Hang on to what Cancer gave you (not the disease part)

So, life is great at the moment. 

I'm feeling good. The beard is growing back. I'm working. I'm being social. I moved in with my girlfriend. 

I LOOK LIKE ME AGAIN sorry for the selfie

I traded in my car for a new car. 

Woohoo. 

Normal. Things are normal. 

And it's really, really weird. Great, but weird.

It's weird for a number of reasons. 

It's weird because it doesn't feel like there was an "end" to having Cancer. That's probably because there's no such thing. I'm still doing chemo every three weeks and I still have a lifetime of appointments ahead of me. I'm still in the Cancer Center in Ann Arbor more than I'd like to be, so the feeling of being there is still familiar. It's a bit like having a lack of closure to my "relationship" with Cancer. It was there, then it wasn't, then it was, and now it isn't. Hopefully forever. 

It's like we broke up, but I still go to it's house all the time. It's weird. 

I'm handling the breakup better than Peter. 

It's much better than the alternative of course--I'm just finding it strange to adjust to life without it. 

Normal is weird because the daily stresses that fade into the background while being treated for cancer--or I should say that I was lucky enough to have fade into the background--are prominent again. One day they didn't seem to matter, then they did again. Work, money, planning for the future, scheduling--just the daily things that seemed insignificant for the past two years immediately clicked back on and are occupying my thoughts. It's a character flaw that took a break for a while--I allow myself to worry about things I can't control and stress about things that are likely to work out and I get all worked up and it's just a waste of time. It's something I needed to work on back then, and still do now. 

I suppose it shouldn't come as a surprise that I am finding some challenges in adjusting to life without Cancer. It certainly took some adjusting to life with it, so this makes sense. 

I've written here at some length about my feeling that Cancer made me a better person. I really believe that. Part of the reason it's true is because of the perspective having it provides. Everything else about having cancer can piss off and die. That, however, I want to hang on to. 

For the most part, I found everything is intensified when dealing with cancer. Emotions, experiences, successes and failures. Memories, good and bad, remain vivid. 

Another thing that was intensified was my ability to determine what mattered, and what didn't. Small shit, I paid no mind to. 

I've gotta hang on to that. 

I had a mini epiphany the other day when looking at finances, stressing about money and a new car and bills and budgeting for the future and about work--getting myself worked up when things were largely out of my control and are likely to work out anyway. I realized that I needed to "keep cancer with me," if only because when I had it, I focused more effectively on things that matter most:

Like my family and friends, my girlfriend, and living in the moment. 

I'm not unhappy to see Cancer go. Not in the least. I'm not complaining.

 I'm adjusting to life without it. 

Not all parts of the experience for me, though, were negative. 

It made me better, so I'm going to hang on to as much of it as I can, and see if I can't continue to improve. 

The disease is gone, and can stay gone forever. 

The frame of mind needs to stay.

It's not a forced or cheesy motivational thought. I'm not preaching. 

I'm not going to roll out of bed every day with a smile on my face, it's not my nature. There are going to be headaches and problems and hurdles and stresses, just a fact of life. I'm not immune to any of that and I never will be. 

I just believe it will just be valuable, some day, to be able to know that I had Cancer once, and that during that time, nothing but enjoying every day and the people who loved me mattered. 

On my worst day, I'll know I've had it rougher once, and came out the other side better for it. 

I mean--

How lucky can one guy get?

Today is an exciting day.

It's going to be tough to follow up the last post, so fair warning, this will probably bore you. 

I went back to work today. 

I woke up, got some things done, drank my coffee, and went to work. 

WORK. 

It was exhilarating.

If that sounds sarcastic, it isn't meant to be. 

I'm legitimately thrilled. 

When things are taken from you, even things you don't always love or don't think you'll miss, it's difficult. Especially when one of those things is the right/ability to earn a paycheck. 

Lucky for me, I do love what I do--and if I may toot my own horn--I think I'm pretty damn good at it. 

In my own mind, at least

Life is slowly returning to normalcy--which is more difficult than you would think it would be. 

I'm not complaining at all, it's great--but you get used to this dark cloud hanging over you. You operate knowing something is wrong, and it affects everything you do and the way you think. It's always there. 

And then one day, it isn't. 

You're on your own again. No crutches. No excuses. No one to pity or feel sorry for you. 

Get back out there. Get busy. Move on. 

Life can be cold--and always better than the alternative. 

Not everyone who has cancer gets to see this day or feel this urgency. 

I do. I feel it. I love it. 

Back at it. 

Chemo again on Thursday--and every 3 weeks for the next year--So I'll have plenty of reminders that not all is well, not all is perfect--yet. We have a ways to go. 

But we're getting there, and I'm back at work. 

Today is a good day. 

Also, I'm thinking of continuing to write here--but am also conflicted about it. I realize I am considerably less interesting to most folks if I don't have cancer so--should I end it? Turn it into a book? Start my career as a movie critic? Just shut up and end this post?

Okay. 

Invictus--we did it.

I love you Mom.

"I am the master of my fate. 

I am the captain of my soul."

I don't know what to say here, other than that I'm likely to ramble, and that the last 24 hours have been a blur. I've been fighting a nasty bout of the flu, and came close to changing my appointment in Ann Arbor--but they insisted I come. 

So I went, expecting the worst. 

My body was too, apparently. I shivered, constantly, in a way I never had before.

My temperature was up. 

Heart rate through the roof. 

I ran through every possible negative scenario in my mind:

How would I break the news to the people I love?

Am I ever going to live without this in my life? 

Am I mentally equipped to deal with another setback?

Is cancer going to kill me?

I fight back tears as I'm writing this, knowing how real those thoughts and concerns felt to me in that moment.

I remember words bouncing around in my head as we waited, fully aware of their dramatic nature. 

Words like inoperable. 

Relapse.

Terminal. 

I felt my dad, next to me, and couldn't imagine what this must be like for him...in another room, waiting to hear if another loved one was going to, possibly, hear the worst.

I thought of my family, and how I would have to put a positive spin on whatever was coming--they think I'm much tougher than I am--have to keep up appearances.

I thought of my best friends, and the words of encouragement that would predictably follow after I broke the bad news. 

I thought of the look on Emma's face, heartbroken, as I would have to tell her this wasn't over. 

This was the last thought I had, before the doctor came in and interrupted my melancholy thought catalog. 

Still shaking violently, she made small talk about my heart rate and about how I wasn't feeling well. I missed most of it. 

I couldn't take it any longer, I finally spit it out. 

"The Scan?"

All I could muster. 

Then, a bunch of unfamiliar words filled the room. 

Clean. 

Normal. 

Effective. 

No disease. 

I felt like I was dreaming. I still do. Only in the last hour or so have I been able to stop shivering. My fever finally subsiding. 

Clean. 

I could go on and on for pages about how this isn't exactly over--how it never will be. I will be in Cancer Clinics for follow ups and tests for the rest of my life--and like most things, there are no guarantees. 

But today, realist/pessimist Marcus is taking the day off. 

 Clean. 

FUCKING CLEAN. 

In this moment, I'm cancer free.

It's a place I always thought I would reach--but you're never totally sure. 

In the back of my mind, there was always a measure of doubt. 

This was the hardest thing I've ever been through. Physically, yes.

Mentally, though, is where the real challenge lay for me. 

The doubt--I'm happy it was there. That bit of doubt made everything in the past couple years more vivid, more beautiful, more exciting, and yes, more painful. 

When you don't feel that a long and distant future is guaranteed, little moments feel bigger. Everything is magnified. There were times it felt like I could stretch minutes into hours.

People are more important than things. 

Experiences more important than rest. 

Love more important than anything. 

I plan to do my best to continue living this way. 

We did it, everybody. 

We. 

Us. 

You.

My family, my friends, my boss, Emma and her family, my doctors, acquaintances and people I've never met but who reached out to me anyway--

we did it. 

Cliche or not, I don't believe, not for a second, that I would be here in this moment today, crying all over my computer, if it were not for all of you. The well-wishes, the donations, the visits, the phone calls and texts--just the love. 

I always felt it, and in the tougher moments, I leaned on it. 

I know I've said it countless times on here, but I really am the luckiest man on earth.

You guys are my heroes. 

You all, plus some pretty incredible science, world class doctors, a refusal to leave some very important people behind, and an even stronger refusal to let someone else in my group of friends wear the crown of "best golfer," are what made today happen. 

I joke, but I'm not sure there is any cancer patient who doesn't contemplate the possibility of death. A negative person like me, and one who already lost a family member to the disease, probably more than others. 

This happened a while ago, but I remember a day when I was feeling sorry for myself, contemplating death.

I even saw what I thought my funeral would look like (a bunch of drunk people on a golf course, please).

I thought about how I would want to go (not like my Mom).

Even thought out the small details down to the music and the food served after.

Dark--I know.

 And then I had another thought, and I never contemplated death again:

I miss my Mom, more than anything--but I'm not ready to join her yet. 

I'm still not. 

Attitude isn't everything. That's bullshit. But it is a thing.

It matters. Just like the science, doctors, and the research that got me here. 

When I didn't have the right attitude, I faked it. When I couldn't fake it, I leaned on you guys. When I was confident, I let my bravado-default take over. When I was scared, I made jokes. When I was uncertain, I read all the e-mails, comments, notes, and texts from you. 

I love all of you. 

This isn't over for me. It's still a long road. 

But today, we're not going to think that way. 

We're going to keep living with that scrap of doubt that makes everything more beautiful. 

Today--for now--we did it. 

We. Did. It. 

Invictus

Out of the night that covers me,

      Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

      For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

      I have not winced nor cried aloud.

Under the bludgeonings of chance

      My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

      Looms but the Horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

      Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,

      How charged with punishments the scroll,

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.





It's been a long two years. Snapshot of all my different "looks."

Couple days prior to surgery:

Post Surgery:

Chemo, round 1: ABVD

After ABVD, before relapse:

On Salvage Chemotherapy:

Just Checked in for stem cell transplant:

Recovering from transplant:

Almost 100 days since transplant:

Day #100:

And to finish, a picture of Day 1 of the rest of my life. 

I'm keenly aware of how incredibly lame it is to take a selfie while crying on the ride home from the hospital, but I wanted to capture that moment so that I could remember it. It was powerful. 

I was thankful. 

Relieved. 

Proud. 

Lucky. 

Happy. 

Reflective. 

Optimistic.

Motivated. 

And Loved. 

Thank you all. 

More to come. 

The trip home

And so begins the long haul back to the mitten. 

I'll have more to say soon about the trip, the experience, the lack of an expected phone call and the resulting anxiety, and the game. 

In short, the game was tough to watch.

It changed nothing about the trip for me. 

It was perfect.

I spent every second of it with people I love. 

Aside from the fact that I don't like flying, I love the time on the road. 

In the quiet stretches, I've thought about where I am, where I'm going, what I want and what I hope for with more clarity than I have in a long time. 

I haven't felt sick (except for a vicious hangover) since we left East Lansing at 9am on the 29th. 

I haven't had cancer, in my mind, even if I do, since that moment either. 

I'm not the type to always see the positives. Optimism isn't my forte. 

But for some reason, 2 hours into this 18 hour drive, where there should be a lack-of-caffeine-induced scowl, there's a smile. 

Yes, I'm on the way home from an amazing trip, my team lost (in terrible fashion), am headed away from vacation and "back to reality," and possibly bad news from Ann Arbor...all reasons I could be anxious or bummed. 

At the moment, though, my co-pilot is taking a nap. 

And this is happening.

And the sun is shining on her beautiful sleeping face (she would kill me if I posted a picture of that, so take my word for it--it's beautiful).

So while the miles pass, and we get further from Texas and closer to home and the uncertainty that exists there, it occurs to me:

I'm right where I want to be--and I don't mean Texarkana, Texas.

Find a guy who says he's luckier than me, and I'll find you a liar. 

For the moment, Mr. Realist/Pessimist is on cloud nine.

Thanks to everyone who made this trip happen. I love you guys. 

Go green.