It’s There and It’s Not

Please don’t eulogize me by saying I “fought the good fight” against my cancer. Most days, I don’t even think about it — and I like it that way.

If I was pondering the future or the past, I may have missed this view on my way up to Ojai on the Ventura River Trail last Wednesday.

Some mornings, I look in the bathroom mirror and think, “You don’t really have cancer, do you?”

When I was first diagnosed in the fall of 2011, I had that thought every morning. Now, I have it only occasionally as I brush my teeth and try to make some sense of this increasingly unruly mop that lies atop my head. In fact, most days I don’t think about my cancer at all. Not directly, anyway.

The second round of metastases discovered last November leaves a permanent imprint on my being. It is always there, but it is rarely front-of-mind. My nature has always been “live in the moment.”

I think back on activities that brought me great joy — playing hockey, performing improv on a stage, getting lost in great jazz — and all revolve around being in the moment, completely, thoroughly. I am not one to look forward or look backward. I am here. Now.

This is not something I consciously chose. It is who I am and have always been. It is an inherited trait.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Sure it’s a cliché, but I inherited more than a big nose from this guy.

My dad, Frank, is nearly always “in the moment,” whether he’s out on the ocean fishing or walking down the street in Westport, County Mayo, where he was born and raised. He wants to be doing whatever he is doing at the moment he is doing it. (Though that may be less true in the coronavirus environment, just as it is for all of us.)

Of course, this “live-in-the-moment” attitude can be frustrating for the folks who have to deal with us on a daily basis, particularly Carol and my mother, Mary Jo, because my father and I also share a related trait: impatience. We want to get on with it, whatever “it” is. Sitting still is not an option, even for my dad at 91. Ask my mother.

This mindset means I don’t think of my daily life in terms of “fighting the good fight” against my cancer, a sentiment often heard in eulogies for those who have passed away from the disease. My life since my diagnosis has not been defined by my cancer.

Cycling up El Cielito Road in Santa Barbara, something I would probably not be doing had it not been for my cancer. So, thank you, cancer!

(Though it has shaped my decision-making process, including the decision to retire at the end of 2017, and the choice to spend January to May in Santa Barbara these past three years. Thank you for that gift, cancer! The riding is great!)

I would prefer to be remembered as someone who “lived.” Someone who spent time in the moment — with my wife, with my daughters, with my family, with my friends, and, sometimes, just with myself. Not thinking about my cancer. Taking in where I am at the moment, the good and the bad, the easy and the tough, the funny and the sad. It’s being here now that matters.

The jersey says it all. Thank you to my friend, Mike, for making these jerseys for our cycling group.

Really, fuck my cancer. I don’t care about it, except to do what is necessary to keep me healthy as long as possible, side effects and all.

It’s not about “fighting the fight.” It’s about the now, this moment, today.

Off we go…