Phone calls to family and close friends were the first order of business when I returned home from the hospital. My three married children, despite the support of loving spouses, all took it very hard. Surprisingly, my youngest and still free-wheeling daughter Carolyn, a chip off the Terry rock, was the realist, reminding me that cancer is not a four letter word. My two sisters, Yvonne and Michelle, were also shocked by my news (they had drunk the Kool Aid of my indestructibility) while my two brothers, Peter and Paul, were optimistic that their big brother would pull through. The hardest telephone call was to my mother. Cancer is tough to sugar coat but I wanted mom to understand why I hadn’t called her in over a week. I’ve always thought myself to be a good communicator and yet by the end of my call, I was agreeing with mom that I probably had a gall bladder attack and that my next visit to the doctor would clear things up. I had leaned my cancer up against the side of the house for her and that was fine for now.
At this point you might wonder if I was compelled to surf the net to garner as much information about my new nemesis as possible. However, truth be known, I’m not a science guy, I’m a math guy and numbers are my comfort zone. I was heartened by the fact, as my sister Michelle related, that the success rate at beating lymphoma is about 85%. I also rationalized that if cancer strikes one in five people, better me than my four siblings or four children.
With the threat of authentic biopsy news hanging over our heads, Terry and I resumed our lives for the remaining two weeks of June. Terry resumed her walks with her friend Diane, her gardening, and her penchant for doing laundry in the middle of the night. I kept busy with 5K walks, a few golf and card games with my buddies and more attention to the fact that my comb-over days were numbered.
But something had fundamentally changed. I had gone from the pitcher’s mound to the bullpen after a short five day road trip. I was a cancer patient. I had been invaded. I had been through a life changing experience. That phrase ‘life changing’ was one that my son-in-law Chris had used to describe his Christmas present for me last year. As I shook the smallish box he gave me, I realized that a flat screen TV was out of the question. Maybe a lifetime subscription for the Hair Club for Men was Chris’ surprise. Even after I had removed the wrapping, the words TOM TOM on a blue box didn’t help.
“It’s a GPS system Mike. It’s a game changer”, he cried with all the enthusiasm of a new car salesman.
Six months later, I had received my real game changer and I realized that my bull pen days may just be starting.
I find it funny that you think cancer sent you to the bullpen. I see it very differently. I believe that cancer is what finally called you up to the big leagues. I believe that many of us live our lives in the bullpen never really getting called to the mound. It is the life altering events, the ``game changers`` that shake us from out complacency and make us go to the mound. Yes, in your case it is a different mound, in a different ball park, but in any case you are the one that is pitching. You are the one that is facing the batter. And I firmly believe you are throwing strikes. K`s..all the way.
ReplyDeleteJanice told me about your blog and I checked it, probably because of then things you did. For example visiting me when I was mildly laid up a few months ago, or when finding I had been in the wheel chair relay, you immediately contributing to the paraplegic association.
ReplyDeleteReading the blog was not the slightly morbid experience I expected, but a delightfully written account of your experiences. Your delightful, and sometimes humorous optimism makes us boost your odds way above the 85% you mentioned.
Our prayers are with you.
John Knight