really, all I do is sleep for nearly the whole ride anyway.

The rides have taught me a couple things. The first, and most important, is that, while I’m not thrilled to have been diagnosed with cancer, I am not so bad off compared to some others. Both of the guys I ride down there with have throat cancer. One seems to be fairly mild, while the other seems pretty serious. The serious one has a pretty severe rasp to his voice and wears a wrap around his throat at all times. His shirts irritate his throat and he is constantly moving his shirt away from it. I feel for the man, I really do.

Without saying a word, he is a constant reminder to me that I have nothing to complain about.

The second thing I have learned is that someone in the mini-van industry has got to step up and do something about the comfort level of the third-row seat in those things. I’ve only had to ride back there once, but that was enough. It was like sitting on a granite couch at the Flintstone residence. And while I like the two guys I ride with well enough, neither has the “assets”of a scantily clad Wilma or Betty that would take the focus off the discomfort of that seat.

I have to drive myself down there one day per week because I have to meet with my oncologist in St. Ignace after my appointment in Petoskey. I have some blood drawn and they look at the results to make sure that my cell counts are still good. On those days, my friend Erick and I have decided to eat lunch together. He teaches at Northern Michigan College in Petoskey and was just recently married. I have known Erick since my sophomore year in high school and we struck up a very solid friendship.

And to simply call it a solid friendship isn’t really fair to Erick. There was a time when he, Bob Gulick, and I were inseparable. We skipped so many days of school together and went to Traverse City for the afternoon, that I’m surprised that my mother wasn’t arrested under the truancy law. Maybe they didn’t have that then.

As with most high school friendships, time and distance have taken their toll and my relationship with Erick is no different. Marriage, kids, and demanding work schedules all have a way of forcing us to move on and to lose track of bonds that we once thought unbreakable.

I will never look at cancer as a positive, but one thing that it has done is bring me closer to some of those people from my past that I’ve been sorely missing and didn’t even realize it until their texts and phone calls of support started rolling in.

I’ll talk about Bob more in another post, he certainly deserves one of his own. (Spoiler alert: that one might be a tear-jerker).

Anyway, what I was trying to say was that how much I enjoyed having lunch with Erick and catching up. One thing about Erick that has held true for as long as I’ve known him is that he can make me laugh. Doesn’t matter what the circumstances are or how inappropriate it might be, I feel like Jimmy Fallon on Saturday Night Live when we are together, because I can’t not laugh. You have no idea what a valuable friend someone like Erick is until you come to a point when you don’t feel like laughing much, yet there you are, laughing so hard your stomach hurts and tears are running down your face.

I am very much looking forward to my lunch with Erick next week.

I know that a lot of my posts must seem like I’m simply paying homage to people who are close to me and in a sense, that’s exactly what I’m doing.

I can’t speak for everyone who has cancer with what I’m about to say, but I imagine it must hold true for most of us. When you first find out that you have it, you don’t know how bad it is. There are tests to be done and doctors to see and all that stuff takes time. During that time, you can’t help but think about things and people, present and past.

And the “what ifs.” I know I’ve written about this before, but it’s important. You think about what you’re going to do if you only have so much time left. After the obvious thoughts about my children and of course Kelly, one of the things I thought about was regretting the fact that my friends and I haven’t stayed closer since we got out of high school.

I don’t mean to gloss over my thoughts and feelings about Kelly and the kids because the first couple days of this were spent entirely on what I was going to say to them if this all went bad. Fortunately, I am in a position to be able to see and talk to the kids every day and tell them I love them as much as I want. Hearing their voices, even if it’s just on the phone, is revitalizing. Kelly…Well, Kelly knows what those couple days were like because she was right there with me. I would dedicate one of these posts to her, but it would just embarrass her and I don’t know that I’d ever stop writing. She helped me sort through it all, even if she doesn’t know that it was her influence on me that allowed me to get a grip and determine a battle plan. I tell her thank-you more than once everyday and still feel like I come up short a couple when I leave for work at night. (There are also healthy doses of “I love you,” and “Don’t boss me,” thrown in there too.)

So, before I went completely cornball on you in that last paragraph, I was talking about losing touch with some of my friends. A life-altering experience has a way of making you want to correct all the things you believe you might have done wrong in your life. My list is long and not all of them are fixable, but some definitely are, and hopefully, I’ll get the chance to take care of them.

One of my biggest faults is that I am a grudge-holder. I don’t try to do it, but I have a hard time letting things go. There is a Calvin and Hobbes cartoon that makes me laugh because it’s sort of a mantra for me. In the cartoon, Calvin is recounting his day to Hobbes which includes issues with his parents, his teacher and the principal. When Hobbes questions him as to why this happened, Calvin smiles and says that with the right amount of attitude, even the simplest social interaction can be turned into an epic battle of wills.

That might not be exactly how it reads, but it’s pretty darn close, and it makes my point.

What if the reason that I’ve lost touch with some people is because I haven’t made the effort to connect or because I’ve been an idiot over something that happened months, or even years, ago? So, yeah, I’m making an effort with some of my posts to let people know what they mean to me.

Now before you think I’ve gone stark-raving feelings crazy, I should point out that there are a few exceptions to my new-found sensitivity. For example, if you have ever played for the Limberlost in the Houghton Lake Men’s Basketball League, do not read these posts with anticipation of seeing your name mentioned – because it won’t be. Likewise, to the kid who was working the public address system in Mio, Michigan the day that I gave up back-to-back home runs in a fastpitch softball game and announced to the entire complex, “Mister, Mister, kiss your sister –TWO IN A ROW!!!” You should also save your time and read elsewhere.

See? I’ve still got a little work to do in some cases.

I Will Win