Illustration by Troy DeShano

“Five years!” is something you’ll regularly hear celebrated by cancer survivors. To reach this landmark half-decade of remission is generally considered a good indicator that you have a high chance to remain cancer free for the rest of your life (unless you’re still smoking, eating paint chips or working at a nuclear power plant).

At some point this spring I realized that five years had passed since I’d had any indication of cancer in my body.

As much as I am grateful and hopeful and excited by that… the moment really just passed without any fanfare or even so much as a high-five.

Because I’ve been there before…

In 2005 I was just getting set for the big five-year celebration of my first bout with cancer. Of course right around that time is when I also realized that my cancer had returned and there wasn’t going to be any celebration (other than the momentary “i’m still alive!” rejoicings whenever I’d wake up on a morning I thought I might not).

So now here I am and I can celebrate the fact that God has kept me around.. but after as many lives as I’ve lived I’m no longer naive enough to think that I’ve “beat” cancer.

So five years is nice, but it doesn’t really mean anything. In fact if I based my truth on my own experiences, I should be expecting a call from my doctor any day now.

I mean.. right at this moment I’ve got weird random nodules on either side of my chest that we’re just waiting and watching and hoping never become really scary.

That’s my life.

In fact in honor of this landmark, I’d like to make an announcement.

I’m dying.

It’s true.. I have no idea how much time I’ve got.

But before you start sending cards and flowers and cash (ok.. send the cash) I should probably point out that even though I’m dying, I am healthy.

Healthy, but still dying.

Just like you.

And your kids and your sisters and your parents and everyone else you know or have met or noticed or heard about… we are all dying.

We like to throw around terms like “life-saving.” We consider doctors and nurses and scientists and relief workers “life savers.”

They rescue dying people and save their lives, right?

Well.. not exactly…

Even if I’ve been brought back to health a few times thanks to all of the above… I’m still going to die.

While in Africa I worked daily with individuals infected with HIV.

Some of them have died since I saw them in February.

In the testimonies of how the mission had brought dying people (literally within days of death) back to a positive, healthy, rewarding and meaningful existence they would often say “he saved my life.”

But I’ll never forget when one of these patients… who is years? months? decades? away from dying of AIDS looked me straight in the eyes and said “you could die long before me, brother.”

That’s the truth, isn’t it?

As much as we humans like to think we have the power to save lives… we do not.

We might have the technology to heal… to make life more enjoyable or longer for those who we’d lose much sooner… but no one can save a life.

It’s probably part of our western god-complex to consider ourselves capable of defeating death… but we never will.

No matter how much progress is made… no matter how many stem cells are harvested.. no matter if we eat and excercise our way to 150+ years.. there will be an end to each of our stories.

Discouraging?

For me it is liberating.

When I reached the point of accepting my own mortality I realized that I’m not only free from the power of death, but into a life of adventure.

Even though I’m getting one year closer to 40 this week, I’ll still be surprised if I ever actually make it over the hill.

I’m guessing it probably will be cancer that kills me, but who knows? I could get cracked in the skull at my kid’s t-ball game tonight.

I could get shot in a drive by (or in my neighborhood a rogue hunter’s bullet or redneck party that got outta hand)

It could be a game of one-on-one that takes me like Pistol Pete.

Or perhaps I’ll defeat all the odds and outlive all the rest of you only to finally fall asleep one night in my Posturpedic and never wake up.

Hopefully not though. I’d like to go out with a little more of a bang than that.

Oh Death, where is thy sting? Oh Grave, where is thy victory? 1 Corinthians 15:55

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When I was 21 I was diagnosed with cancer.

Testicular cancer actually, which was kind of en vogue in 2000. Celebrities like Lance Armstrong (hardly a celebrity before his cancer) and Tom Green (remember Tom Green?) were making national headlines enduring treatments and starting a very important conversation about the risk of testicular cancer among young men.

Turns out it really isn’t so glamorous.

In a lot of cases it is treatable though. If you can catch it early.

Of course since most guys that have this type of cancer are cock-sure college age guys who (like me) are in no hurry to get their balls checked out by the part-time nurse at the free clinic, it quite often goes undetected longer than it should.

My diagnosis and first surgery did kind of add to my celebrity around college. Whereas before I went pretty much undetected, I could now be recognized as “cancer boy.”

Unfortunately I graduated a couple weeks later and was never able to really use my new-found fame to take over the entire school…. or the world.

After a summer of chemotherapy, my doctor assured me that my chances of living cancer-free were really good. Something like a 98% of testicular cancer patients live cancer-free after that first series of treatments.

So each month or year that I went in for a regular checkup, I never felt anything other than complete confidence that everything was o.k.

During this time a lot of friends and family would say how amazed they were at my attitude and faith. They’d ask me what I was learning through the experience and I’d rattle off some systematic answer about God’s sovereignty and control in my life, etc., etc.

The truth is that I wasn’t learning much at all.

I was just staying alive. (hah  hah  hah  hah… stayin alive)

I went to my treatments, went home, felt sick for a while and tried to act like I was perfectly healthy.

I don’t think I was necessarily in denial. I was just really young, able to physically handle the treatments well and mentally unable to really understand the severity of the situation.

As I approached the landmark 5-years of remission (you know, the point they tell you means you’re “home free”), I knew something was wrong.

I was in that 2% where they all but promise you’ll never be.

Never again would I approach a checkup with confidence. I was on the bad end of the statistics.

And when the standard treatments for my new case didn’t do the job, I was in the 2% of that 2%.

Which is not a very comforting place to live.

But it’s not bad.

Because in that 2% is where I really started to learn some things.

That life is short. That we’re all dying (some just more rapidly than others).

and how important it is to Live Now. (and enjoy every sandwich)

I faced death and my own mortality. I came to terms with the fact that I may never make it past my 40th birthday.

and even now as I may or may not be infected with the cursed disease, I have peace.

Because I’ve relinquished the lie that I have control of my own destiny.

and the lie that I know what is best for myself.

and the lie that my family could not survive without my hilarious wisecracks and dashing good looks and brilliant words of wisdom.

and the lie that the comfort and security promised in our American dream can fulfill a man.

No, real life isn’t comfortable and real adventure isn’t found in security…

It’s found in that 2%

More Cancer

If you are facing cancer and can find hope in my writing or artwork. I am honored. God is redeeming my sorrow for your sake. Check out the Cancer category and feel free to share your story with me too.

Check out Eric Smith’s inspiring project Live Now

More Self Project

Check out the entire introspective self-portrait photo illustration series. Among other things, you’ll find out about my Fonzie obsession, my golden retriever tendencies, and how I somehow managed to write about giving a dragon the finger.

(you can tell by the way I roll that I’m a ladies man, a business man – check out the remix in honor of current presidential wannabe Wyclef in the playlist)

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I apologize for the sparse content lately…

I’ve been a little distracted…

hence this unusually prayer-chain-style bit of writing for those who have been wondering about my health.

About 4 weeks ago I received a call from my oncologist to alert me that some sort of nodule had shown up in my routine chest x-ray.

He wasn’t exactly sure what to do next… so I had my information and films sent to the doctor at the Cleveland Clinic who treated me during my last bout with cancer.

Then waited.

In the meantime I’ve been asking myself big questions.

Thinking a lot about death and life…

and preparing for the worst possible news.

It isn’t easy, but in a lot of ways, it is good for me…

perspective…

This week I finally heard back from my doctor in Cleveland…

I expected him to say we’ll plan to remove the nodule so that we can see what it is… one major surgery to find out whether or not this mass is or isn’t cancer.

But…

Just from comparing the films and knowing my history and being extremely specialized in his field…

He seems to think that the mass may just be teratoma.

This is about the best news I could expect (other than, “there is no mass there!”)

Teratoma doesn’t mean that it can’t be cancer, but there is a good chance that it is benign.

So now we wait some more…

No real closure, but at least I’m not having chemo and lung surgery just yet…

and I’ve got a little more hope than I had yesterday.

My next check-up is in three months… so stay tuned til then.

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Right now I’m waiting…

Waiting to hear from a big-shot doctor.

Waiting to find out test results.

Results that probably won’t say much at all…

But at least we’ll be able to move on to Step 1.

Problem with Step 1 is that it changes your life.

Waiting is waiting.

But at least when you’re merely waiting you can still pretend.

That everything is ok.

Kids go to school.

Feed the dogs.

Work on some junk and stuff.

Pretend everything’s ok.

When the waiting ends… everything changes.

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One of the biggest truths I’ve been learning about myself recently is how I allow fear to make my decisions.

I have a lot of fear, usually irrational feelings about the imagined trajectory of my life.

Of course, when I get a call from my doctor like the one earlier this week…

those fears are justified I think.

So at the end of a long day and dealing with a really scary phone call and imagining a really scary future…

It was nice to get this message in a bottle.

Thanks, Magic Hat.

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So I just got a voice mail from my doctor saying “something is showing up in your chest x-ray”

I’ve gotten a few of these calls.

Today was the first time in over three years since i’ve had anything but good news.

The weird thing is that it didn’t really surprise me… lately i’ve been feeling that something like this might happen…

that one of these calls was in my near future…

I don’t know why i’ve been feeling that way, i just have.

Maybe i’m a prophet.

Whatever I am, I’m not sure I’ve got enough lives left to endure another battle.

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I discovered Rogue Wave a couple years ago… they just happened to play on my internet radio station.

They immediately became one of my favorite bands.

I had no idea at that time that their drummer Pat Spurgeon was enduring treatment for a life-threatening illness.

Just like me.

I’ve been looking forward to D-tour (watch the trailer), a documentary following Pat as he tours with the band and tries to stay alive… it finally aired on Independent Lens last night. (right now you can and should watch it on pbs.org)

Watching it now I can’t find the right word to describe it…

inspiring? definitely… the moments of the indie rock community banding (pun!) together to raise funds and find a donor is especially inspiring.

but for me it is something else.

I understand so thoroughly what he is going through… not the dialysis or the transplants…

but trying to maintain life and follow your dreams… all while enduring medical treatments that’ll be considered insane in the future…

and facing death everyday…

and having no choice bot to consider big existential questions…

and trying to pay the bills…

and enjoying the life you have…

and all while you feel like total crap.

Some of the moments in the hospital were especially hard for me to watch because I’ve been in those same procedures, beds, states of mind…

It is just one of those moments where I feel closely connected to another stranger whom I have never nor will ever meet…

I have never thought of a backup plan. If you have a backup plan, you’ll take it.

You can’t write that kind of stuff…

Great movie, cool guy and fantastic band… I insist you go download all their tunes now.

Check out their songs “Lake Michigan” (what else)and “Cheaper than Therapy” in the playlist…

Cheaper Than Therapy

Just back from a weekend of luxury
you get so weightless
in personal hell
sad eyed, your’re looking up to me
some chinese chasers
for your terminal health
you’d say I’m out of my head
but really I’m the only one who’s bounced back

you know the odds of recovery
from ballroom days
and walks through the park
I’d be pin-striped and handsome
if you’d stay for a while with me
before the mail comes
before im alone
you’d say I’m out of my head
but really I’m the only one who’s bounced back
the music that I want
is cheaper than therapy

get off on the digital high tonight
I’d spy an oyster
and you’d spy a whale
I wish I was too young
to taste the time tripped over
and over again
you’d say I’m out of my head
but really I’m the only one who’s bounced back
the music that I want
is cheaper than therapy

Don’t forget to become a fan of Strong Odors on Facebook.

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On one of many trips from northern Michigan to the Cleveland Clinic, I was thinking about my surgery scheduled for the next day. It was one of two lung surgeries to remove tumors from the cancer that had spread through my body.

The first of these was a small mass, about the size of a dime. I had one of the top guys in the world working on me and it went great.

What really no one else knew was that the second tumor was much bigger… about the size of a walnut.

It was also wrapped halfway around one of my major arteries.

This is not cool.

So we’re driving down M-23 and I’m thinking about this and wondering if I’ll be alive tomorrow.

Then right at that moment, something happened…

I had to face death…

I was staring the grim reaper straight in the eyes… and I had to say, “ok.”

It was something I had absolutely no control over… and I had to find a way to embrace it…

not in the sense that I was “giving up the fight,” but more of just accepting the truth that I might die… and that it was ok.

That was almost 4 years ago now and I’m realizing how much truth I’ve missed in other areas of my life too.

The voices in my head have told me many lies over the years and I’ve believed a lot of them…

Most of which are about the imagined trajectory of my life (if i were to do this or that…)

or that certain parts of me don’t exist or that I can control them…

or selling other people short…

or that conflict will always end badly…

or that I won’t die…

I’m just now finally discovering the real truth.

The truth that the only way to be a hero is to dive headfirst into conflict. The truth that other people are more wise and compassionate than I think. The truth that there are parts of me that really suck… but it is me nonetheless.

The truth that I’m going to die.

Maybe today… who knows?

I hope not though, because I’m really looking forward to lunch tomorrow.

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Lost someone today.

You could lose half a day if you happened to sit down in the room with Tom. He loved theology and loved sharing his discoveries even more… Nothing really made him happier than talking about new things he was learning (regardless of whether you cared to sit and listen).

As he leaves mortality behind, I can’t help but wonder at the discoveries in store for him.

My brother Thunderbeard has been blogging about (among other things) the weeks leading up to his dad’s death.

Finding a way to emotionally understand their edgy past and courageously seek some sort of resolve in their relationship has been inspirational reading for me and spiritually nourishing for him.

Feel free to share a story about Tom in the comments and be sure to check out Thunderbeard. He’s my brother and I love him and my heart’s aching for him today.

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I’ll have to admit that I wasn’t very familiar with Warren Zevon.

Of course I knew “Werewolves of London,” but that was pretty much all I’d ever heard from the guy until he was diagnosed with cancer in 2002.

I noticed him then.

I’d only just recovered from my first bout with cancer and anytime I saw Warren on TV or whatever, I stopped to listen.

and everything he said made sense.

There is some sort of solidarity that comes with suffering.

If you’re blessed enough to have suffered very little, then you don’t know it…

But for those of us that have endured sickness, or hurt, or oppression, or poverty, or real loss… there is a connectedness.

Following news of his diagnosis, Warren appeared on Letterman’s show as the sole guest of the evening. I never really stay up late enough to watch Letterman, but I remember watching this.

When Dave asks him what has changed since he’d gotten the news, started treatment, etc.

Warren replies, “You put more value on every minute… you learn to enjoy every sandwich”

And that is just the thing.

For those of us lucky enough to have endured great suffering, even looked death right in the eye and survived, now find the minutiae of life magical.

I can take such great pleasure in something as simple as a sandwich, or an illustration, or something silly my kid says, or a song, or a breath of fresh air.

That is what Strong Odors is all about.

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