Aaron Laughs With Cancer

“Will he beep at the airport?” my dad wanted to know. The surgeon had just told him that, after scraping my insides clean of lymph nodes (in the way one scrapes a pumpkin clean for a jack-o-lantern), he used metal clamps to hold and seal the open tissues together. Those clamps are inside me for the rest of my life. Have you ever spilled a box of binder clips across the floor? That’s what an x-ray of my abdomen looks like. I’m essentially Iron Man, except inside out.

Before there was any metal, before there was any cancer, there was Sarah. Three years ago, I met Sarah at a poker party and was immediately charmed by her exuberant personality. She is a composer and pianist and, although I know less about music than someone who’s watched one Baby Einstein video, it was incredibly easy to connect with her. We may use different languages, but we’re operating from the same creative place.

An admiration for the other’s work was one of the three pillars on which our courtship was founded, along with faith, and incessant laughter. We realized that Parks & Recreation helped calm us after a fight, so we’d leave them on the DVR. I told Sarah once that I liked listening to her practice piano while I’m writing and I don’t think, as far as she’s concerned, that I could have made a more moving declaration of love. It’s an understatement to say we’re compatible.

The night my back pain sent me to the ER, I was with Sarah at her apartment. I had, ironically, come over to give her a back rub after a long day on the piano bench. Shortly after walking through the door, I crumpled to her carpet. We didn’t know it yet, but the tumor was wedged between my aorta and vena cava, which creates a sensation of continuously getting beaned in the back with a Nolan Ryan (or Brandon McCarthy) fastball. Why I love Sarah: even though she was clearly very concerned about me, she was also visibly amused by the rhythmic way I was bouncing my legs against the floor. We quickly named the move “Dancing on Snowflakes” and, even when overcome by pain, the term was always enough to make me smile. 

As question marks turned into diagnoses and diagnoses turned into treatment regimens, Sarah was right beside me, never wavering. A doctoratal student, she put off a class so that she could drive me to chemo every day… and sit next to me for all six hours of it. She would rifle through every cupboard and corner of the fridge until she found something I was willing to eat. She would memorize my blood work results so she could keep track of my progress. Even when we were in the murky dregs of chemo, she found ways to make me laugh. And even though I was often unconscious for most of Thursday through Sunday, she never watched a new Parks & Rec without me.

To say that Sarah was an amazing girlfriend during treatment diminishes the level of care she provided and the self-sacrifice she made. To say she was an amazing caregiver diminishes the absolute necessity of the light-hearted and intimate moments that made cancer so bearable. When I woke up after the jack-o-lantern surgery, my first words were: “Where’s Sarah?” I needn’t have asked. She was, unsurprisingly, right there the whole time. 

Cancer didn’t make me love Sarah. Our relationship isn’t defined by adversity. I was in love with her long before I danced on snowflakes. But our romance has been tested and strengthened and board certified by adversity. The pressure didn’t make us crack, it irreversibly sealed us together. We’ve been through one of the bigger challenges life can present; we’re ready to take on whatever else it’s got.

On the night of June 14, I offered Sarah her own piece of metal, one that fits snugly around the fourth finger on her left hand. It’s a commitment, a declaration, a celebration. It’s an excuse to show the world how lucky I am. (And she doesn’t have to do the “Single Ladies” dance at weddings anymore, either.) Like the gold in the ring, our relationship’s strength and beauty was forged in the fire. You’re really starting to see what I meant when I said that “compatible” is an understatement, huh?

This isn’t The Bachelor or a Disney princess movie. The love story doesn’t end with a diamond. Sarah and I have many more chapters to write (and compose). But this is certainly - and I know I’ve overused this, so bear with me - an exclamation point in the middle of the narrative. 

Tomorrow, we board a plane to visit her family. We won’t beep at the airport, but you better believe that, in our delirious joy, we will be making a lot of noise.

I was working as a script coordinator on Burn Notice when I got the call from my agent. After a sly fake out, she delivered the news: Graceland, a new show on USA, had made the offer. I was - suddenly - a professional writer. Someone was going to PAY ME to type words for ACTORS TO SAY. As a college freshman ten years ago, I dreamed of this moment, but dreams never capture the overwhelming gut-punch of joy that only reality can deliver. I smiled so hard for so long that I looked like the Joker. And I finally replaced the ten-year-old Sony laptop that I had jerry-rigged with masking tape and a paper clip. That was nice.

The staff was an immediate family, full of huge personalities that, somehow, all clicked together into a cohesive unit. That never happens. And the show itself was full of thrilling possibilities; we felt strongly that we were working on something unique, something truly special. 

Then, as you know, one day in November I complained about my back at lunch. Then I went home and my back hurt more. Then the ER… then the biopsy… then the cancer diagnosis. As any of the doctors can tell you, my first question - and my most immediate fear - was: “How will this affect my job?” I was three months deep into my gig at Graceland, but now it felt like it was slipping through my fingers.

My oncologist was hopeful that I’d be able to get into the office every now and then, but I shouldn’t expect to work full time. And when I did show up for work, I shouldn’t expect my mind to operate at 100%. I heard everything he said, but I clung to the “every now and then” part. As long as I was still part of this show, part of this team, I knew that cancer couldn’t win. Even being just a part-time writer provided enough drive to get through the chemo-iest of days. 

Because I’m such a lucky S.O.B., Jeff and the staff handled my news with nothing but warm embraces, selfless rescheduling, and enough ball jokes to fill ten Adam Sandler movies. Oh, and a testicle cake. Everyone involved with the show - from the studio to the network to the actors - was kind and supportive. They never docked me for missing work or getting chemo brain and forgetting plot points. They never condescended to me or treated me with kid gloves because I was a cancer patient. In fact, they SHAVED THEIR FRIGGIN’ HEADS and then took me outside to play (touch) football. And when I began to freak out, convinced that the chemo had poisoned all the creativity right out of me, they reassured me and helped write scenes for my episode. People said that work would be a good distraction, but that undersold it. It was motivation and comfort, a reason to not accept anything less than “cured.”

Sure, Graceland is just a show. But it’s also the hard work of dozens upon dozens of talented people. And for me, underneath the compelling characters and sexy violence and violent sexiness, it’s a story of a dream that came true and how, when the dream was threatened, everyone rallied to keep it alive. 

I hope you watch tonight. Maybe it’s your cup of tea, maybe it’s not (*cough cough* if you have bad taste *cough cough*). But I’m proud of the season and, more than anything else, grateful to have been a part of it. Check your local listings.

“Through humor, you can soften some of the worst blows that life delivers. And once you find laughter, no matter how painful your situation might be, you can survive it.” -Bill Cosby

The above quote was referenced in a speech I heard last night and it’s been echoing in my head since. If you bore witness to this tumblr account, or my Twitter feed, or even just my conversations with the oncologist, you know full well that humor didn’t just play a role in my treatment and recovery - it shaped and defined the experience.

From the very beginning, I said that I didn’t want you to wear a bracelet for me, I wanted you to laugh. I still feel that way. But too often, I feel that humor is dismissed as a defense mechanism or coping device. We tend to believe that a situation isn’t truly felt or deeply understood unless there’s solemn reflection and/or tearful rending of garments. (I can’t sit still and I like my clothes, so those were never real options.)

Humor, even especially in the face of real struggle, is always right in front of you. You simply have to acknowledge it. It isn’t a way to avoid the truth or to delude oneself, it’s a recalibration of perspective. My little cancer saga was peppered with so many undeniable jokes - Dr. Sacks, Dr. Fallas, that CAKE! - it’s as if God was directing a comedy, winking at me from behind the camera. 

My surgery was several weeks ago now, but everyone still asks how I’m doing. I’m feeling good; I’m (mostly) able to exercise, the pain was minimal, and my “chemo brain” seems to be a thing of the past. And then I’ll tell them about my scar, about how it isn’t so bad because the doctor, last minute, decided to forego staples in favor of sutures. He “felt sorry for me.” I try to imagine how puppy-dog-eyed pathetic I must have looked on that table, my organs hanging out, a breathing tube down my throat. And then, invariably, I laugh.

Won’t you join me?

This weekend, I received one of most original - and moving - gifts that I’ve ever come across. Sarah has a celebrated urologist in her extended family and he provided comfort, advice, and reassurance throughout the process, from diagnosis to chemotherapy to surgery. Johnny was completely invaluable; I owed him a gift. 

And yet Johnny, a proud Texan (from what I gather, there’s no other sort), bestowed upon me a high honor. He made me an honorary citizen of Texas:

If ever I doubt that cancer happened for a reason, this plaque will surely cure me of that notion. Johnny also sent an album of “Texas songs,” the final track on which is Kelly Clarkson’s “(What Doesn’t Kill You) Stronger.” Although an overused sentiment at this point, that doesn’t make Kelly’s lyrics any less true. But I’ll add an addendum: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, because people gather round to lift you back up.

One night back in January, when I was in the dregs of chemo, Sarah asked me what I wanted for dinner. She started naming everything in the fridge and, when I remained indecisive, every dish at every restaurant in a five-mile radius. Nothing sounded good to me and my ravaged tastebuds. She kept listing foods like some kind of avant-garde freestyle rapper - “Pizza, soup, pad thai, PB&J? Two Cornish game hens or bananas flambé?” - but every item sounded like sawdust with simple syrup. Completely unappetizing to my haywire tongue and fragile stomach. 

Sarah remained calm but my frustration ballooned. Then she pulled open the freezer door: “Would you like a bowl of strawberry ice cream?” My face imploded with convulsive sobs of relief and eventually I managed to wail, “Yes!” We laughed about it later, but that distilled moment was certainly one of my lowest points; every organ in my body was exhausted and the world around me seemed uncomfortable and discouraging, like one big itch I didn’t have the energy to scratch.

I was a math-loving nerd of a teenager, so I still think of my health as an x-y graph over time. Pain is no asymptote; it bursts and fades without deference to any logical equation. The moment heretofore known as the Strawberry Sobs represents the line’s closest brush with zero. But there’s another interesting aspect to this graph that I didn’t expect. If you find November 13th - the day I went to the hospital with back pain - on the x-axis, you’ll see an immediate dip on the y-axis. Over the course of 24-hours, I went from (seemingly) healthy to writhing in a hospital bed. If society is divided into the sick and the healthy, my shift in membership took only a moment.

Tracing the graph to the present, though, the line has a very gradual incline. There’s no more cancer in my body, chemo is long over, my surgery scars are disappearing into my skin… but the label of “patient” still clings to me like a static-y hospital gown. It took a doctor one second to turn me into a patient, but it will take my mind God-knows-how-long to strip away the concept. When am I done healing? When I can run again? When I’m allowed to do sit-ups or lift more than ten pounds? Is there an organization that can surveil my body and upgrade it to an official “healthy” rating? I’d love a gold-leafed certificate if that’s the case.

“The finish line” is a comforting metaphor that cancer patients like to drop into conversation, myself included. “I can see the finish line,” “We’re approaching the finish line,” “As soon as I cross the finish line…” etc. We all want to give cancer an ending that’s as definitive as its initial diagnosis. But that y-value doesn’t exist. While there are milestones that mark definitive progress, the transition back to normalcy is just that: a transition. The finish line isn’t a ribbon strung across a track; it’s a long, clover-leafed interchange between highways. I’m waiting to merge. Traffic is bad and it might take a while. I’m ok with that, I have podcasts to catch up on.

I know I’m not sick. There’s no cancer in my body, just lots of metal clamps. I know I’m not a patient. I can (reasonably) take care of myself and enjoy most of the activities of my pre-November life. But knowing something and feeling something are wildly different processes; the math-nerd in me is sad to report that they aren’t quantifiable. But the rest of me is glad to simply leave things, like the square root of a negative, completely undefined for now.  

The doctor called last night with the pathology results. We had all been waiting for them rather anxiously. After my surgery, the piles of lymph node tissue that were scraped out of my body were sent to the lab for analysis. (These were the cancerous nodes that Sarah and I referred to as the Oogieloves.)

One of three things could happen: they could find nothing, they could find traces of benign cancerous tissues, or they could find traces of malignant cancerous tissues that the PET Scan wouldn’t have been able to pick up. If the latter occurred, I would need to do chemotherapy again. Needless to say, we were rooting for Options A or B.

In the five days that we waited for the results, I went through the post-surgery healing process. An I.V. bag full of nutrients became glasses of juice became cups of Jell-o became plates of macaroni. A tube was pulled out of my nose on the second day, out of my [redacted] on the third day, out of my arm on the fourth. My walks went to the exit sign, and then to the elevators, and then around the whole floor once, and then to the moody Duke Ellington photograph in the North Tower. As I finished the final episode of “Top of the Lake” on Netflix on Monday morning, the doctors told me I was cleared to go home.

I returned to my apartment with Sarah and my parents. We picked up prescriptions, extra pillows, prunes, and a non-slip shower mat. We figured out how to get me in out of a bed that didn’t operate via remote control. We kept looking at my Frankenstein-ed stomach and repeating, “It’s not so bad.” Healing: Phase 2 had begun. But still we waited for that call…

And last night, my surgeon delivered the news, the smile audible in his voice. All that junk they yanked out of my insides was nothing but dead tissue. No more cancer. No more chemo. I am, now, 100% cancer-free. I’m a survivor.

Sarah immediately popped a bottle of champagne. When that ran out, we ordered pizza and picked up a six pack at 7-11. (It was all like a very special episode of Duck Dynasty.) A palpable sense of relief flooded the room. The journey continues - the journey’s forever - but the disease is dead. R.I.P. Oogieloves.

I’ve said before that cancer is not my life sentence, it’s simply a sentence in my life story. And now, as I had hoped, that sentence officially ends with an exclamation point.

!

Realized that those of you following me exclusively on tumblr (who does that?) have no idea how the surgery went. Even though it’s all I’ve been tweeting about, here are the details: surgery was totally textbook and none of the side effects we were worried about came into play. A tube’s been removed from my body each day; tomorrow it should be the IV. I’ve been able to walk the hall a few times a day, a little farther each time. I’m still on a liquid diet, but I was upgraded from clear to full, so Hello, Soup & Ice Cream! I’ve had incredible doctors and nurses throughout. And consistent, inspiring support from all those around me. Thanks to everyone who’s reached out or said a prayer. It’s meant a lot.

Oh, and I’m writing this while on norco pills so I’m bout to have some amazing MC Escher-style dreams, y’all. G’night!!!

It feels like Christmas Eve. The whole day seems to exist purely in order to anticipate the next. Except it’s not presents that are getting ripped open tomorrow, it’s me.

I’m not worried about the surgery exactly - the more I talk to experienced surgeons, the less risky the surgery seems - but I’m certainly anxious for it to be over. Removing the tumor is the final step of my treatment and, as soon as I’m in the clear, I can start using that official post-cancer moniker: “survivor.”

For much of my life, that word was most closely associated with the reality franchise or the Destiny’s Child song inspired by the reality franchise. But now it’ll be my word… and I approach it with a sense of apprehension, much in the way I felt, at times, uneasy about the idea of “fighting cancer.” John Green has already covered this ground in The Fault in Our Stars, but, as a patient, there’s an odd sense of guilt when you’re told that you’re fighting valiantly, or kicking cancer’s ass. “But I’m just sitting here,” you think. “The doctors and nurses and chemists and researchers are truly fighting the cancer. I’m incubating the disease, feeding it my tissue.” I know I can’t discount the role of a patient’s positive attitude in recovery, but I’d also hate to imply any strict correlation between the two. Brave, enthusiastic, optimistic people die from cancer every day. And pessimists are healed. It seems incongruous to think of yourself as a fighter when you have so little control over the outcome. The battle rages, but you’re not a solider - you’re the battlefield. 

The fact of the matter, though, is we’re all comforted by action verbs. We look at the goal - in this case, defeating cancer - and assign the action (“fight”) used to achieve that goal. No matter how valid the usage of the word was, it constantly reminded me that I am, indeed, an active participant in my own healing. Forget Webster’s for awhile. 

This semantic conflict raged in my head when I first approached the word “survivor.” I worried it connoted a sense of bravery and raw adrenaline that I hadn’t earned. There’s no look in my eye that says, “I’ve paddled through Hades’ fiery rivers, looked the devil in the eye, and I’m here to tell the tale.” But surviving, by definition, means simply making it through to the other side alive. I’ve certainly accomplished that (and will continue to do so.) 

More importantly, it ushers me into a valuable community of people bound by a shared experience. From the very beginning, survivors were the ones who reached out to me with heartening stories and practical advice. The status gave weight to their words. If being a survivor means turning my struggles into useful narratives, then I’ll wear the word across my T-shirt. The pride in being a survivor doesn’t come from defeating cancer, it comes from understanding it better than anyone else. 

And so, there’s no point in shying away from it. The word has an inherent power; why not harness it? CBS and Beyonce have, now it’s my turn. And speaking of Bey, expect to hear me paraphrase her tomorrow, post-surgery: “Now that cancer’s out of my life, I’m so much better. I’m a survivor, I’m gonna make it, keep on survivin’.” Well, I’ll probably just say “Ow,” but you get the idea.

This is the first time I’ve actually been afraid.

I was curious, when no one could explain the source of my intensifying back pain. I was confused, when the testicular cancer diagnosis came in. (Uh, my pain’s in my back, doctors. Try again.) I was frustrated, overwhelmed, and - most of all - sleepy, as chemotherapy took its toll on my body and mind. But last week, the doctors described the details of my upcoming surgery. And now I’m finally afraid. A little afraid… but afraid.

Because my stubborn, infected lymph nodes did not shrink as much as we had hoped, they need to be surgically removed. My nodes are tucked away between major blood vessels (Aorta and Vena Cava, which sound like Hunger Games characters), so the surgery’s rather tricky. Tricky in the sense that, the only way to get to them is to shuck me open like an oyster.

The cut will begin near the top of my ribcage and go down to my pelvic bone. Then they dig around in that massive hole and pluck out the offending lymph nodes. Removing all the tissue is a measure both conscientious and preventative; if there are any residual traces of the cancer in my body, however unlikely that may be, they will be gone after the surgery. And with the lymph nodes gone, an area of my body that was susceptible to cancer cannot be fertile ground for any future disease. It’s a four hour slice-and-dice-fest, but not in a fun, Evil Dead-kinda way.

With any surgery this big there are, of course, risks. They’ll be using sharp objects near my major blood vessels, so a blood transfusion may be in my future. Nerve damage is a possibility, too. Plus there’s the big-ass scar down my body for the rest of my life. It’s not like I make my living with my shirt off or anything, but I’m dreading the permanence of this mark. (Co-workers Who Shaved Your Heads: please do not cut yourselves down your abdomens to show solidarity. You’ve already done more than enough.) I felt, at best, ambivalent about my bald head and its constant reminder of my sickness. A vertical line down my middle is a daily reminder forever. Perhaps I’ll need that, a loud “Never Forget” sticker down my middle, like one of Guy Pearce’s Memento tattoos. But right now, it feels like a cruel punishment.

Chemotherapy was mundane and exhausting, but it was never terrifying. It’s not that I think something will go wrong - surgeons reach inside of split-open people all the time. Much more complicated heart operations are successfully performed several times a day. But there’s been a twist in my gut that I can only describe as fear. I’ve become overly aware of my body and, therefore, prone to imagining it ripped open, split down the middle, ready for tinkering. It’s not a comforting visual. 

I was saddened, on Thursday, to hear of Roger Ebert’s passing: his writing was always passionate and wise. When he loved something, you could feel his heart beat for it on the page, but never at the expense of thoughtful analysis. Upon hearing the news, many revisited his popular 2011 essay, “I Do Not Fear Death.” I was one of them. While I’m not worried about death, exactly, in regards to this upcoming surgery, I still found a shred of peace in Ebert’s essay. While I don’t share all of Ebert’s convictions - I hold strongly to my faith and find great comfort in it - I understand and appreciate his attitudes. One passage resonates especially:

To make others less happy is a crime. To make ourselves unhappy is where all crime starts. We must try to contribute joy to the world. That is true no matter what our problems, our health, our circumstances. We must try. I didn’t always know this and am happy I lived long enough to find it out.

And so while it’s easy to dwell in fear (and, surely, natural), it’s not difficult to envision the positive outcomes and the longterm potential for, as Ebert would say, “joyful contributions.” Although I feel fine now, I will be much healthier without a tumor inside me. And perhaps my scar will be totally badass, a rugged symbol of the victory rather than the war. Perhaps the weeks in recovery will force me to slow down and approach my health with a stronger sense of gratitude. Perhaps it will allow me to better share my experience. I don’t know what’s coming, but it’s my responsibility to share it with the world in a fashion that’s both honest and valuable.

I thought this surgery would be the period at the end of my cancer sentence, but maybe it was always destined to end with an exclamation point. After all, victory isn’t whispered, it’s shouted. Joyfully!

A few months ago, I expressed my excitement for the return of Game of Thrones, not just because I’m a fan, but because its premiere would likely coincide with the end of my treatment. Treatment ended earlier than anticipated (although I do still have one surgery left) but the arrival of the carved-stone date, 3.31.13, brought a sense of closure with it. As we settled on the couch for the premiere last night, I took a brief moment to appreciate my newfound energy, my returned sense of focus, and this weird blonde hair growing out of my head. Winter came, cancer went.

And so it’s fitting that I chose to mark an end with a beginning. Post-cancer life and the “survivor” label carry a certain responsibility. Newfound understanding compels me to keep exploring my battle, and to turn my insights into actions. At the beginning of all this, I said I’d find comfort in shaping my experience as a narrative; I feel like we’ve officially reached Chapter 2 of that narrative now. I’m less sure of the plot this time, but I’ll make sure the main character stays active. 

As for that Game of Thrones premiere? I thought it was typically rich and complex. Could have done without all that talk about castrated soldiers, though.