When I started messing
with the idea of doing a blog, I bought a book. I think the title was
“Blogging For Dummies.” There was lots of good advice in it and
without it, I doubt that my blog ever would have gotten off the
ground. One thing that the book said though that I kind of disagree
with is to post often - multiple times a day even.
I just don’t have that
much going on that I could post that much. I think the quickest way
to bore people right out of reading something is to saturate their
desire to read it. I still have designs on where this blog will go
when I’m done monkeying around with this whole cancer thing, and
for what I plan to do then, the posts will probably be more frequent.
(See what I did there for
you Kelly Church? You and my grandmother have actually influenced me
into using the word monkeying.)
I have used this blog as an
outlet for frustration, triumph, fear, and remorse. One thing I have
not done is solicited opinion. Until now.
At work, we have three ways
to be off. There are RDOs (regular days off), annual leave
(pre-scheduled vacation days), and sick leave (self explanatory).
There are two RDOs every week and we accrue annual and sick leave
every pay period. Sick leave is always earned at 4 hours per pay
period regardless of how long a person has worked here, while annual
leave accrual is based on your service time.
I bring you this
information knowing that you probably couldn’t care less about it,
but it does factor into what I’m going to write about today, so
please bear with me just a bit longer.
There
are people where I work that have massive amounts of both annual
leave and sick leave. I am not one of these people. I would like to
be, but there are just too many reasons not to. Between kids, a
little laziness, and the occasional “better offer,” I don’t
know that I’ll ever be one of those people who live to accrue
leave.
This brings me to my
question. I have burned some leave while taking the radiation and
chemo pills. I will have to burn more leave – much more leave –
when the surgery date comes. If you burn more leave than you have,
it’s called lost time. While you get paid for annual and sick
leave, the state will not pay an employee for lost time.
I know that Kelly and I
will face some massive medical bills before this thing is over and if
I get into lost time and don’t have a paycheck coming in, that
could be a problem. At the very least, it will delay my purchase of
the new X-Box 1. At the very worst, I’ll be playing my new X-Box 1
in my very lavish cardboard box house under the International Bridge
.
One thing that I
promised myself over the course of working for the state is that I
wouldn’t work any more holidays. I worked them all when I started,
but one of the neat things that the state provides us is the ability
to take a recognized holiday off and still get paid for it. It’s
not automatic or anything, but if they can find someone to work for
you, they will let you take it off.
There aren’t many good
things about working a holiday in a prison. In fact, I can only think
of one. You get paid for your regular shift and you also get 12 hours
of holiday pay. You can also take this holiday in the form of 12
hours of comp. Those 12 comp hours per holiday would help me to earn
the hours necessary to insure that I don’t go into lost time. For
example, if I were to work Christmas Eve, Christmas night, New Year’s
Eve, and New Year’s night, I should earn 48 hours of comp which
translates into a week and a day of time off for me.
Seems like a no-brainer
right? I need the time, so work the holidays.
Here’s the thing. I
have maintained the utmost confidence throughout this ordeal that I
will win. I still believe that. However, on January 27th,
someone that I have met one time in my life is going to remove my
innards (parts of them permanently) and then put me back together
like a jigsaw puzzle.
What if?
I hate leaving Kelly
alone on Christmas Eve because, the way we have it set up, all the
kids are with their other parents. So it’s just her and the dogs.
And while Bear is really friendly, he’s not exactly the kind of
company you want sitting on the couch with you watching “It’s a
Wonderful Life.”
We usually go out and
get some late dinner that night, and trust me, it’s never anything
fancy. We have gone to Pizza Hut once, and Frank’s Place once. It’s
just the two of us and we just enjoy the evening before going home
and sitting with the tree on and enjoying each other’s company.
What if?
I’m not trying to be
morbid or think negatively, but this surgery is no joke and I’d be
lying if I said I wasn’t scared out of my mind about the
possibility of being laid open like the proverbial Christmas goose.
What if something goes wrong? What if, what if, what if, what if,
what if. Get the picture?
I just feel like time is
precious right now and the thought of spending a holiday away from
the ones I love so that I can be here with 96 murderers, rapists, and
thieves just doesn’t seem worth the 12 hours to me. Of course,
losing our house, vehicles, and my hat collection doesn’t seem like
a very attractive alternative either.
A couple people that I
work with have offered to donate leave time to me to help out when
the time comes, but I have no idea how much time I’ll need. I’m
at a loss as to what to do, because if something were to go wrong, I
can’t imagine having to face the possibility that my last Christmas
was spent away from my family, and my last New Year’s Eve was spent
with anyone other than our friends.
That probably seems a
little melodramatic, but like I said, this will be the most invasive
surgical procedure I’ve ever had done and I’m scared.
Some of you who are reading
this know who Gloria Lamma is. Some of you don’t. She lost her
battle with cancer a few days ago, and I’m sure her goal was to
make it to Christmas. What do you think she would have given to have
had one more Christmas with her family? When I saw the post from Mark
Fenlon on facebook that she had passed, it hit me hard; harder than I
would have expected. I have battled this thing so far with an
attitude that didn’t allow for defeat. Like I thought that if I
never gave any credence to the fact that cancer could kill me, then
it simply couldn’t. Gloria’s death is a reminder that cancer is a
stone cold killer. It doesn’t care who, where, when, or why.
I didn't know Gloria
personally. I knew who she was and started following her story
because she was fighting the same fight I am now. I have the same
kind of cancer that she had, so her story is particularly
heartbreaking and terrifying for me. And I know this is just numbers
mumbo jumbo, but while I was writing this, it just hit me that my
youngest daughter is seven – the same age I was when my dad died.
Having said all that, I
remain steadfast in my belief that I will come out of this on top.
Nobody said this was going to be easy or without difficult moments. I
will be scared, but I will beat this thing. I will have moments of
doubt but I will overcome them. I will wonder “what if?” But most
importantly,
I Will Win
I would like to take a
second to send out prayers and good wishes to my Uncle Mark and to
Wade Miller. Both have been dealing with some health issues of their
own recently. Get well guys!!
Friday, December 13, 2013
Friday, December 6, 2013
Phase 1 Complete
It seems like yesterday
that I got the news about having cancer and having the treatment plan
laid out for me. Yesterday, I threw cancer strike one. I completed my
28th
and final radiation treatment and finished up with the chemo pills
this morning. Strike two will come on January 27thwhen
I will have surgery to remove the cancerous part of my colon. I won’t
talk about strike three before the surgery, but it’s coming. I
promise you that.
I don’t want to say that the last month and few days have been easy because they haven’t. I’ve had days where all I wanted to do was sleep and I did end up missing a couple of days of work because I just didn’t feel up to going. I do feel like though, I’ve had it easier than a lot of people battling cancer. I didn’t have very many side effects from either the chemo or the radiation and for the most part, the ones I did have were relatively mild.
What I’m going to write about next is a little gross, so if you don’t find “poop humor” funny, it’s probably best that you skip to the next section.
The worst part of my treatments was the fact that I developed diarrhea about three weeks in. It’s not like I’ve never had it before, but I can honestly say that I’ve never had it like this before. It happens after I eat and it doesn’t matter what I eat. Vegetables or Candy, red meat or chicken – if I eat it, I’m going to poop it out in a remarkably short period of time. It’s sort of like my stomach is a dishrag and Arnold Schwarzenegger has both hands wrapped around it and is screaming “everybody to the colon! Get oooooouuuuuuuutttt!”
This has put me in several compromising positions over the course of the past couple weeks. I have every potential bathroom stop between the Sault and Petoskey memorized, including a rating system for each one. If you find you have need of this, let me know and I’ll tell you the best places to stop for an emergency colon evacuation. Some things that I thought were funny, although not at the time, were that when I’d get out of the car and head for the bathroom, I’d never make it without having to stop and clench up every muscle in my body for fear of exploding before I could get there. I have stopped to check some imaginary text messages on my phone, examined the nutritional information of a box of Mrs. Grass’s chicken noodle soup (which did not help my cause at all), and I have even stopped to caress an apple to the point that I felt obligated to buy it. (I had held onto it for so long that I took it into the bathroom with me and apparently that activates some ridiculous store policy that says you’ve pretty much bought that apple.) Hopefully, that apple made a fine meal for some woodland creature between Pellston and Alanson where I threw it out the car window. Once the urge becomes tolerable again, there is that awkward shuffle to the bathroom where you find yourself praying that it is unoccupied. I don’t think anybody really notices that stuff though. Riiiiiiiiight.
Ok, enough about that.
They gave me a diploma today in the radiation department to celebrate my last treatment. I have had nothing but positive experiences with everyone that I’ve dealt with so far and these people are no exception. Every day, they were friendly and kind. They put up with more than a few requests for time changes on my appointments and made me feel like I was a part of their day and not just one more person to be shuffled through. Rob, Dusty, and Mary were the people who usually gave me the radiation, while Annie and Dr. Boike were the ones who usually handled my weekly consults. I know that I saw other people in there from time to time and I appreciate the efforts of everyone that helped me, but the people I just mentioned were “my people.” Thank-you so much for making the daily trips to Petoskey bearable and as quick as possible. And a special thank-you to Dr. Boike for his recommendation. I can’t really say what he recommended, but he knows what I’m talking about.
While I know that he’ll probably never read this, I’d also like to say good luck to my most frequent riding partner Tug. He has a longer road than me and will be making the trip down there for at least another month. We had a deal that we were going to stop and get pizza on the way back from treatment sometime, but it fell through because of his condition. So Tug, if you find yourself able, look me up and we’ll get that pizza. Same rules apply though. You can have mushrooms on your half and you dispose of the box so that my wife doesn’t find out that I had pizza. (And just so you know Kelly Church, by pizza, I mean vegetable tray).
Also thank-you to all the people who drove the Road To Recovery van. It takes a special person to give up half of their day to drive people around like that. Especially considering that the weather didn’t always cooperate.
I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to being able to come home in the morning and just go to bed. No more sleeping in a van seat and no more not getting to bed until 1:30 pm.
So just to recap:
I don’t want to say that the last month and few days have been easy because they haven’t. I’ve had days where all I wanted to do was sleep and I did end up missing a couple of days of work because I just didn’t feel up to going. I do feel like though, I’ve had it easier than a lot of people battling cancer. I didn’t have very many side effects from either the chemo or the radiation and for the most part, the ones I did have were relatively mild.
What I’m going to write about next is a little gross, so if you don’t find “poop humor” funny, it’s probably best that you skip to the next section.
The worst part of my treatments was the fact that I developed diarrhea about three weeks in. It’s not like I’ve never had it before, but I can honestly say that I’ve never had it like this before. It happens after I eat and it doesn’t matter what I eat. Vegetables or Candy, red meat or chicken – if I eat it, I’m going to poop it out in a remarkably short period of time. It’s sort of like my stomach is a dishrag and Arnold Schwarzenegger has both hands wrapped around it and is screaming “everybody to the colon! Get oooooouuuuuuuutttt!”
This has put me in several compromising positions over the course of the past couple weeks. I have every potential bathroom stop between the Sault and Petoskey memorized, including a rating system for each one. If you find you have need of this, let me know and I’ll tell you the best places to stop for an emergency colon evacuation. Some things that I thought were funny, although not at the time, were that when I’d get out of the car and head for the bathroom, I’d never make it without having to stop and clench up every muscle in my body for fear of exploding before I could get there. I have stopped to check some imaginary text messages on my phone, examined the nutritional information of a box of Mrs. Grass’s chicken noodle soup (which did not help my cause at all), and I have even stopped to caress an apple to the point that I felt obligated to buy it. (I had held onto it for so long that I took it into the bathroom with me and apparently that activates some ridiculous store policy that says you’ve pretty much bought that apple.) Hopefully, that apple made a fine meal for some woodland creature between Pellston and Alanson where I threw it out the car window. Once the urge becomes tolerable again, there is that awkward shuffle to the bathroom where you find yourself praying that it is unoccupied. I don’t think anybody really notices that stuff though. Riiiiiiiiight.
Ok, enough about that.
They gave me a diploma today in the radiation department to celebrate my last treatment. I have had nothing but positive experiences with everyone that I’ve dealt with so far and these people are no exception. Every day, they were friendly and kind. They put up with more than a few requests for time changes on my appointments and made me feel like I was a part of their day and not just one more person to be shuffled through. Rob, Dusty, and Mary were the people who usually gave me the radiation, while Annie and Dr. Boike were the ones who usually handled my weekly consults. I know that I saw other people in there from time to time and I appreciate the efforts of everyone that helped me, but the people I just mentioned were “my people.” Thank-you so much for making the daily trips to Petoskey bearable and as quick as possible. And a special thank-you to Dr. Boike for his recommendation. I can’t really say what he recommended, but he knows what I’m talking about.
While I know that he’ll probably never read this, I’d also like to say good luck to my most frequent riding partner Tug. He has a longer road than me and will be making the trip down there for at least another month. We had a deal that we were going to stop and get pizza on the way back from treatment sometime, but it fell through because of his condition. So Tug, if you find yourself able, look me up and we’ll get that pizza. Same rules apply though. You can have mushrooms on your half and you dispose of the box so that my wife doesn’t find out that I had pizza. (And just so you know Kelly Church, by pizza, I mean vegetable tray).
Also thank-you to all the people who drove the Road To Recovery van. It takes a special person to give up half of their day to drive people around like that. Especially considering that the weather didn’t always cooperate.
I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to being able to come home in the morning and just go to bed. No more sleeping in a van seat and no more not getting to bed until 1:30 pm.
So just to recap:
Monday, November 25, 2013
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
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
Wednesday, November 20, 2013
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
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
Friday, November 15, 2013
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 27th 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
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 27th 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.
Friday, November 8, 2013
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
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
Saturday, November 2, 2013
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
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
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