The journey continues, rather like the band Journey’s songs that have everyone—toddlers, stadiums full of sports-fan losers, and the cast in the pilot, epic episode of Glee—singing, “Don’t Stop Believing” for decades now. I’ve finished 5 treatments on my radiation journey, which also feels like decades now. But I haven’t stopped believing that someday this cancer journey will end and my comedy journey can begin in earnest. (5 journeys: Yay!)

At the radiation unit, there’s a golden bell on the wall right inside the entrance. Imagine the jubilation! Hear the hope! Let cancer-freedom ring! Or so I mistakenly thought—assuming that a patient got to ring that thing after every treatment, or at least after the ones that didn’t kill you. That seemed both savvy and fun—affordable care action at its finest!

But, no-o-o-o-o. That bell gets rung only after one’s final radiation. And I’m sorry to note that, although I’ve been spending plenty of time there, I’ve yet to hear that bell ring. Not once. Let us not ponder what that suggests.

Instead, the sound in the waiting room is always smooth jazz, perhaps by Kenny G. It might be the same song, over and over. I happen to LOVE music. ALL music. But I hate THAT music. So when I arrive, I always tell the receptionist, “It’s Kirk. I still haven’t been out of the country in the last 21 days. This music makes me have to go the bathroom.” And so I do.

By the time I finish my business and get those sound waves out of my head to make room for electromagnetic ones, one of the Rayettes awaits outside the door. And away we go, leaving that come-hither but silent bell in the distance.

• Ever the prankster

Still, when I’m in a jaunty mood, which fortunately isn’t very often, I have taken to hanging out by that bell and threatening to ring it. One day, I announced my intentions loudly enough to catch the attention of my fellow victims in the waiting room. Oh, for the excitement! A few actually got out of their chairs and gathered around!

“Do you get to ring the bell?” “Are you finished?” “Oh, good for you!” they beamed so sincerely I actually felt kinda bad. Then, shyly, I had to fess up, “No, no, not yet. Sorry. But someday, right?” Their smiles fell to half-mast as they shuffled back to their chairs to listen to Kenny G and page through Cancer Today! magazine.

• Helpful hints for enduring treatment

Radiation therapy isn’t so bad…but it can make you feel pretty close to the Edge.

To be honest, radiation therapy isn’t that bad. (To be more honest, it isn’t that good, either.) It usually is fast, though; I’ll say that for it. The Rayettes don’t mess around—no small talk, no foreplay, just strap onto that hard table and into that bondage mask that, I swear, gets tighter every day, or else my face keeps getting fatter.

Then, ZAP! Let the rays begin! I have developed a nifty routine to guide me through the sessions. First, I panic. Then, I pray. Only for certain things, of course—a guy doesn’t want to appear greedy before God—so the list is limited to 26 and is now alphabetized, with Z standing for zees (sleep). Then, I turn to my mindfulness and meditation training which, with any luck, gets me a peaceful, easy feeling. That tends to get boring, though, so I let my mind wander toward more creative pursuits, like writing my next post. That’s pretty productive—and is actually where I thought of this sentence! And this one! (But I decided against this one, as that would be repetitive and redundant.)

Then, finally, after about three weeks, one of the Rayettes dances back into the room and sings, “Okay! All done!” and sets me free to run like a frightened deer straight back to Kenny G and that bell we’re not allowed to ring.

Real jazz? Composure under facial pressure? Liberty bell?

I so don’t got this.

But someday, right?

Anyhow, thanks for listening…

*kh

A picture of real jazz, composure, and liberty. Someday, right?

That’s me—fearless, not spineless—as I prepped for my final Spinal Tap + chemo. No encores, please!

The C (Cancer? Comedy? Crap-ola?) campaign continues, much like this endless election, with ongoing opportunities for developing new, whimsical material. My newest collaborators? The radiation team. They’re a scream! Actually, they’re pretty straight-faced and –laced. But a guy might prefer such demeanor from folks who will repeatedly be beaming x-rays into one’s inner self.

There IS more positive news. I’ve had a “good response” to the treatments—and thus have graduated from the Chemo Course (insert whooo-ie! here) and entered the radiation phase. FBOW, no cake, no plaques, and no “Pomp and Circumstance” were involved. I was alone, in fact, when the scan-read call came from Nurse Rush, who happily exuded more mirth than usual. So absent any champoo to pop or someone to hug, I allowed myself to break character for a rare emo-breakdown and then danced to a little Ella with my warmest and fuzziest robe.

• A certain *, a visible “aura”

Med pros choose words carefully. The scan suggests it’s all gone. But there is still a * onboard, as there often seems to be when taking the C Train. This * could be a little lymphoma, although my favorite word I’ve heard is “aura.” It’s no biggie, as the next 2 options that should fix it are either 3 more chemo courses (Urp). Or to zap that * back to the Stone Age with radiation (Ugh). Everyone advises the latter. So let’s burn, baby, burn.

• Baseball: Better (and bigger) than golf

I’ve now viewed all images—the befores and afters. I had mis-underestimated the tumor; it was NOT, as I originally estimated, a golf ball. It was a baseball, really, which is terrific, as that’s my favorite sport. That’s simplistic, though, as the mass really more resembled a smashed puffer-fish. Or maybe a contortionist octopus. But it has swum away, leaving only a little *aura* in its wake.

• Facing radiation head-on

Some had whispered that my zap-fest might be only 2-3 weeks. But my new care coach, Dr. Ray, insists on extra innings, and she now calls the game. So we’ll go for 4 weeks. First, though, I get a week off for my evermore miraculous (and did I mention gorgeous?) body to recover. They can’t fool me: It’s actually so I can put summer away and kayak in this God-sent November heat wave—at least in between appointments to work out fresh laugh lines with my electrifying new team.

We’re already warming up. But…Warning: The first sessions with a new crew tend to be laden with dreary data. They must rattle off all risks, cautions, and possible outcomes—rather like those Big-Pharma ads on TV. Only worse.

The conversation didn’t go exactly like this, of course. But please embrace with me the rigorous and strenuous process of crafting new comedy while digesting distressing but requisite fuss. One occasional strategy was to fool ‘em with irrelevant, curve-ball questions…

• My first tete-a-tete with Dr. Ray and the Rayettes

ME: Nice to see you, Dr. Ray!

DR. RAY: I’m sure it is. Especially since this radiation could destroy your vision. Better see me while you can.

ME: Okay, Jose! By the way, did you check out that Vanity Fair interview with Adele? Girlfriend has total stage fright and depression too. Hey, I’ll take her job!

DR. RAY: Hold off on that, since we have to make sure the radiation doesn’t damage your vocal cords.

ME: Right. Cuz I’ll also be needing them to cheer the Vikings on to the Super Bowl. Offensive coach Norv Turner’s retiring sure made me raise my eyebrows!

DR. RAY: Better hurry. The treatment may delete one eyebrow, an eyelash, and some other hair.

ME: Too late! The chemo already beat you to that punchline! Or should I say hairline!?!

DR. RAY: And you should know that some patients suffer brain damage.

ME: Not a problem. Got plenty of brain to go around.

DR. RAY: It’s the frontal lobes—the part of your brain that deals with emotion, judgment, and personality. You may experience memory loss.

ME: Finally! The perfect excuse. For everything!

DR. RAY: You’ll likely encounter sore throat, dry mouth, and red and itchy eyes.

ME. The standard morning vital signs, you mean.

DR. RAY: Some tear glands may fail.

ME: Excellent. I’m tired of tears.

DR. Ray: Be prepared for headaches, irritated sinuses, hot flashes, and fatigue.

ME: I call it Tuesday!

DR. RAY: You’ll be at high risk for cataracts—and soon.

ME: Don’t it make your blue eyes bluer?

DR. RAY: And of course, radiation is actually x-rays, which have been proven to cause cancer.

ME: Why the hell not? Doesn’t everything cause cancer—including the things that cure it?

DR. RAY: If you experience an erection that lasts more than 4 hours, call your doctor.

ME: I will, thanks, though that may not be my first call. Hey, how come those boner-pill ads always feature bodybuilder dudes with hot, frisky babes? What is wrong with these people?

DR. RAY: Get back to me on that. Good-bye, Kirk.

As Lyle Lovett says, “Life is so uncertain.” So Dr. Ray and I will gather often and continue to cover all the bases and hazards that we Boys of Summer sometimes face. I’ll be taking the field 5 times a week—and hoping for a home-run, while brushing off the risks of the game.

I bid adieu to Dr. Ray, signed a pile of forms about the aforementioned, and fondled a model of the mask they’ll use for screwing my head to the bench. I’ve heard from others that you sometimes smell (and taste) your head frying. I don’t believe it, but then again, I doubted the Cubs would ever win the World Series.

An asterisk to exterminate? X-ray visions? Offal jokes? Bad baseball metaphors?

Yep. I got this.

And my helmet is on.

Thanks for listening…

*kh

When this war is over, I as SO going back to hang out in the cemeteries of NOLA. (Photo by Baron Baron.)

It’s been 7 hours and 76 days… And 32 days since my last public posting. Wait/what? Me? Speechless? Yep. Read on. You’ll get this… 

The tally keeps mounting, and so far features 555 tests, 3 all-day chemos, 3 spinal tap/chemos (with 2 to go), waaaaay too many days-without-end on that nervous-breakdown steroid, more pills than a CVS, and still TBD weeks of cranial radiation to head into. Words. Fall. Short.

At of our most recent game of nasal peek-a-boo, Dr. Nostril announced that my sinus cavity is “Perfect! Normal!” I like to dance a crazy jig when anyone calls any part of me “normal.” Yet the C+ Squad keeps searching for (and nuking) any covert enemy cells. So the dance party awaits a more conclusive victory and ceasefire. 

We’re still battling. And cancer IS war, after all. Ask anyone. 

This week, I have medical appointments Monday-Friday—which will pour extra T into TGIF. This schedule offers excellent opportunities for my struggling cancer-victim comedy routine; I’ll get to practice my gags with All the Greats. Which is to say…my sense of humor has never left. Though it has sometimes gone to the bathroom. The wisecracks can turn dark—if not foul—in there. So I sometimes split a gut at things that, in the before-life, weren’t funny at all.

• About that war on cancer

We can only assume that the Brain Trust that declared war on cancer are the same muckety-mucks that brought us the war on drugs, ISIS, terror, science, religion, cops, the rich, the poor, and now, clowns (who knew?). As good Merkans, when in doubt, we declare war.

So many spirited supporters instruct me to “fight!” “attack!” and “beat!” that cancer! Angry expletives happen, with a fave FB reply to my first announcement stating simply, “Fuck cancer.” I get it. Because I got this.

War scenes? I’ve had a few. And since you asked, a few to mention. Like the toxic chemo spill—when the nurse in the haz-mat regalia spilled the most dangerous poison (the pretty magenta one) all over, well, everything. Picture red seagull flying poop on a windy day. The cleanup was chaotic, dramatic, and stinky. So after several minutes of watching this sick SNL skit, I escaped from my recliner, much to the space crew’s displeasure. The all-day chemo combat then went into overtime—with action that included a tedious two-hour delay of war penalty and several bloody stabs for a new, improved IV.

Some nurses, visibly frustrated, would ask me things like, “Why don’t you have a port?” to which I could only reply, “Why don’t you have a smelly gym sock in your mouth?” So at times, the war-is-hell slogan makes imperfect sense. And I begin to grasp, if not live, the metaphor. In these scenes, my sense of humor def makes like Elvis and leaves the building, and simple survival instincts take over.

Toxic spills happen. Why all the fuss? They are pumping that same contaminant into my body…

Almost as hilarious have been the many people around who have gotten sick with colds, tummy bugs, and other seasonal grotesquerie. When I asked for advice from my care team, they handed me stacks of surgical masks. Naïvely, I stammered, “Um, do I have to wear these all the time? People are hacking on everything and piling up Kleenex like a snowstorm.” “No, silly,” the doctors laughed, “The sick people wear the masks!” So I chuckled back, “Ahhhhh, sure!” “Gesundheit!” they replied. (Not really.)

Well, you can guess how that surgical mask initiative went over. The masks remain neatly stacked and untouched, yet I have somehow remained unsick, even though unwell enough to have vital counts now much lower than what’s left of my IQ. So clearly—somehow—I AM WINNING THIS WAR!

• Nobody wants to hear about…

But I know, I know. Nobody wants to hear about toxic spills, sickness, and snot-rags. Nobody wants to read about the chemo-brain headache that no opioid can remedy or the head-to-toe backache. Nobody wants to think about numb extremities causing more dropsies than a cheap drunk. Nobody wants to hear about burning pee, tastelessness (not just my jokes), or when the bucket list becomes strategically placed literal things.

• “It’s so worth it…”

So I won’t go there. Like I said, words fall short. Anyway, in all honesty, it’s not all bad—and I frequently cross paths with suffering souls that make me both choke and buck up. Yes, my cancer BreakAway features an arduous itinerary of daredevil excursions, yet they most always end up in a place with a beautiful view and unshakeable sense of serenity. It might take a Week from Hell to get there. But as one survivor-friend encouraged me early on, “It’s so worth it!”

On this journey (why does everyone insist on calling it a journey?), I’ve worked with some unfathomably compassionate healers. I’ve seen a side of friendship that has changed my definition of kindness. I’ve enjoyed enough high-vita juices and protein smoothies for a lifetime, though I intend to keep imbibing. Even shaving got easy. And though the all these drugs are probably aging me, parts of me look like a Millennial!

• Declaring a state of peace

A+! This brilliant card from my writing students at MCAD has made me LOL over and over. Thank you!

So like the rest of me, the humor perseveres. And despite the fear and writhing—or perhaps because of it?—peace happens. Dependably. Freakishly. I mean, the little sh*t goes out the window, right? And of course, it all becomes little sh*t right about now.

So maybe it’s true: What doesn’t kill you makes you…tougher. You can’t survive a war without toughness. And somewhere inside that tough, needle-pocked, thick skin rests a sense of sage acceptance that no retreat can teach, no poster can preach, no thought leader can think, and no emoji can emote. It’s like the 90-minute spinal tap that strikes nerves of unthinkable pain, but when it’s over sets off a superhuman glow of relief and ease.

All to say…my body is not at war with itself. And we are not “fighting” anything (except the occasional nurse). To be sure: My anatomy made a mistake—not the first, and not the last. But, corny as this sounds, only patience, loving-kindness, and Iowa Stubborn will fix that mistake. Oh yeah, and that pretty magenta chemo (injected not spilled) plus a cornucopia of other miracles in medical arts.

So let’s just save our dang rage for the election. Or the terrorists. Or the Vikings-Packers game. Or whatever.

As they say in church, mercifully, because the service (like this missive) is finally over: Peace be with you.

And also with me.

(I got this.)

Thanks for listening…

Sunrises remain a reminder of daily beauty but pale in comparison to peak fall colors. (Artwork by Elsa Elsa.)

Dr. Nostril and I had another confab and cranial camera-probing yesterday. And he was again excited about what he didn’t see, “There is NO sign of that (golfball-sized) tumor in there!” he exclaimed as we explored my suddenly-cavernous sinus cavity. So just like every other golf-ball I encounter—lost!

Dr. Nostril also insists that oncologist Dr. Zen will continue nuking my system and later serve up radiation chasers, as per protocols. They’ll also keep testing me from top to bottom with all available ginormous instruments.

So don’t break out the Dom yet. But do forgive me if I start humming Tiny Bubbles.

~Thanks once again for your magical energies, kindness, and support!

• Be prepared…be very prepared.

Sometimes I’m a heavy traveler. Especially when taking long trips—which would include any expedition to the hospital. After all, you never know when you might need your Jambox, snacks, books, mags, warmies, meds, and lotions and potions. So yes, I schlep a packed backpack to the Cancer Care Unit for chemo days, just in case the day drags on like a bad movie.

Call me crazy, but there’s something about hospitals that makes a guy want to have any and all diversions available. Plus, what if they decide you really are crazy? What if they lock you in? You’ll so want your headphones.

In case you ever find yourself stuck in such a place, here are 11 quick ideas from the laptop of experience. Take with salt and electrolytes. And by way of warning, some viewers may find a few photos unpleasant. But A) You see worse on TV. B) Imagine how I feel. And C) Hospital art can make you sick.

• 1. Flirt with the nurses!

• 2. Resolve to make big changes in your life.

Like, dude: You may love that old kayak—and they don’t make it anymore. But it’s leaky and it makes you wet. And that’s just stupid in fall and spring and when crashing through ice. Transformation accomplished! A mere 65 hours later, this suave, new (used) vessel set sail. Now on to the next big lifestyle change. Nautitech catamaran, everyone?

• 3. “Enjoy every sandwich…”

…as sweetly suggested during wonderful Warren Zevon’s last performance and appearance with his longtime buddy, David Letterman. And for the record, Jimmy John’s delivers directly to your room—fast!

• 4. Think about winter survival-strategy BreakAways.

And start scheming to get your lily-white ass (and noggin) back in the sun, surf, and sand as soon as possible. (Hi Jesper!)

• 5. Study the “art” collection.

And warm up by the “fireplace.”

• 6. Cherish rich-and-fabulous recollections.

In my case, fave Fran Lebowitz actually laughed during our repartee and signed my book, “My dear Kirk, Remember Paris, Love Fran.” I would also be wise to wallow in the memory of recently making out with Mudonna!

• 7. Soak in the enigmatic colors and aromas of the chemo varietals.

Relish every drop and the body as it flows through your system. Note the acidity and mouth-feel of this renegade, red blend. And be sure to savor that super-special surprise: It makes your pee pink!

• 8. Embrace the upsides of sleeplessness.

Sure, relaxing becomes a full-contact sport when dosed up with, say, 5 noxious chemo concoctions + that 5-day elephant dose of that effing steroid. But try to embrace the upsides. Finish that infinite Fitzgerald novel? Yes! Overcome your irrational fear of the night sweats? Yes! See more splendid sunrises? Yes, yes, yes!

• 9. Raise a glass to friends at work.

On a good day at the hospital, you may catch a movie, get a leg massage, and meet a kind, kindred soul. That’s not so bad. I mean, some people are struggling to stay awake while slopping emails to minions at the cube farm. True, this glass allows only ice water. But it’s the spirit that counts.

• 10. Recall other come-from-behind victories.

Like that time in win-or-die playoffs that the team was down by 9 going into the last inning, and you and Del coached the young men to victory. Oh sure, the players—like the mighty caregivers—deserve some credit. But you know a long-lasting, shit-eating smirk awaits once you’ve won this intense battle.

• 11. Keep your focus: Git ‘er done.

And get home to someone who still needs you and thinks you’re pretty cool.

Survival strategies. We got this. Thanks for listening…

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here to get through this thing called Life,” sings Prince in Let’s Go Crazy. That’s familiar: “Get through it…” as I penned in my last post. But I would also submit—and my many euphoric nights going crazy at Prince shows confirm he’d agree—that we are also gathered here to celebrate this thing called Life.

That’s what my perfect daughter and I did a few days before school started, with a back-to-school, daddy-date tradition of paddling Minneapolis’s chain of lovely lakes and then perusing ever-funky Uptown. I loved the canoeing. She loved the shopping. We both loved lunch al fresco.

Let’s go crazy? Heck, yeah! Cancer makes you crazy—or at least provides a handy excuse—while also provoking some people around you to do kinda crazy things. The BreakAway blog has gone out-to-lunch too; we (the Royal) used to preach about making and taking time for what matters: career breaks, long-term travel, seeking balance, and listening to that dreamy (if crazy) voice inside of you.

Has that trip been hijacked? Or am I on a bad-thing BreakAway? I’ve written about that too—how even for purposeful people, it sometimes takes the bad thing to force the gift of time. Sickness or death of a loved one. A relationship ending. Getting fired. Guess we can add cancer (and other ills) to the list. If this is a restoration BreakAway, let’s go!

• Hair today, gone tomorrow

Last Friday, hair began falling like the leaves of Octember. And was about as messy. I am nothing if not fastidious and frugal (not), so I raced to Great Clips for my free “Courage Cut,” and got the Greatest Clipper. She preached the Gospel of Laughter, became yet another comic-duo sidekick, and had me chuckling and hairless lickety-split. Sure, it feels funny—smooth like velvet when stroked forward, scratchy like bristles backward. Mirrors and silhouettes still startle me. Who is that cat?

But as my stylist and new friend asserted when I lamented this insignificant and inevitable evolution, “Hey, there are worse things in this world!” And just like that…Pity. Party. Over.

• A rant about reactions

My comedy post went over well, but today may veer in the direction of rant. But that’s cool, I think, as many successful comedians have resorted to ranting: Sam Kinison, Sarah Silverman, Donald Trump.

As you know, I’m the luckiest man in the world—because I have so many friends. And that has made getting through this breezy so far. The help, communiqués, and connections continue to arrive, in all forms. The great majority are supportive, inspiring, and sweet. (A few short faves include, “Uffda!,” “Go kick some ass!” and “Picked the wrong dude.”) Others are memorable for other reasons—like a mosh-pit at a Tony Bennett concert. Let’s explore a few highlights of both types, shall we?

• The bipolar nurse

During perhaps the worst procedure I’ve endured, in a roomful of people holding various farm implements, I was belly-down while they drilled into my bones, med-free (not recommended). It went on and on, didn’t go well, and took many taps. In my hour of darkness, a perky nurse came to my aid and said, “Here, hold my hands. Go ahead and squeeze.” So I did. And the sound of her breaking bones soon drowned out the grunts and gizmos. The nurse and I quickly launched into cathartic comic-duo banter.

When it was finally over, she pulled her limp hands away, and I deadpanned my closing line: “I hope you enjoyed our first date as much as I did.”

Everyone laughed on cue, and the others gradually disappeared. The nurse stayed to ensure I was okay, yet snuck out soon enough as I sat there dazed and half-nude in one of those half-assed hospital robes. I forget our final chat, but it must have gotten cancer-deep. Because as she left the room, she yawned and muttered, “Well, when it’s your time…”

Alone and stunned, I could only think, “Did she just say that!?!” Given another chance, I’d tear open that door, burst out in my bruised birthday suit, and holler, “PICKED THE WRONG DUDE!” And, “WE ARE SO DONE DATING!”

• What is the cause, Kenneth?

Another forehead-gripper came from a close friend. During a pre-chemo party, he reflected, “I just can’t wait til this is over and we can figure out the cause.” Hmmmm. Wow. That golf-ball tumor in my head is going to lead the world to understanding lymphoma? I can’t wait til this is over, we go public, save countless lives, and make millions!

I’ll tell you what causes cancer. It’s the same thing that causes skinned knees, broken legs, and broken hearts: Life. It’s a fatal disease we all share. And I propose we all embrace its immense and infinite mysteries.

• The scathing psycho-soul assessment

Yet another longtime friend hand-wrote a 3-page letter that essentially stated that the reason this happened is because I live too much in my head. I need to open my heart. I need to free my soul. And I need to master my mind-body connection. It went on and on, and included book recommendations. I’ll just leave it at that.

But I didn’t at the time. I mean, who could? My very being had been judged and dissed.

So my very being started raging. And Buster (my soul’s bodyguard and Anger’s BFF) awakened in a foul mood. My best AdvisorZ tell me to watch out for Buster during this time. Stress too. They are toxic, I’m told, and my body is already being filled with an extreme poison cocktail. But try telling that to my slandered body, mind, heart, and soul. Try telling Buster anything.

I argued with Buster in my head. I instructed him to think about our compassion, meditation, and Zen work. But instead, Buster took to using a Buddha statue for a punching bag. So I stuck a WWJD bumper sticker over his face. But he ripped it off and pumped adrenaline, like gasoline, into my veins. And then, with spit and sweat splattering off his purple head, Buster bellowed, “Let’s go kick some ass!”

Being a strong Iowa boy, though, I hog-tied Buster and threw him back in his cell. We negotiated from there. Buster did convince me to write a reply; I said we’d keep it short and polite. I later had a mutual acquaintance deliver that reply along with the letter I’d received—and then rip mine to shreds after the first writer had read it once. “Please don’t respond,” I wrote. “I’ve moved on.” And we will. Because that’s what friends do.

Yet I would like to offer this simple advice: Please think twice before offering advice. Particularly when your advisee is in a vulnerable position. Especially if you weren’t even asked.

At least that’s my opinion. And it’s very true.

• The scarred—not scared—angel

On the sympathetic side of the reaction scale, at a recent St. Paul Saints baseball game, I was shopping for a baseball chemo cap in their gift store. There were dozens—hundreds?—of options. But I’m just not a cap guy. So I asked a nearby hip and outdoorsy couple to help me; it’s St. Paul, after all. They did, and we quickly found a soft fabric and ideal design.

As we parted, I explained that I was undergoing chemo, so I needed hats to warm my soon-to-be bald head. The gentleman, wearing a most dapper and proper hat, smiled and said, “Really? I’m getting over brain surgery, myself. We’re gonna be fine.”

He doffed that dapper hat to reveal a shaved head with a fresh scar that would make Frankenstein jealous. And we fell into a robust handshake-hug. As inspiration goes, that saintly stranger hit a home run.

• The language of compassion 

For one more story of grace, I ran into an acquaintance originally from Mexico. We don’t know each other well, but have a warm connection. Sadly, my Spanish is worse than his English. So we meet in the middle and use gestures—as you do when traveling foreign lands.

When I told him I have cancer, his face showed shock, his eyes got teary, and he turned away to hide his emotion. After a moment, he turned back and looked me straight-on. He tried to find words, but could not. So he simply clutched his heart with both hands.

Enough said.

• Sumus quod sumus

I can do no better than to quote the Lake Wobegon motto: Sumus quod sumus: We are what we are. People will do what they’ll do, and say what they‘ll say, whatever their belief system—itself an inexplicable oxymoron. One must expect to digest reactions of all flavors at times like this, as I anticipated in my announcement post.

Well-meaning people sometimes drive each other crazy. I suppose I do—certainly my daughter. (Hey, I’m her dad. It’s my job.) But we paddle on—if not fearlessly, at least seeking the courage of other cancer victims, MLK, Gandhi, and, of course, Apple.

Most important: I’m so grateful for your steady stream of support, however it shows up. So keep those vibes and missives coming. And if they displease Buster or serve me too much to think, well, that’s fine. To be Frank, That’s Life.

Life. We got this. Thanks for listening…

Back to my roots…for a new kind of buzz.

*kh

PS First spinal chemo tomorrow. All-day chemo Thursday, plus the start of the next five-day course of that elephant-dose of that effing steroid. So send thoughts, and go celebrate some normal Life for me. More soon when they’ve scraped me off the ceiling…

One perk for early medical appointments…a sublime sunrise!

“Everything will turn out alright if you can just keep your sense of humor,” my dad used to say, and still does, though I might need to remind him (and all of us) at times. So my new healthcare-survival strategy is to make every caregiver laugh at least once.

Cancer care is a full-time job, so I am getting lots of practice while also simplifying the rest of Reality, including withdrawing, sadly, from teaching at MCAD this fall semester—a tragic loss for the students. One upside: This should allow more time for comedy writing.

I’ll now need extra time for other things too. Like, today, my new cancer-care team added another 4-hour chemo treatment to combat a newly-decided small chance of brain or spinal  cancer. This procedure, naturally, will flow through the spine (insert Spinal Tap joke here). So scheduling all these appointments: Yet another pain-in-the-back that goes to 11—at night, for all I know.

When working with schedulers at the new clinic today, I asked about the next full-day (not to be confused with 4-hour) treatment and stretched my humor muscle: “Since I’ll be here all day, do I get a private room?” “Yes!,” she replied. So I asked, “Does it have a window?” “No!” she answered. Desperate for that elusive chuckle, I replied, “Well then, I guess I’ll have to bring my own!” It worked.

• Introducing Dr. Zen and Dr. Nostril 

I’ll call my new oncologist Dr. Zen, as he rather floats into the room and makes you feel, however temporarily, quite comfortable to have cancer and wish you were on whatever he’s on. He had so many wise things to say—not only about lymphoma—that I should have taken notes. I look forward to my time with him.

I later shared special moments with my ENT doctor, Dr. Nostril (he’s okay with that moniker) in another location. I had to drive like a NASCAR stud through construction terror to make it on time. But I was oh-so ready to play some C-card humor to any cop who would dare stop me that I was looking forward to that, too.

Dr. Nostril holds the honor of first telling me about my tumor and showing me the pictures (since I had steadfastly ignored everything they were sending me online) and also doing the biopsy surgery. We also have a fun mutual acquaintance. So we’re not only close, personal friends, but are now getting our comic duo act ready.

When he entered the room wearing an old-fashioned head mirror, I was taken aback—having never seen a real one before. “What is this, some Jimmy Stewart movie?” I blurted. Not missing a beat, he retorted, “Actually, we’re doing a Norman Rockwell painting today.” Me: “I just hope your not planning to stick that thing up my nose, too.” He did not, which was nice of him, though he did again probe a camera (not the 35mm this time).

• All good news mostly 

Happily, he was delighted with what he saw up there. Which is to say: My golf-ball-sized tumor is noticeably smaller than the last time he went sinus spelunking. So you can say what you want about how 5 chemotherapies makes you sick and how that elephant-dose of that effing steroid makes you curse the bald eagles and try to tackle telephone poles. But hey, it seems to be working—already—and I can feel it too. So at this point, if the plan includes my reading War and Peace aloud in the middle of 35W, I’m okay with that.

One hopes their shift in tone can continue. I mean, at those first appointments, it was all doom and gloom and stats and odds that, quite frankly, could ruin an otherwise lovely encounter. “Stop! Stop!” I wanted to scream, and probably did. Now, however, caregivers are sometimes grabbing my arm and cheerleading, “You’re young! You’re strong!” To which I reply “Go on! Go on!”

• Not a fall guy

September lurks. So does dark, stormy, dusty, messy, smelly, poopy autumn. Me? I’m the Summer Guy. So this time of year usually feels like the slow-mo cessation of an awesome party. On a cool boat. With all your best friends. And babes in bikinis and everyone shouting along to music blasting. And Bud Light (check that).

This year, though, I’m singing a different tune. With any luck, this crap might be behind me by 12-21, the shortest day of the year. And I can quit my cancer-comedy shtick and get back to bellyaching about the lack of light.

Not to complain. Hanging out in hospitals and cancer clinics surely makes a person feel grateful for all that is good and right. As Grandma would cheerfully chirp on the South Dakota farm when someone felt the need to carp about something, “It’s not so bad we are off!”

• Get through it…

When making late lunch before a blissy-sunny kayak ride with my perfect daughter after today’s appointments, The Current FM played an old favorite, favorite song, Tender. Sweet serendipity. Please watch. My humor was exhausted. A few tears fell from my face onto the carrots. Were they joy? Were they grief? It is such a secret place, the land of emotions.

“Tender is the day…the demons go away,” goes the song. “Come on, come on, come on…get through it,” sings the choir.

I hope you, too, are getting through any obstacles in your path. We got this. Thanks for listening…

*kh

Meet Scott, proudly representing my so many friends. Scott’s a BFF since 2nd grade, growing up in Soo Siddy and beyond, who spent the last few days prepping (and partying) with me at home on Lake Owasso. In this pic, we are afloat at Boji just a few weeks ago.

…because I have so many friends.” I found out I have cancer 13 days ago—and have since been bludgeoned by medical testing and intel, ridden a gut-wrenching roller-coaster of emotions, and been lovingly group-groped by friends near and afar. My diagnosis: If med-tech can’t cure cancer, then friends will.

I’ve been a lake aficionado all my life, with a special connection to one Lake Okoboji, Iowa. (Is this heaven?) I spent some college summers living the college-boy dream in Okoboji—on the water all day, waiting tables long nights, growing vegetables in between, and chilling in a hidden cabin with no phone or TV (just a giant stereo!).

My last summer, I was promoted to head waiter and worked alongside a legendary,76-year-old Maître D, Mr. R., who taught many friends the brilliant headliner above. (He also knew more bad—and by that I mean good—jokes than a convention of comedians.)

Mr. R. was cantankerous and flamboyant—with countless colorful tuxes, more jewelry than Liz Taylor, a what-critter-is-that toupee, and cigars the size of baseball bats. He’d end the night with two pockets full of $20s and announce, “I’m the luckiest main in the world…because I have so many friends.”

He was an anomaly in this community, a place he only “summered” to escape Des Moines. He drove a VW bug with a Mercedes front, knew everyone wherever he went, and might show up in woman’s clothes for huge Sunday parties, even at the Omaha blue bloods’ estates. This is northwestern Iowa. Folks work hard, clean harder, and didn’t know much diversity. But nobody gave a shit, not even all the frat boys who worked the joints and waters—or they just kept it to themselves and had another G&T.

And Mr. R. was right: He had SO MANY friends.

I’ll never match his je-ne-sais-quoi, or those like him who love limelight, or especially his taste in clothes and cigars. But I’m pretty sure I have even more friends. And I look forward to collecting those $20s, metaphorically, in food and fun and freaking out (if it comes to that) while I endure my cancer daze.

Chemo kick-off tomorrow morning. Keep them vibes and prayers comin’!

Cancer: WE got this. Thanks for joining me.

Hello World,

I know what you’re thinking: Nice hair, huh? Better look fast!

But let’s get right to the point, shall we? Cancer.

Today, (August 15) is National Relaxation Day. I hope this doesn’t mean we can only relax one day per year!

It’s been a great summer. Is there any other kind? Never mind that this blogger has suffered some shattering personal sh!t, starting in July. And then, this relaxer also got struck struck by some shocking health sh!t, as of last week. As Casey Kasem used to say, “The hits just keep on comin’!”

But despite the chilly sh!t-fan, there were also countless moments of relaxation. Repose. Rest. Beauty. And grace. Perhaps that’s why the wordsmith-ing got quiet? Oh yeah, and the aforementioned. But who wants to get stuck there on National Relaxation Day?

Instead, here are some random pics from the bliss that summer brought. Because  when life gets hard, there’s still an abundance of beauty most anywhere you look—and peaceful moments awaiting most anywhere life takes you.

• Golfing is relaxing…when you remember…it’s an outdoor game…to bring you zen.

• I’ve looked at clouds. From both sides now.

• Beer is beautiful. And relaxing!

• My favorite five-fingered flower that always shakes the blues!

• Daughter’s USA Cup soccer games at 7 am: The best reason go get up early!

• Root, root, root for the fireworks. If the home team can’t win, who cares?

• My garden is my playground. Plants, flowers, found art, and an angel or two…

• For pristine, eye-popping grandeur, consider Lake Superior.

• My children have taught me how to spell relaxation: H-A-M-M-O-C-K-I-N-G.

• Peace.

• WAR

During the Vietnam War, Canada welcomed most any American man whose conscience would not allow him to go to war and inflict harm on other people. Brilliant. Compassionate. Generous.

• CIVIL WAR

Today, we have a national epidemic of people shooting and harming one another—with violence and anger surrounding us and new tragedies flaring daily. My guess is, if there were a Canada option available, many people would flee the madness for a refuge.

• POLITICS

Some say they’d like to move if Donald Trump becomes President. Perhaps others feel that way about Hillary Clinton. Americans are dissatisfied, angry, and scared. All sorts of them, about all sorts of things, in ways not seen in decades.

• FAMILIAL ABUSE 

Others find themselves in broken families—living with (and often putting up with for years) partners or relatives who lie, cheat, abuse, and cause irreparable spiritual and physical harm—disregarding human necessities like love, kindness, and respect. When your own home and alleged loved ones knowingly hurt you, who can you turn to? You may feel like running away. And some do, sometimes for the better.

• WHERE TO GO? 

The Vietnam War may provide a model to these scenarios that have much in common. Sadly, Canada can’t just take every foreign soul who’s hurting so badly he can’t take it any more…or mad as hell and can’t take it any more.

• THE BAD-THING BREAKAWAY

Career-break advocates try to maintain an upbeat—if not dreamy—tone to the promise of an extended period for travel, reflection, adventure, and rest.

But in truth, many people’s “breaks” look more like running away—in hopes of escaping the madness, ending a long, domestic nightmare, or simply finding a place of peace and hope.

Is it a valid and viable solution to problems and pain? There is never a perfect answer. But sometimes, maybe it is. Even the fantasy can offer some solace. You may be trapped or suffering, but you must keep faith you’ll land in a better place.

You can start over most any time. Sometimes, you have no choice.

Keep the faith.