My Story Thus Far

12/10/06

My story thus far:

I have moved residences from a relatively “high brow” neighborhood to an area of the island that could be considered one of the poorest, in terms of income. Back there, most people worked at relatively high paying jobs—enough, at least to qualify for home ownership. Here, most people have three jobs between parents, if the parents are even together. Welfare is the rule and on the first of each month, when food stamps are issued, the supermarkets are swamped with business paid for by the state. There, life is measured by shopping soirees where here, by whether McDonald’s is in the cards on payday—twice a month. There, big sales discounts at the major stores attract hordes of buyers. Here, prices may be low but the merchandise quality may also be at the same level—low.

On the other hand, there was a lot of traffic going past my residence with accompanying noise and odors. Here, I’m in a neighborhood where traffic is at a minimum and usually single file as the streets are narrow and even the sidewalks are used for parking cars. There, I was in a townhouse of 2 bedrooms. Here, I’m in a house which is big enough to have six bedrooms, albeit by carving up living and dining rooms into quarters for renters like me.

Yet, I am happy. I’m still in the midst of tremendous clutter as all my worldly belongings—stuffed into plastic shopping bags, plastic tall kitchen trash bags, 50 gallon trash bags, suitcases, boxes and crates of all sizes—are yet to be put away or stacked in some kind of order. I’m avoiding the inevitable sorting through the various containers of my “stuff” and deciding where it all should go. I did accomplish one feat however: I put away my groceries in the refrigerator. This no “ice box” that we all know and love, usually in the kitchen, the one that holds tall bottles of soda, left over turkeys and whole casserole dishes. No, this is a “reefer” big enough for two six-packs of soda, one that most people—where I used to live—would use in a bar or patio for convenience. Here, I have to use this space as my only place to keep food stuffs cold because the landlord refuses to fix the broken refrigerator in the kitchen. Thoughtfully, he has provided one of these coolers for each tenant. In mine, I have a carton of 18 eggs, 8 containers of yoghurt, two slabs of sliced turkey sandwich fixings, a bagel, butter, a couple of cream cheese’s and a container of water. I probably won’t be putting steak in there or gallon containers of apple juice. I’ll just have to learn how to shop small and often…

I didn’t explain why I was happy and so I will. A long time ago, I promised myself that I would retire by the time I was 60 years old with sufficient income to keep me in fresh apples and oranges. I also promised myself that I would avoid boredom and would be doing something interesting other than going into an office or slugging my way through traffic twice a day. I knew something out of the ordinary would happen as I approached that magic year that would have me content and not pressurized but in demand as a companion, friend, lover, bon raconteur, businessman and all around happy fellow. I knew all those personality traits would be forthcoming and would create a life worth living; I just didn’t know how.

And then, cancer struck with all its attendant difficulties, admonitions and life diminutions. I was astonished, surprised, depressed and stunned, to say the least. I thought and felt terrible things like a defeated people enduring the gnashing of teeth, renting of garments and temples being destroyed. “What happens now?” was a constant refrain for me. “Who’s going to take care of me now?” “How will I live?” “Who will love me now, if ever, with a death sentence hanging over my head?” “Just what am I going to do?”

These all ran together and became an awful, endless symphony; a cacophony of weird, unfamiliar sounds that made the edges of my mouth turn down into a scowl. My eyes searched bare hospital walls for supportive graffiti like “Go get ‘em, Tiger!” when I could see through the mist of my frequent tears. I heard a constant high-pitched whine in my head not just from the “woe is me” incantations but a real sound that I later figured out was the noise of self-induced tension. I cried often. Whenever a nurse asked my how I was doing, I would tell him or her, spelling it out in excruciating detail. Mostly it was about my fears of being alone to face this horrible fate. Some of them would take my hand and some even wept with me. Usually, I was awake at 2 or 3 in the morning and one them would come in to perform some procedure or give me another injection of some kind. The conversation would often begin by my asking just what was being administered. And then, as I looked at them in the eye, a tear would fall from mine, my chin would quiver and my voice would rise as I tried to speak a foreign language for me, that of defeat.

I prayed once in a while, not to “God” but to the universe asking that I not suffer anymore and to take me now. I asked that no one be burdened by my illness or have to do anything on my behalf. I would go off to a fitful, short sleep of maybe an hour or two during the night with tears drying on my cheeks. Yet the “fitfulness” of these naps was full of adventure dreams, with me as the hero. My waking hours were consumed by anger and rout at something seemingly bigger than me—cancer. When I did sleep, my dreams moved me to the head of the pack, to leadership and I performed all sorts of fanciful deeds that made me the envy of whatever group followed me in these dreams. When I awoke, the dream wisped away slowly and left me with feelings of confidence and strength. At first, I attributed the dreams to the great, pharmaceutical quality drugs I was receiving. But, when the medicinals ended, the dreams continued, even during my daytime naps. I must be telling myself something, I finally concluded. Perhaps, I had what it took to endure this envelopment. Maybe, I could be the one that won. Possibly, rather than treating the dreams as illusion, the thoughts I had during daytime were more that. Out of all my accumulated knowledge and experiences I had created a persona that emerged only when all personally induced noise was turned off: when I was asleep.

Suddenly, I was buoyant and light. I slept eagerly, wanting to fall into that embracing dream state that heralded me as conqueror. I began to see myself differently. I started to feel a distant sense of hope, that this seemingly tragic event would somehow work out, that it might well be a harbinger of something good. I took a small note pad out of the bag the hospital staff had placed my worldly belongings when I was admitted and opened it to a blank page. On the top I wrote “Dream List.” On the succeeding lines I started listing all the things I wanted to do, to have and to become before my life was over. In my case, according to the doctors it could be six months from now or a year. I decided to make the list so long that I would not have time to die in either of those time frames. I entered “Watch whales in Alaska, watch sunsets, join an astronomy group, fly in a Lear jet, be an art museum docent, take an RV across America, meet my adopted Filipino family, learn to sky dive, walk in the Rockies, write about my life as a cancer survivor, live abundantly…” among other things. As I wrote, I actually saw myself doing those things and becoming that man I had always dreamed of becoming—an adventuresome warrior seeking a peaceful journey through an incredibly diverse and interesting world. I began to believe in a life after this imposed death sentence. I dreamed of more escapades like “Ride a Harley-Davidson motorcycle, tour a submarine, learn to scuba dive, hike Hawaiian trails, get a tattoo and learn how make neon signs…” Although physically I was weak from my bedridden status of the last 10 days, I was alive mentally and emotionally. I wanted to be done with this hospital stay and get on with my list. I had places to go, people to meet and things to do!

It was about this same time that my sister called from her home in California. I was happy to hear from her, of course. She had kept in touch virtually every day of my confinement asking how I was, what were the medicos doing to and for me and relating stories of her family’s exciting activities, especially of her grandchildren. She also told me of one of my niece’s ideas of creating a fund-raiser for me, perhaps a fun-run in my name. I was so touched by that idea that I was brought to tears. That she would devise such a plan on my behalf was almost overwhelming. I had created numerous running events in my past so I knew what kind of work it would take to do this. My sister reminded me that there were lots of people that were thinking about me, worried about me and wanting to do something for me. This was just her daughter’s way of showing how much she cared for and loved me as her uncle. I hadn’t known the depth of her feelings…

Which birthed an idea for me…

The fund-raising idea began to envelope me much like a cloak wraps in winter time, providing security and protection. I became involved in day-dreams of how my idea would unfold and I saw details that surprised and pleased me. For instance, I saw my models sitting on either side of me, as we signed the art we had jointly produced—for customers. I saw my daughter Missy working the financials—the money—and enjoying her contribution. Several of my friends were there handling the various aspects of the event like entertainment, souvenir supplies, ticket sales…

In the dream, I was calm though a little tired, having coached others to their best performances in this event. I was pleased at the money we had raised so far and we were only one day into the three-day affair. But, I express myself in the light of anticipated results and I should speak on the idea itself.

I want my art to be the basis of this fundraiser. I want to sell it en masse at a three-day, weekend event in all sorts of formats: posters, framed posters, sheets, tablecloths, mouse pads, woven tapestries, shirts, dresses, table place mats, blankets, towels, clear acrylic paper weights. The money raised from the sales would be destined for three avenues:

1. Generate an income for myself that would result in enough to provide a lifestyle that includes a hammock, a white terry cloth bath robe and somebody to serve me breakfast while I lounged in both;
2. Make enough money to pay my models as I have agreed—10% of all sales is theirs to keep; and
3. Create a foundation, a charity that would support prostate cancer victims who want to creatively and artistically express themselves.

Although all three of these paths are vital for this to make sense, it is the last of these--the foundation--I believe would tug at the heart strings of people who might support the entire concept. Yet, it makes no sense to me to avoid the first two as on the one hand I would have to live off the government for the rest of my life and on the other, my word could not be trusted. I do want to live as though I am enjoying life and I think creatively expressing me is the most enjoyable way I can think of. If that expression also results in the lifestyle I seek then I live a purer life: translating my thoughts into things and money.

There are a lot of things I do not know about this project. Were I to list them all that attempt would fail as it would be incomplete even in the final rendition. There are, however a few things that are “top of mind:”

• Who could oversee this?
• Who could market this idea to the public and how?
• How would it be financed?
• Where would it be held for maximum access ease?
• When?
• Who could organize it?
• What items would be offered?
• How could the internet be involved?
• Could big names be involved—Hollywood, erotic industry, etc?
• How would my models get to the event?
• Has this ever been done before for a living benefactor?
• What legal stumbling blocks await and who, how to overcome?
• What is a target sales level?
• How often and where would the event be held?

So far as I can tell, no one is doing this in our community for prostate cancer (PC) sufferers. I few years ago, I approached the American Diabetes Association with a similar idea and got nowhere. Would I need the cancer community’s support to make this happen? Would my subject matter—nudes—be a hindrance or a help? My belief is “sex sells everything” so that my theme is most suitable for selling items such as those listed earlier. As I read in a recent book about PC, not enough awareness is paid to those that suffer from this malady, a most dangerous and deadly illness for men. Even in it’s mildest form, PC is damaging to the sex lives of millions of men around the world. Why not stage a PC fund-raiser which, at its heart, is about sex? Coupled with the fund-raiser could be an extensive education seminar for PC with world-renowned speakers and authorities attending. What better way to raise the issue of PC than to associate it with a sales event that reflects the desire of most men to continue sexual adventures in spite of the illness?

“Nothing is more powerful than an idea whose time has come,” it’s been said. I think the confluence of “sex sells” and promoting PC awareness toward a cure is such an idea.

Let’s see how this sells back home…