On Memorial Day
My friend Jana called me a couple of weeks ago. I could tell by the time of day, I think it was around noon on a weekend, that something was up.
“Jim,” she said. “Patti died this morning. I thought you’d want to know.”
I did. Even though I didn’t know Jana’s friend Patti all that well, it mattered to me that she had passed on.
Patti Roach, who was eighty years old at the time of her death, was a schoolteacher who lived in San Angelo, Texas. Well, to call her just a “schoolteacher” is really a gross understatement. In actuality, Patti was an educational saint, one who taught in the public education system for nearly forty years and taught high school English for more than three decades.
Longevity aside, Patti was a beloved teacher, one that made a deep impact on thousands of students during her tenure. Many of those students, one of whom was my friend Jana, kept up with Patti for years after graduation. That’s how much they loved her. And that’s one of the reason Patti was given the Texas Excellence Award for Outstanding High School Teachers in 1988 by an association of former students and the University of Texas.
So how did I, a lifelong resident of Oklahoma, get to know this high school English teacher from Texas? Through Jana. Through writing. And through cancer.
You see, Jana had read my cancer memoir, I Survived Cancer But Never Won the Tour de France, and had passed a copy on to her friend Patti, who had been struggling with the disease for many years.
I often think my cancer journey has been something of a torturous road. But compared to Patti’s, my journey has been a short walk through the park. I can’t set forth all the details of her journey here, for I don’t know them well enough. But suffice it to say that Patti suffered through several primary cancers, many recurrences, and practically every cancer treatment known to man. She had been a “cancer survivor” for something like twenty years, battling the disease over and over and seemingly defeating it, only to have to battle it once more.
After Jana gave her a copy of my book, Patti, an avid reader, poured over it fairly quickly. Somehow it managed to hit home. I guess some of the topics I wrote about seemed almost autobiographical to Patti. She gave Jana a favorable review of the book over the phone, then proceeded to order something like a dozen copies to hand out to family and friends. Following that, she ordered several copies of my poetry books and apparently liked them too, especially the poems that dealt with health issues.
Patti took the time to write me several hand-written notes, along with some very encouraging emails. We also had a few phone calls, back and forth. Through those conversations, it was clear that Patti had only one altruistic purpose in mind: she wanted to let me know that she believed in me as a writer. And in so doing, she helped me to believe in myself.
When Jana told me that Patti had passed, I told her it hurt for three reasons. First of all, because Patti was in the hall of fame of cancer survivors. She gave people like me hope, for if Patti was still making it after all of her challenges, then maybe, just maybe, I could make it too.
The second reason I hurt was because Jana was hurting. She was close to Patti, and I could hear the pain in her voice as we spoke. Because we were friends, Jana’s pain was my pain too. That’s the way it is with friends.
And finally, I hurt because I had lost something precious. I had lost the support of someone who believed in me. There are only a handful of people like that in most of our lives. People like Patti who take the time to let us know that we have a place in this world and, in so doing, help us believe in ourselves.
Rest in peace.
Graduation Day
My daughter Maddye graduated from high school yesterday. It was an emotional time for me, for many reasons, but primarily because it was so uncertain, not too many months ago, whether or not I would actually live to see the day.
Well I did, thank God, and I have firm plans to see many more happy events in the future. I think that’s probably a better plan than the one that views each big event as possibly the last one. Cup half full, right?
Nevertheless, even when I try my best to “keep it positive,” life can still be so bittersweet. During Maddye’s ceremony, I sat next to my fifteen year old son and couldn’t help but think of his graduation day. Plus, I had my own ghosts to battle. It had only been 27 years since I received my diploma, and I found myself wondering where the time had gone. After graduation day it was college, then law school, then a couple of jobs, then my thirties (aka the ”lost years”).
And after that? Cancer.
I found myself wanting to run up there and add something to those graduation speeches: a little Dead Poet’s Society “carpe diem”. That is, a challenge to seize the day, make your time count, and laugh whenever you can.
Or, as we have said in this series, to make a memory every day, because life is real.
Wayman Tisdale & Farrah Fawcett
Each week we’re literally bombarded by the latest news headlines. What’s up with the economy? Is Swine Flu improving or getting worse? Where was the latest earthquake, tornado, hurricane or fire? What’s on the Obama’s agenda this week? Will those who waterboarded be prosecuted? What did Nancy Pelosi know?
For cancer patients, especially those facing a ticking clock, these weekly headlines can be broken into two categories: those having to do with cancer and those that don’t.
Many of the cancer headlines have to do with the latest treatments or experimental drugs. But unfortunately, some are about a famous person who is facing cancer or has died from the disease.
There were a lot of headlines about cancer this week, but two headlines in particular, and the stories beneath those headlines, grabbed my attention. First, basketball legend Wayman Tisdale died, presumably from bone cancer, at the age of 44. And second, Farrah Fawcett, 62, was continuing her very public, but dire, battle with anal cancer, which was chronicled in a television documentary.
Both stories interested me. But they also wore me down a bit and made me sad, for it’s just another reminder that cancer can strike anyone, anywhere. Even world class athletes and bathing suit beauties are not spared.
Wayman and Farrah were both prominent figures in my formative years.
Wayman Tisdale was just a few months younger than me, and he graduated from high school the same year I did, 1982. We lived about fifty miles apart. I lived in Bartlesville, and he lived in Tulsa, where he attended then basketball powerhouse Booker T. Washington. Tisdale was an All-American that year. I was … finding myself.
Anyway, I remember seeing Tisdale play during Oklahoma’s high school basketball playoffs one year, when he was either a junior or senior. He was already a legend by then, and I was thrilled to see the 6 foot nine inch phenom play. (As I recall, I also saw another Oklahoma basketball legend play that same weekend, Enid’s Mark Price, but whether they played against each other or on the same day, I cannot say. It’s been 27 years and I’ve had a lot of chemo since then! )
Tisdale would, as we know, go on from high school to become an outstanding college and professional basketball player. For college, he chose to go to OU, which surprised many and disappointed me, for I had decided to go to Oklahoma State, which had a fairly miserable team at the time.
It wasn’t fun for an OSU student like me to watch Tisdale dominate throughout his college basketball career. But even though he played for a rival school, I couldn’t help but like him. It was that darn smile of his, and his gracious manner. He was never the braggadocios, cocky type. He would humbly throw down 30 points a night, letting his abilities on the court do all the talking for him.
Although we never met, I felt a kinship to Tisdale, due to our ages, our proximity in high school, the college games I saw him play, and his post-basketball experiences. Like me, Tisdale had a creative streak. He loved jazz music, while I was into writing and poetry. And we were also both battling a sarcoma. Mine cost me my right arm. His took his leg, and, as it seems right now, his life.
As for Farrah, well, what can I say? Yes, I was one of those teenagers who had her famous poster on my bedroom wall, right there next to Roger Staubach and Joe Namath. When I was fifteen or so, and most certainly under the influence of raging hormones, I thought she was the most beautiful woman God had ever created. And she arguably was, although now that I’m older and wiser I’m pretty sure that particular title is held by my wife.
But I digress.
Yes, I too watched Charlie’s Angels, and I’ll admit up front that it wasn’t due to the interesting “plots.” It was only so I could watch Farrah, blessed Farrah, running around without a bra. (As Will Ferrell might have said had we been teenage pals, ”That’s shocking.”)
Farrah eventually fell out of favor with the viewing public and, to a certain extent, me. Her movies were, for the most part, campy or crumby (for example, the sci-fi “thriller” Logan’s Run), although she had some success with self deprecating cameos and made-for-television films. Her TV appearances, like her infamous interview with David Letterman, were often disastrous, if not downright alarming. She had that odd body painting phase. And things at home seemed rather complicated.
But who am I to judge Farrah? While her behavior has seemed a bit erratic at times, she still holds a special place in my heart. After all, she and the Bionic Woman were my first celebrity crushes!
Plus, we now face similar trials. Like me, Farrah has an aggressive cancer that has metastacized to her liver. Unlike me, however, Farrah is reportedly in the final stages. Therefore, watching her story unfold is fairly sobering, as it may be a preview of my story in the near future.
These are my memories and experiences with Wayman Tisdale and Farrah Fawcett, two tender souls that have seen the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. Now, let the melancholy begin.
Suddenly, A New Option
It’s been another crazy week, in a long line of crazy weeks. I wish I could remember back to a “normal” week, but I can’t. Which means, I guess, that for me crazy weeks are normal weeks.
My family spent the weekend in Orlando. My wife was the coach of Oklahoma’s Math Counts team (it’s sort of like a spelling bee with math problems for middle schoolers) and so she had a free trip, room, meals. The kids and I went because, well, I’m dying supposedly and I wanted to hang out with them at Disney World, that magical, albeit commercial, place that we hadn’t been to in nine years, i.e., just before cancer struck our family.
It was a quick there and back, but a blast. For the kids and me, it was filled with a lot of fun rides and relaxation. I also journaled quite a bit. And LeAnn’s team did well, placing 26th out of 57 teams.
But then, suddenly, we were back to the real world, which was kind of like a hard slap in the face. Except that on this Monday, something interesting happened.
It all began several weeks ago, when I was making plans to do a reading in my hometown, Bartlesville. I had done a couple of book signings there, but never a reading. This time, however, a couple of old high school/college buddies were helping set up the reading, so I was happy to give it a go.
One of my friends is an anesthesiologist, and she had been telling me about a doctor that comes to Bartlesville from Dallas one week out of every month. The doctor specializes in a procedure that seems especially appropriate for people like me. The procedure involves injecting radioactive spheres into the tumors in one’s liver, especially when chemo cannot “fix” things.
I was able to visit with the doctor on Monday and learn more about the procedure and the doctor. He has done over 300 of these and now does them less than a mile from my parent’s home, in the same hospital where two of my sisters were born. After visiting with him, I received some input from some websites and other health care professionals, including one of my doctors at MD Anderson.
The procedure only takes an hour or so and is often done on an outpatient basis. There are some serious risks, but the results have been good. Most people receiving this treatment experience a significant reduction to their tumors. For some, the tumors are nearly obliterated. While it doesn’t seem likely that the treatment would ”cure” me, it could make me a candidate for a surgery for which I am, right now, ineligible. Also, as I understand it, if the treatment goes well, I could add as much as a year to my already tenuous life.
That’s big, because the numbers are otherwise fairly bleak. As I was reading some data relating to my cancer yesterday, I saw that only 29% of the people in my situation live for two years. Right now, I’m at 19 and a half months. Yikes!! While I feel confident that I’ll make it at least to the two year mark, especially since my cancer has been dormant for the last six months, time is basically running out.
There are still a lot of questions to ask, so who knows whether or not the procedure will happen. But it’s nice that a new option has emerged. The name of the game here is to survive for as long as I can. If I can make it another year or longer, perhaps other new options will become available.
I Know
I know you’re out there.
Reading the blogs late at night. Watching the videos on your lunch break. Thinking about it. Contemplating a response or sending a note. Deciding against it.
Yeah, I know. You’ll write something later… maybe. You’ll make contact… sometime. You’ll tell that story you’ve been wanting to tell… unless you don’t.
I know. You’re not quite ready. You don’t want to intrude or offend. It’s still too painful, because….
I know.
You’re still thinking about it though. You want to write, but something’s holding you back.
Come on. You can do it.
I’m waiting. I’d love to hear from you.
The Titanium Pump
So I have this titanium pump inside my stomach that’s about the size of a Big Mac. Well, it’s difficult to tell exactly how thick it is, but it’s about as wide as a Big Mac. And it’s much harder, unless you’re talking about one of those Big Macs that somehow got shoved under your car seat for a couple of weeks.
Anyway, the pump was used to inject chemo directly into my liver for a few months. Unfortunately, it didn’t give us the outcome we wanted and now it just sits there, dormant.
The thing causes me fits at the airports. I set off the alarm every time, of course, so that means I have to be put in one of those special rooms and then wanded and frisked like a common criminal. Oh the airport people are always nice and respectful and careful with my curious right side, but it’s a bit embarrassing and it takes so much time.
Plus, they always ask me to raise my arms, and then they don’t quite know what to do or say when I only raise the one. “Sorry, that’s all I got,” is my typical joke. Freaks them out.
And I also set off the alarms at the State Capitol Building, where I work. Frustrating thing is that the people who are stationed there change all the time. Most of them know me, and tell the police officer on duty that I’m okay. “He’s got a pump,” they say. And usually the officer nods and says, “oh,” as if this bit of information explains anything. So most of the time I sail right on through, although one officer wands me every time, as if hoping to catch me if ever I try to sneak in with something I’m not supposed to.
But others don’t know me from Adam, and they may wand, frisk, and/or ask me a series of semi-probing questions. “So, what’s the pump for?” “Is it, like, beneath the skin?”
The pump did come in handy last week, however, when some drunk girl at the Norman Music Festival mistook me for someone else and then slugged me hard, right in the stomach. Her fist landed right on the pump, and she yelled, “Dammit! What the hell was that?” (It’s a direct quote.)
At this point, she saw that I was not who she thought I was and began slurring a horrified apology, while shaking her hand, which was apparently in some very real pain. I never answered her question; just smiled, said I was okay, and walked away.
The punch didn’t hurt me at all. In fact, for a brief moment, I felt like Superman.
This Message Has Not Been Sent
This Life is Real series has generated more readers and responses than I would have ever imagined.
Many of those responses are posted to the Oklahoman’s website, for the whole world to see. But many others come to me personally, through my website, email, or facebook account. And some come to me via snail mail, telephone or face-to-face meetings.
Some readers tell me about the loss of their spouse or child or parent. Others tell me about their stage IV cancer, their struggles with chemo or radiation, or their difficulties as a caretaker. Complete strangers tell me that they are praying for me or send me some home remedy that they claim will help my condition. Some tell me how they found the site during the wee hours of the morning and then read all postings in one sitting. Old friends write to say hi and cheer me on.
At times the responses are about something I’ve written. Someone identified with this or that blog entry for some particular reason. Or someone had a different experience relating to the subject at hand. Others just want to say thanks for speaking about things that made them feel as if they are not alone. Some, of course, disagree with a point I’ve made or position I’ve taken.
Just this week I’ve heard from a woman whose daughter died in the OKC bombing, a pastor who has been laughing through some of my crazy experiences, someone who lost a dear friend to colon cancer, a doctor offering an experimental therapy for free, a book club that has been using my memoir in a study, and a mother who asked me to seek out her daughter in the afterlife, so I could tell the daughter how much she was loved.
These responses are worth their weight in gold. They humble me. They make me cry. They help me believe that I have something worthwhile to offer this world and that the attending difficulties of this series are something I can endure or work through.
Of course, there are the other letters too. The ones that make me shake my head or wince. And occasionally the ones that make my blood boil.
During my days in church, one of the concepts frequently used was the “spiritual disciplines.” For example, there were the spiritual disciplines of prayer, meditating, serving others, giving, and demonstrating faith, to name just a few.
But I’ve discovered another spiritual discipline during the course of this series: the spiritual discipline of writing that letter you really, really want to write, indeed need to write, to that person who has said something hurtful, but then deleting the letter, no matter how good it might feel to press the send button.
This spiritual discipline comes in handy when somebody accuses me of not “being right” with God, proposes some long-shot home remedy that doctors don’t want us to know about, or takes a below-the-belt shot at me.
Most of the time I just shake it off, because I’ve gotten used to hearing from these occasional crazies. But sometimes they get to me, and I find myself stewing for much longer than I should.
When this happens, I’ve found that the best thing to do is to go ahead and write the response letter I want to write.
“Dear Mr. K, do me a favor and find some other dying man to send mean, self-aborbed, holier-than-thou letters to. I could do without your help.”
“Dear Ms. A, thank you for your armchair psycho-analysis. I wasn’t aware you had training in this area.”
“Dear Mr. J, congratulations on discovering the cure to every cancer known to man! And to think it was right there in my kitchen the whole time. The irony! You should be careful though. The doctors and hospitals probably have people watching you.”
After that, I read over the letter and spend a few pleasant moments contemplating how much fun it would be to watch the would-be recipient read the letter.
And then I press delete, feeling much, much better.
