New Years Day: Four years after his stage 3 melanoma diagnosis, numerous surgeries, treatments and trials, Michael sits at dinner with his wife and two sons, and raises a glass. “I’m still here!” he exclaims. Their look of surprise surprises him. Then he remembers. Nine months ago he didn’t mention that his doctor had given him nine months to live. “Oh, guess I forgot to tell you . . .”
I met Michael in Pilates. He wasn’t actually in the class, his wife was the teacher and often spoke of him while leading the Roll-ups, Roll-overs and Hundreds. The positive way he approached the illness sounded so impressive that I definitely wanted to talk with him. He was easy to pick out at the Starbucks where we met; he was the guy with the glow.
Michael is pragmatic, optimistic and likes to be in control. Yet, if all he can control is his reaction toward whatever encroaches on him, so be it. Why, I asked, didn’t he tell his family about the nine-month sentence? He didn’t want to worry them, he didn’t want to dwell on the negative, he just decided to forget.
Cancer has taken him around the block many times. The initial tumor on his back was removed shortly after detection. Others grew. Most have been taken out, some left in when the risk of removal was too great. The ones in his left leg and hip remain. For him, that means taking a golf cart instead of walking the course. Camaraderie with his golf buddies and staying in the game is what’s important.
Focus
Genes might play a role in Michael’s ability to focus on the positive. His father died when he was young and his mother raised him and his two brothers on her own. “She always said we were the best boys in the world,” he says with a chuckle remembering their frightful childhood antics. He adds “We definitely were not. But she thought we were.”
His religious faith also plays a role. “I start each day with a ritual. I get in the shower and I thank God for the magnificent life he has given me, for my wife and my boys, and for keeping me alive.” Then he envisions the water washing the cancer away. “And I stop thinking about it.”
His faith carried him through his service in Vietnam when he was a squad leader. “The consequence of a bad decision was significant,” he says. “I was always in basic survival.” Yet, it never occurred to him that he might not come home alive. “God has given me the gift of not allowing fear or a bad outcome to enter my mind.”
The power of positive thinking. If it’s not positive, Michael doesn’t think it. “There’s always something to be positive about. I can’t pay attention to the negative part. I can’t help cancer having a grip on my body, but it’ll never take my mind.”
Participate
Michael spent many years as a dean at a community college assisting veterans re-entering the education and work worlds. His job was to identify problems and obstacles, seek opportunities and empower individuals to go after them. With cancer, he became his own client. One of the many studies he participated in focused on tumor size reduction. When an initial scan showed a reduction, things looked good. The next, however, revealed growth – 12 percent. An increase of even one percent would kick him off the study. So he considered the situation, researched his medications and supplements, and found that iron could bind with drugs and limit their effectiveness. Maybe he should stagger the times he took the supplements and the drugs? Two hours seemed appropriate. Sure enough, his next scan showed reduction – of 12 percent.
The researchers were impressed and shared the information with their colleagues. The initial increase, however, removed him from the study. It was a huge disappointment, but a personal victory in participating and attempting to bring important elements together to solve a problem.
Never give up. It’s a mantra Michael often tells his sons. “There are barriers out there, but you don’t need to accept them.”
Treatments continue. The immediate future is more surgeries, more trials, more drugs, more things popping up that can and can’t be removed. A natural reaction would be to get mad. “But what good would that do?” he asks. “No matter how many days I have left, getting mad would just waste them.”
Michael’s attitude is endlessly positive. And yet, I couldn’t help but wonder if the idea he can choose how to feel both mentally and physically, if the belief that barriers merely invite detours, if the concept he can truly ignore everything he is going through, is all that real? Doesn’t the glass ever look half empty?
“Ah,” he says, “All I need is the glass.”
Final Note
Sometime after talking with Michael, I traveled to Europe and happen to stop in at the immense and imposing St. Stephens Cathedral in Vienna. In the nave of the cathedral are racks where petitioners place votive candles in offering for themselves and others. The grandeur of the place compelled me to light a candle. As I did, I had the strong and surprising sense it should be for Michael. I placed the candle and felt happy to add to the warm, comforting glow the many votives created. Within minutes, a text message came through on my phone. It was from Michael’s wife informing his many friends of his passing.
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