Hello, is it me you're looking for?

 

Hello, friends--been a long time.  

Let's get this out of the way early: nothing to fear, this is a good news post.

Today is 5 years in remission from Hodgkin's Lymphoma. It's of course an enormous cause to celebrate. 

5 years is generally considered a very important milestone in survivorship. 

 I've been counting down the days to get here--but subconsciously, it seems. These important days usually surprise me, whether via facebook or insta memories, texts from friends and family, or calendar notifications. 

They surprise me because I don't think about having cancer anymore. Frankly, on most days, it doesn't feel like I ever did. I know I did--I have the scars and the memories--but it doesn't feel like it. 

I don't remember what being sick feels like--those scars have faded.

On one hand, that's a testament to how fortunate and privileged I am. My life is easy now. I'm incredibly happy. Marriage is the best. We love our home, our pups. Our families are healthy. We are healthy. I feel valued in my chosen profession and we both enjoy our work.

I am constantly distracted with pleasantness. 

On the other hand--and this is why I decided to write my first blog post in lord knows how long--it's a reminder that even on the happiest days, on day's I've been looking for and have had circled on the calendar for years--cancer never really lets you go. It lingers, in the shadows and corners of your mind. 

I didn't feel relief this morning when I saw what day it was. 

For the first time in a long time, I felt scared. 

I don't think about having cancer. Almost ever. Today, it's all I can think about. 

I have no reason to--I'm as healthy as I've ever been. Living a lifestyle cleaner than I ever thought I would. No issues. 

I just wanted to put words to the feeling I have--that I know a lot of survivors have--that even if the fear of relapse or a new diagnosis or onset of long-term side effects from chemo doesn't exist in daily life--or even weekly/monthly/yearly life--it finds a way to pop up at the worst fucking times. 

It's not just a disease of the body. 

The fear of relapse is constant. It's like running from Usain Bolt.

The more vegetables I eat, the more I exercise, the more fulfilling my life is--that just pads the head start Usain has to give me. 

It just feels like he's going to catch up to you at some point, no matter what.

Because he's Usain fucking Bolt. 

he comin'

The funk and fear won't last past lunch. 

I'll switch back to feeling grateful to have made it to this truly vital benchmark. I'll switch back to being thrilled I'm healthy and vow, again as I do daily, not to waste any of my time left here. 

I need and deserve no pity, that's not what this is about. 

This is just an attempt, muddied as it may be, to explain what it feels like--even on what is the most triumphant of days--for many survivors. 

Love you guys. Wouldn't have made it here without you. 

Usain has a lot of ground to make up. 

Immaculate

So, it's been awhile. 

I didn't want to make a big deal out of the last couple of weeks, at least not here or on social media, but some things have happened. 

All of them are good.

That doesn't mean it wasn't nerve wracking. 

I am 6 months into my new round of chemotherapy, (which has been a breeze for the most part, save for some occasional nausea and exhaustion) and last week it came time for my first scan since the all clear back in January. 

So much had happened in these last 6 months, again, all of it good, that I almost forgot these scans and the wait for results would ever be necessary again. 

That's stupid.

 But once I found out I was in remission, I saw nothing but "not cancer" in front of me. 

So, I went and did my most recent scan and thought nothing of it right up until the moment that the doctor walked into the room a week later to discuss results. 

I'll save the dramatics--the word the doctor used to describe my scan was "immaculate."

Pair that with the lowest blood pressure, weight and best blood counts that they have ever measured on me... Like I said, everything has been good. 

Still, in the brief moments between the doctor walking in and hearing the good news, I was reminded of a sentiment I have spoken about at length on here:

You don't "beat" cancer, you don't win...just like you don't "lose," because in my opinion it is not a fight...but that's not important at the moment.

That sentiment didn't stick around long because of the news I received, and because I am healthier and happier than I have ever been. 

Still, I kind of liked the reminder that this is something that I'll do for the rest of my life. 

For that reason (and many others), I'm lucky.

Every six months, or a year, or however long the gap becomes between the scans for me, I'll keep being given reasons to celebrate. 

And I'll keep being reminded of just how lucky I am, and how invaluable health is. 

Everything else is secondary.

My life is fucking awesome, and if you have your health, yours probably is too.

 If you don't, strap in, and fix it yourself--or put it in the hands of smart people who can do it for you. 

Stay hearty and surrounded by people who love you. Bad times don't last. 

So, that makes two consecutive clean scans, for the first time since all of this started. 

I'm done writing this blog post, I'm gonna go get drunk with the people I love. 

Love/Hate

I love where I'm at in my life at the moment.

I love the relationship I'm in and my counterpart in it. 

I love her family. 

I love my entire family.

I love my niece and nephew.

I love my new job and the people I work with and where the place has taken/will take me and that I walk into the building more confident every day. 

I love that they are tolerant of my at-times erratic schedule, due to treatments. 

I love my new schedule--I'm up early and in bed early and I make the most of my time.  

I love that Emma got me into better eating habits and created an interest in taking care of myself. 

I love that I've lost 37 pounds. 

I hate that I need to lose about 20 more. 

I love that I'm reading more. 

I love that I'm awake and have energy and that I am capable again. 

I love this feeling I have that I know I have changed--but that the parts of me I considered the best before this all started--they're still there. 

I love golf. 

I love that my girlfriend loves golf. 

I hate golf (sometimes). 

I love being right. 

I love being wrong. 

I love making mistakes. 

I love having a reason. 

I love missing those not here any more. 

I love knowing someone who makes "she's everything to me" not just lip-service, or quotes from cheesy poetry/90s pop songs. 

I love my friends. 

I love that my friends have families now. 

I love the way we grew up together. 

I love growing up. 

I love standing up. 

I love breathing. 

I love being here. 

I love being. 

I love living. 

I even love the chemo I'm undergoing while I write this.

I love that it, in theory, will keep me alive for a long time. 

It's better than the alternative. 

I hate the alternative. 

All too often, the alternative arrives unexpectedly, tragically. 

For me, the alternative crept towards me at a pace similar to mine while running. 

(Not quickly). 

I was lucky. I had you guys. 

Death isn't the enemy. Love isn't the answer for all. 

That doesn't mean I can't hate death. 

Doesn't mean I can't, knowing that at some point all things come to an end, love and experience all I can. 

I'm just a lucky guy with a tiny dose of perspective who tries to share it minimally. 

I'm not a preacher and I don't really know what the hell I'm talking about. 

I don't. I'm just writing what comes to mind. 

I just see too many headlines and newscasts of tragic deaths and the horrid conditions some people live in and have had a best friend of my own die instantly a couple years ago. 

A flip of a switch, and it can be lights out. 

Say what you mean. 

Suffer no fools. 

Make your intentions and interests clear. 

Go get what you want and if you don't get all the way there it isn't failure and it's not because you didn't try hard enough. 

Keep trying anyway. 

Enjoy every day, every the shitty ones--no, ESPECIALLY the shitty ones--because it's always better than the alternative. 

Tell the people you love that you love them. 

And be careful picking up golf as a hobby. 

It's the only thing on this list than can, at times, make the alternative seem like a decent option.

3-0...and a first time guest post!

Well, I’ve been able to put it off for a while. I’m the young one—the last to turn 30 among both my brothers and my closest friends.  It’s fun to joke about dreading this milestone birthday. The end of my twenties. Oh no!

Guess what I got in my twenties.

Cancer.

So. Yeah. Giving my thirties a try isn’t sounding so bad.

But no, my twenties were awesome and it’s strange to see them go. An awful lot happened in those 10 years. I lost some amazing people and gained a few more. Lived in a few places, worked a few jobs, enjoyed myself, grew up (though still not enough to think farts aren’t funny).

The last 2 years of my twenties got pretty interesting.  

I’ve written a bit here how for me, while sick, everything felt amplified. The highs were higher, the lows lower, the stress and the emotion and the experiences—it was just a constant state of heightened awareness. Lucky for me, the negative aspect of such an awareness—things like trying to control what I could not, the stress, the uncertainty, the fear—have all faded. The positive aspect of such heightened sensitivity have stuck around. Things like enjoying myself. Taking things slow. Listening instead of talking, being observant. The need to be around people I love. The urge to tell them I do. Interest in embracing new experiences and challenging myself. Nurturing relationships that make me a better, happier person.

I don’t feel like I’m getting old (though the duration of my hangovers begs to differ). I’m not bothered by 30.  The reality is, without being dramatic, while another year is never guaranteed to anyone regardless of circumstance, reaching 30 seemed at times during treatment to be a big hill to climb.

I didn’t think I was going to die—never, but that isn’t the same as knowing 100% that I’d be where I am today: Cancer free, with a new job, new attitude, getting healthy, new hobbies, traveling, spending time with my family and my new family and with a significant other who makes my life infinitely better.

I had to be in Ann Arbor today for an immunization, and before I left I decided to stop in and see if any of my old nurse friends from the Bone Marrow Transplant wing were working. Unfortunately, I didn’t see any familiar faces.

But I saw a familiar room.

7W-47. My home for what was the toughest month, physically, of my life.

I walked around a bit and looked at the patients. It’s a rough place. Knowing that I looked exactly like they all do, felt like they all do, less than a year ago, honestly---well, it’s fucking amazing.

I lost 38 pounds in there in a month (which I quickly gained back but am now shedding so it’s totally cool).

There were a handful of days where I was in bed for 23+ hours. I puked, not exaggerating, probably 25+ times a day. Couldn’t control my bowels a few times. Had more than a few breakdowns and punched more than a few walls (good thing I was really weak and didn’t have to pay for any damage). On some of those days, when you don’t recognize the person in the mirror, the mind can go to some dark places.

Then Emma would show up for a surprise visit and sleep on a tiny, incredibly uncomfortable chair next to me.

My brother Ryan came up from Chicago to do the same.

Adam too.

My dad, countless times.

Emma’s mom sent me countless things to keep my mind occupied. Friends of all kinds showed up.

Messages poured in from around the country.

Nurses and doctors and incredible science and the best support system in the world saved my life.

That’s why I’m here. That’s why I’ll be 30 soon.

That’s why I live in a new city. That’s why I found a job that I jump out of bed in the morning for.

That’s why I’m taking care of myself now, doing my part to avoid being sick like that ever again.

hey cool I'm marginally less chubby

That’s why I’m in love. That’s why I’m happier than I’ve ever been.

That’s why I get to write annoying sappy dramatic blog posts about how great everything is (sorry).

So in the end, I guess what I’m saying is, circumstances can change in the blink of an eye—and not always for the worse.

8 months ago I was in 7W-47, and if you strip it all down to what was really happening, I was flipping a coin.

I was having my immune system reset, puking constantly and too weak to move and shitting the bed.

30 seemed a very far off destination then.

Now I can look forward to 60+, a time when shitting the bed will be more acceptable and much less embarrassing.

I love you guys. Here’s to 30 more.

(But seriously why are my hangovers this bad?)

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A guest post from Emma Fernandez, at my request:

As I get closer to moments, moments like birthdays, anniversaries, first time I met you’s--I get nostalgic. I think about the day a year earlier. Where was I? Did I think I would be here? Is it better than I imagined?

The "moment" that has me reflecting is Marcus's big 3-0. I met him when he was 28, rocking a fu manchu at a golf course, blissfully unaware of the hell fire starting in his body. And me, rude and thinking him asking me for my number was some sort of sick prank to end a long shift. But I was wrong and I could not be happier about that.

Our exact conversation:

MARCUS: “uhm I think you’re pretty, can I have your number?”

EMMA: “is this a joke?”

MARCUS: (immediately turns red and covers his fu manchu) “No I am serious, I never do this, and I think you’re pretty”

Fast forward to him turning 29 a year of us sporadically seeing one another, but always keeping tabs on each other. I left a present on his doorstep, full of silly things he craved during treatment. D batteries, for his personal fan. Chewy sprees (cause why do they even make normal sprees?), gatorade, chapstick and a nice note. With no goal in mind, other than letting him know I hadn't forgotten about him.

Maybe I am the silly one, but I love dates (as in Calendar dates). I love remembering them and I make an effort to remember special ones for good and bad reasons. When Marcus and I fell back into one another, before the stem cell transplant process started I started writing. He inspired me to keep track of my thoughts through this process. I was on the outside looking in and I wanted to remember the small moments,  like date nights, cooking together and small moments of normalcy. But all the way up to the big things like the day he started the stem cell transplant to the day he was cancer free. Frankly, it is amazing how raw and personal writing can be. I understand why he writes in this blog, he is just braver than most and shares it publicly.  

Now, he's turning 30. He's kinda sad. But I am ecstatic (I have not told him that). But 30, 30 without cancer, 30 without the stress of his disease, 30 without the fear of the chemo and cancer monsters chewing on him. 30 is a time for him and I to finally relax. The medications worked. The doctors did their job and he is a success story.

Now, we work on the success of us. He got an incredible new job and I have  completed my first year of my masters program.  I am pretty sure 30 is the new 20 anyway? No? Whatever.

One of the best things I ever wrote in my journal, is what I will end my guest post with:

“Nothing will be this hard ever again. But as long as I have Marcus by my side, I’m confident we can make it through just about anything.”

So, Happy Birthday my love and cheers to all that life will bring our way. I am confident the tough stuff is behind us. Lets just have normal problems like cars and fights over who steals the covers.

“We are the master’s of our fate, we are the captains of our soul”

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I'm a lucky dude.

Best looking face-swap couple ever.

Non sum qualis eram

Hey all. 

So, yes...I've been very absent from the blog. Not a deliberate choice--just been busy. 

Busy with work. Busy having a social life. 

Busy not having cancer. 

Full disclosure:

There are some days where I'm afraid that I'll wake up and that none of this is real: That I'm not living with my girlfriend and building a future and being social and taking trips and feeling legitimately good and stress free for the first time in years. 

It doesn't always seem real, this whole remission thing. 

I'm so damn lucky and so damn happy right now that writing in what was mostly, as much as I tried to avoid it, a melancholy blog--has felt wrong. 

I started it to share a serious experience and try and take some of the heaviness out of it when I could, but ultimately, no, cancer isn't fun. 

The idea of smothering people who read this with how great things are makes me uncomfortable. I'm not one to gloat about my good fortune. I know everyone has their quiet battles going on, and that no one person's problem, not even cancer, is necessarily more important than someone else's. 

It's all relative. 

No one likes having other people's obnoxious happiness in their face all the time, right?

That being said--I'm happy. Really fucking happy. 

And lucky.

I have an ugly reminder every three weeks when I go to Ann Arbor for chemo, but it's useful. It provides some excellent clarity over the next 21 days as to just how good I have it. 

I went into remission. I celebrated. I ate foods and drank liquids I hadn't been allowed to eat or drink much over the previous two years. I felt myself comfortably sliding into some of the old habits that probably contributed to me getting sick in the first place. 

I got fat(ter). Which was great. It was nice to eat hearty and feel good. 

Then it donned on me, with some major help from Emma and my sister Sara who has lost like 40 pounds and is a stone cold fox but should probably still not ever have a boyfriend (kidding), that falling into the same routine, the same habits of my previous lifestyle, adopting the same attitudes and schedule from before all of this--was doing myself an enormous disservice. 

"Non sum qualis eram."

Latin for:

"I am not such as I was."

I'm not. I have changed. 

Physically, sure. I've got the scars to prove it and MY HAIR IS CURLY NOW WHAT THE FUCK I don't like it. 

It's the other stuff that matters. 

Cancer helped that happen, and to deny it and pretend I could comfortably slip back into the "old me" was naive. 

I see just about everything differently. 

I'm not telling you that I've taken some profound leap in any particular direction. Just that I've been taking seriously an attempt to eat healthy and be active. 

To do positive things with my time and make plans for my future. 

To live in the moment and enjoy the presence of my friends and family and to just shut the hell up and stop complaining and use the stressors in my life as calls to action instead of paralyzing uncertainty and to tell the people I love that I love them and to suffer no fools and waste no time and just be fucking happy. 

I haven't found faith--not for me. 

I haven't given up eating the occasional big meal or going out for drinks--never will. 

I'm not a poster child for health--unless the poster is for someone bearded and overweight. 

I'm not saying I'm immune to having bad days and letting the daily grind get to me--that's just not my nature.

I don't think I've got it "figured out" and I'm not sure if they way I go about things is right or wrong or would work for anyone else or even if it will work for me long term--but I don't care. It's working now. 

I'm not skipping down the street smiling at everyone.

I haven't had some major "ah-ha" moment and found my "life's purpose" and I'm still mostly the cynical and sarcastic and sometimes grumpy jerk that I was before.

I'm still me. 

A happier me. 

A BEARDED ME AGAIN AHHHHH.

A slightly-less-but-still-kinda-chubby-but-working on it me. 

And finally--hopefully--a better me. Thanks to cancer. 

The amazing people in my life. 

And all of you. 

I'm still me, but:

Non Sum Qualis Eram. 

World Cancer Day

I did not know such a "holiday" existed, or that it would fall on a day that I'm actually in Ann Arbor for chemo. 

I saw a story that referred to cancer as "The Emperor of All The Maladies." 

I suppose that's an appropriate name, but I'm hesitant to heap any form of praise on cancer, which I feel a word like "Emperor" does. 

I understand that from a scientific standpoint, it's a pretty incredible and obviously formidable disease, with fascinating resiliency in the face of billions of dollars of research and massive awareness.

I also understand that to defeat any adversary you have to respect it. 

Which I do.

That being said---fuck cancer.  

EMPEROR?! 

Nah.

How about one of these instead:

-The anal polyp of All The Maladies.

-The Persistent Hemmoroid of All The Maladies.

-The Screaming Child on Public Transportation of All The Maladies.

-The You Got Caught Aggressively Singing Justin Bieber In Your Car of All The Maladies.

-The You Owe Money on Your Taxes of All The Maladies.

-The Meter Only Expired Two Minutes Ago But You Still Got a Ticket of All The Maladies.

-The Donald Trump of All The Maladies.

-The Ted Cruz of All The Maladies.

-The (insert republican candidate) of All The Maladies.

-The Jim Harbaugh of All The Maladies.

-The Athletes Foot of All The Maladies.

-The Theon Greyjoy of All The Maladies.

-The Cockroach of All The Maladies.

-The Go To Ann Arbor for Chemo and They Send You To The Basement Garden Unit Room For Your Treatment of All The Maladies.

-The Fox News on A 24 Hour Loop With Your Eyelids Peeled Open of All The Maladies.

Okay I'll stop, because that list could go on forever.

Point is, I believe that Cancer is big and scary enough without adding fuel to the fire. It doesn't need any help to become more intimidating by calling it the Emperor.

It's taken people I love. It thought about taking me--but it's no Emperor. 

It's the cockroach of All The Maladies.

Persistent, unpleasant, hated universally, and difficult to eradicate. 

Every once in a while though, a rolled up newspaper does the trick.

It can be overcome, and I've got to believe that a cure is coming. 

It has to be.

Also hey look at me. 

The left is current, the others are from different points in the last two years. 

I've sported a lot of different looks over the past 24 months, but I prefer this one to the Uncle Fester.

Look at that awkward monster on the top right--good lord. 

I HAVE A BEARD. 

Maybe it's silly how happy that makes me, but for me it became synonymous with health. With normalcy.

So I'm gonna celebrate it. 

And comb it. And oil it. 

So DEAL WITH IT. 

Thanks for the comb Emmaaaaaa.

The Emperor can suck my butt.

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?