AUGUST 1
“I’m sorry. They found cancer,” said the voice on the other end of the phone.
Um … probably not as sorry as I am.
The pathology report had come back from a small cyst that my doctor had removed from my neck four days earlier, near my carotid artery.  T An MRI had noti shown any sign of cancer (of course I had asked) so I thought I was having an annoying little cyst removed and that would be the end of that. Hi
Turns out it was just the beginning …
The cancer I have is called squamous cell carcinoma and it’s caused by HPV, the human papilloma virus. I’d done a lot of stories over the course of my news career about HPV and I know that it leads to cervical cancer in women. I knew that it was certainly found in men, too, and that there has been a push in more recent years to get boys vaccinated as well as girls. You might remember that Michael Douglas made headlines when he famously said he’d gotten the form of cancer I have from performing oral sex on women. I assure you Mr. Douglas and I did not get it the same way.
Right away, I was referred to an oncologist. Three days later, I’m sitting in that oncologist’s office. The words are still weird to say. I have an oncologist. I have an oncologist because I have cancer. I took my friend, Zeb, with me to the first appointment. It was suggested to take someone with me in case I didn’t hear everything being thrown at me. I’m glad I did. After looking at my charts and tests, I hear the oncologist say that the likely course of treatment will be six weeks of radiation with a weekly dose of chemotherapy. Zeb grabs my arm.
Three days after that, I’m meeting with a radiation oncologist. I now have an oncologist and a radiation oncologist because I have cancer.  He goes over the course of treatment and tells me what to expect: I’ll wear a mask that’s fitted just for me so that no radiation gets anywhere we don’t want it to get. The whole process, he says, will take less time than it takes for me to park my car and walk into the Cancer Center. And I have to go to the Cancer Center because I have cancer. The radiation will be focused on my neck. There will be side effects. Toward the end of the treatment, I’m told it will be hard to swallow. They are very concerned about my nutrition and my weight (anyone who knows me knows I’ve been concerned about my weight my entire life. My parents had to shop in the Husky department at Mervyns when I was kid.) I have to keep eating or drinking protein smoothies or they will discuss inserting a feeding tube into my stomach. Uh, no thanks. I resolve to keep my weight up. Both the oncologist and the radiation oncologist say that this treatment will “not be a piece of cake” but assure me I’ll get through it and that there will be a more than 90% chance of curing this cancer. That’s a pretty high percentage.
Between that appointment and the time I have my first treatment, I have another surgery. My ENT wants to take biopsies of the back of my tongue to see if he can find the origin of the cancer. It was not the cyst itself. Turns out, that surgery did the trick. A few days later – as I was heading to the John Wayne Cancer Center in Santa Monica for a second opinion about what had been found and my course of treatment – my doctor called to say that he had, indeed, found the origin – the right base of my tongue. That was a good thing, he said, because now the radiation could be concentrated on both the areas where the cyst was found and the base of my tongue.
The next step was to get fitted for that mask that I would wear during the radiation treatments. The mask is designed to protect everything that I’m shouldn’t be radiated (protect the face, please). It’s made with a warm mold that they press against your face and when it hardens, it just slips over your head and is snapped onto the gurney. Think of it like Jason’s mask from Friday the 13th, only more mesh-like. After that fitting, my radiation oncologist does literally a 360-degree mapping of the field of radiation. It’s a science. The doctor who gave me the second opinion said the notes written by my radiation oncologist were incredibly thorough. “That’s the guy you want doing this,” he said. And my oncologist said there are two people in the city he would trust his family with if they had to have radiation and my guy was one of them. OK, we’re good.   It was determined that my first radiation treatment would be Wednesday, September 6th, which meant I had ten days to think … and think … about what I was about to undertake. I walk out of that mask fitting and realize that I still have the dots from the pen marks on my neck that were drawn where the radiation will focus. It’s my Facebook profile picture now. If you look closely, you can see the black marks visible through my beard.
Because of the surgeries, I’d been wary to go to boot camp.  The doctors said I could go, but I didn’t want someone accidentally hitting me in the neck with a kettle bell. Now, in the three years I’ve been going to The Phoenix Effect, no one had ever hit me in the neck or anywhere else with a kettle bell and I had never seen anyone hit with a kettle bell so I know that was never going to happen.  But, fear is irrational.  I’d been hitting boot camp four or five times a week since my job ended in May and had gotten into even what I thought was pretty decent shape.   The doctors who saw me all commented about my physical fitness and my (relatively) young age and how those were going to be a huge asset in the battle I was about to undertake. Of course, as a single gay man living in West Hollywood, I was just pissed that I was going to have to take a break from the momentum I’d been gathering. The doctors had all assured me that the chemotherapy dose I was going to receive was so low that I wouldn’t lose my hair. But one day while he was going over some of the side effects from the radiation, the radiation oncologist said to me, “oh, there is one more thing.”
            Jesus, I thought. What now? What more could he possibly lay on me?
            “So the hair at the bottom of your neck might not grow back because of the radiation. It might. But it might not,” he said, very seriously.
            “OK,” I said, a little perplexed.
            “Well, you told me you didn’t want to lose your beard if you could avoid it,” he’d said.
            “Um, if you’re saving my life, I can live without a beard.”
In the time I have to think before the first treatment, I think. Will my body ever be the same again? Will I ever get the feeling back in the right side of my neck, which I haven’t had since the first surgery?   It makes shaving interesting. I use my beard trimmer to shave the hair as close as possible but there’s a scar from the surgery, which I tell people I got in a bar fight. Why doesn’t anyone believe me? And then, it’s time for the first treatment.
I’m assigned to 3:45pm every weekday. I check in at the desk at the Samuel Oschin Cancer Center at Cedars-Sinai Hospital and I’m handed a beeper, like the ones you get at restaurants when you’re waiting for a table. Soon, my beeper goes off. My table is ready.
I walk back to the radiation room, sit in the chair outside and wait my turn. The two light-up signs above the door read X-RAY ON and BEAM ON. I take it you don’t want to be in there when those signs are illuminated.   The door opens and I hear my name called. I walk in and make quick introductions with the radiation techs. These people run patients through like an assembly line. I realize at once it’s their job to make every person who comes in as comfortable as possible to get through what they’re going to go through. I lay down on my back on the table, which looks a little more like a gurney with a backboard. My head fits in a plastic headrest. I reach down. It turns out there are two notches in the table right at the level of my index fingers. I decide that every day, my index fingers will grab those notches. Tape is put over my scar and I know that area will get a little more radiation attention. Then it comes time for the mask to fit over my face. I won’t lie. It was tight-fitting and claustrophobic and really scary at first. I feel it being snapped onto the table so my head doesn’t move during the treatment. And to make extra sure that doesn’t happen, a band is put over my body and hands to keep them from moving. I imagine it’s a tad like being in a more comfortable straitjacket.
            “OK, Boss. We’re going to step out. The lights will go out. You’ll hear some noises and see the machines flying overhead. There might be a minute or two where you don’t hear anything. You’re not done. We’ll come in and get you. Here we go.”  They leave the room. The machines start whirring and flying around me and I hear sounds that I’m sure are laser beams and those beams are pointed right at my neck and they are designed to kill cancer. And I’m here having this treatment today because I have cancer. And in about 12 minutes, it’s over. The technicians come in, snap off the mask, and I’m done.
            “See you tomorrow,” they say as I walk out.
DAYS 1 AND 2 go by uneventfully. On DAY 3, my appointment is in the morning so that I can go to Indian Wells for the weekend for some relaxation with friends. Having had radiation, the doctor tells me I should avoid direct sunlight, probably for the rest of my life, which is a big problem for me because I love being outside. I’ll have to wear a lot of hats. I’m grateful that it’s uncharacteristically overcast in the desert that weekend so that I can swim and go night swimming. At the event that I’m attending, Friday night is Karaoke Night. I sign up and am called up first. I’ve chosen Michael Buble’s version of “Feeling Good” as my song. The audience has no idea why I’m pouring every bit of my heart and soul into this song, these words. I am determined to keep feeling good. I just am.
Monday is DAY 4 of radiation. This is the day I’m given the literature about the possible side effects and the road I’m about to undertake. Jesus. Mouth rinse. A mouthwash that numbs. Burn cream for my neck. This does not sound fun. I meet with my doctor, as I will every Monday through my treatment. He asks if I want to see my radiation plan on the computer. Being a journalist, I want as much information as possible but honestly, the literature about the possible side effects is a tad overwhelming and he can see that. I know that it affects each person differently but it’s still a bit much and I decide to wait until next week.
DAY 5. Tuesday. One week down of what will now be 7 weeks of radiation. My doctor tells me that since we found the origin, we will do 30 radiation treatments on the general neck area and 5 final treatments concentrated solely on the right base of my tongue. I’ve told the doctor that I’m a singer, so he has created a little line in my radiation mask so that my vocal cords will be minimally affected, if at all.  The line literally goes down the center of my neck and stays white during the course of the treatment when my neck gets red.  The same lady is waiting to go in every day as I come out of the radiation room (I’m 3:45, she’s 4pm). Today, I stop and say hello. Her name is Sue. She’s an older lady, probably in her early 70s. She has a thin face and brown hair. She’s comforting. And – she bears a striking resemblance to my mother. There are no accidents.
Tuesdays are also now what I call Double Treatment Tuesdays because they are the day I will also have my weekly dose of chemotherapy. This week, the only time available for an appointment was at 8pm, which I knew meant I wouldn’t be getting out until after midnight. I try to go home and lay down for a bit after the radiation treatment, but my mind is racing and I can feel myself getting anxious. I know the chemotherapy will be administered through an IV. I hate IVs. Hate them. I don’t know many people who like them but I have a really visceral reaction to them. I know this is going to be one of the toughest parts of the entire thing. I go back to the Cancer Center and check in at the Infusion Center. I guess Infusion Center sounds better than Chemo Central. Friends will come by later but I get started by myself. Because of the hour, I get a room instead of a chair. I’m grateful for that. My nurse comes in. First, they have to draw blood for labs to make sure my body is up for the treatment. Then, she tells me it will be an hour of hydration (saline), followed by a steroid and an anti-nausea med administered together, then it’s an hour of the chemotherapy (Cysplatin) and finally, one more hour of hydration. I’m exhausted already.
She puts in the IV (my sphincter is tightening even as I write these words … sorry to be so graphic, but it’s true), draws blood and then send it off to the lab. Zeb comes as this process is being done. I’m still sitting up in the same position, afraid to move because of the IV in my arm. Eventually, I lay down and my friend, Scott, joins us. We joke and take pictures as I get through the hydration and the anti-nausea medication and the steroid. Zeb takes off and Scott and I are both surprised when the nurse puts on a plastic surgical gown to put the chemo drug into the IV. Must be potent. Scott leaves after the chemo is done and I just have the hydration left. At some point, I have to go to the bathroom. I roll my IV to the bathroom just outside the infusion unit, shut the door and see a sign over the toilet that asks chemotherapy patients to flush twice. Wonder why that is? Then, it hits me. My pee is radioactive. Suddenly –and because I’m really still a 12-year-old boy – that is the coolest thing ever. I walk out of Cedars-Sinai at 12:01 Wednesday morning. I am, literally, the last patient in the unit. And that’s when another thought occurs to me.
Illnesses are lonely. Diseases are lonely. It doesn’t matter how many people you’ve got in your corner, cheering you up, making sure you know they are there. This shit is lonely. You’re the only one going through it. You’re the one lying on the table. You’re the one with the IV in your arm, wondering about the poisonous toxin being put directly into your bloodstream. To that point, it hadn’t really occurred to me because so many incredible friends had offered anything and everything they can do. But this is my fight. Steve v. Cancer. I’m counting on the knockout.
DAY 6 – Because I got home so late, I can’t go into work. I rest as long as I can, but my mind and body are restless. Radiation at 3:45pm.
DAY 7 – I notice my face is really red. I go to work and when I go to my radiation treatment that afternoon, I ask the nurse if she knows why. She says I should go ask the infusion nurses. They tell me it’s the steroid. Makes sense. When I go for my radiation treatment, the technician asks me how I’m feeling from the chemo. So far, it hasn’t hit me yet, I say.
            “Three days,” the technician says.
            “Huh?”
            “It’s the third day. Everybody says it’s the third day after chemo that it hits.”
And that is exactly what happened.
DAY 8 – Three days after chemotherapy.   This was the day I met with my nutritionist. I have a nutritionist because I have cancer. She tells me I need to eat up to 100g of protein a day, if I can. It’s like bulking season. They want me to keep my weight up or at least maintain it throughout the treatment plan. She gives me ideas for food and then, what will likely eventually be a liquid protein diet. There will be a lot of smoothies and Muscle Milk and Ensure in my future. Also, hydration, hydration, hydration – water, G2 Gatorade, coconut milk. I begin to make my shopping list.
I have a dinner tonight with close friends, long arranged. I’m determined to make it. Plans begin at 7p. My stomach starts to have other plans about 6p. We meet up at 7pm and sure enough, I head straight for the bathroom. Cookies tossed.   We are on our way to dinner and the nutritionist told me to eat protein, so I order beans at the restaurant. I eat beans and tortillas and I drink ginger ale. That should hold me. I head back to my car and begin the very short drive home. As I turn down Santa Monica Boulevard heading west, I realize I’m not going to make it. I decide to turn down the first street possible. I get green lights. I reach Flores Avenue. People are crossing the street. I can’t wait. I reach Kings Road. More people crossing the street. I can’t wait. The next street is Olive. No one crossing. I turn down Olive and on the sidewalk on the right side of the street, I see my salvation – a huge electrical transformer box thing. I pull over, put the car in park, run around the front of the car – and toss my cookies as much behind the transformer as I possibly can. My shoes and the bottom of my pants take a bit of the brunt. There’s a couple across the street waiting for a ride.
            “Yo, bro, are you OK,” the girl yells.
            “Yeah,” I yell back, wiping my mouth. “I had chemotherapy this week.”
            “Whoa, dude. So sorry,” she responds.
Again … probably not as sorry as I am.
My sincere apologies to anyone who had to walk down Olive Ave. that evening or the next day and to the city of West Hollywood for making a mess of one of its sidewalks. I’m sure it’s a regular sight on weekends but I hate contributing to the problem.
I made it through the night to Saturday and I considered that a win. I have a feeling I’m going to view getting through days like this as wins in the future. And on Sunday, I’m grateful that I feel pretty normal again. I even go to a birthday party that afternoon.
DAY 9 – Everything has changed. I don’t mean to sound dramatic but the first thing I think when I wake up now is, “I have cancer.” My neck helps remind me. It’s starting to feel tighter and starting to get a little redder. My mouth is getting dry and it’s hard to keep it wet, which makes it more difficult to speak every day. Since it’s Monday, I see my radiation oncologist after radiation treatment. He assures me that everything is progressing as expected.   I tell him about the nausea and getting sick on Friday night. He’s horrified that I didn’t have anti-nausea medications at home with me and writes a prescription immediately.
DAY 10 –Double Treatment Tuesday (DTT). I have radiation treatment at 3:45 and then hang out for my chemotherapy treatment at 5pm. It makes for a long day. And today, I’m tired and it’s making me emotional. I have battled tears back more than a few times and I decide that when I get home tonight, I might just let them fly. At the chemotherapy treatment, the IV goes in my left hand. I hate it. Again. Have I mentioned how much I hate IVs? My nurse today shares the name of a certain female Disney warrior. Mulan. It’s spelled differently but somehow it makes me feel better. And she does tonight what I thought would not be possible. She’s got me talking, laughing and smiling. She calls me ‘Dear’ and ‘Buddy’ and when I start to order Jello to eat during the treatment, she looks at me and says, “you’re not THAT old”.   Immediately, Mulan is my BFF for the night. Zeb comes again to keep me company. We laugh and joke and take pictures. And I admit something to him for the first time.
I’m scared. I’m scared that this will kill me. I know we caught it early and I know that the percentages are high that this will be completely cured. But, it’s scary. And I know I’ll have to get checked for cancer the rest of my life. I was hoping that wouldn’t be part of my future, but it will be. Also, I’m very well aware that millions of people likely go through this exact thought process, unfortunately. And something else occurs to me. I’m caring for myself. That’s hard enough. I truly can’t imagine being a parent – especially a single parent – who has to take care of children or feed and clothe a family or is the caregiver to their own parent through this treatment. I know people do it. I am in awe of them.
DAY 11 AND DAY 12 – pretty uneventful. I have now the anti-nausea medications to make sure there’s not a repeat of last Friday night. I start taking them pre-emptively on Thursday just in case and I’m happy that they seem to work. But I decide that I will not plan to do anything on Friday nights for the next few weeks so I don’t have a repeat of what happened behind that transformer on Olive Ave.
DAY 13 – Friday – I’m tired at the end of a long week. I can tell the treatments are starting to take a toll on my body. It turns out that this is the last treatment day for both Sue, the woman who has the appointment after me, and another man who has been there every day that I’ve been there. They’re finished. I find myself really happy for them both. When I shake Sue’s hand and say congratulations and good luck, tears start to well in my eyes. I’ll miss her. She’s been a calming influence every day.
Then about an hour later – after treatment – a text that I didn’t expect sets me off. It’s from Cedars letting me know that I have an appointment for the following Tuesday with a Speech and Swallow Therapist. Again, Jesus. I’m going to need a Speech and Swallow therapist? That doesn’t sound good – or fun. And I get this text while I am at the pharmacy waiting on the mouthwashes that will help ease the pain of my sore throat. It feels like a lot. It’s a lot.
My friends keep me distracted through the weekend again. The highlight is a 4 –mile hike at Runyon Canyon on Sunday followed by Shake Shack afterwards. Because I can. Unfortunately, pretty much the only thing I can really taste now is a vanilla shake. I’m grateful that I can still taste vanilla.
DAY 14 – MONDAY – I notice myself getting short with people. When they don’t understand what I’m trying to explain, I slow down and enunciate when I repeat it. I’m sure part of it is just the fatigue of it all.  A later conversation with a co-worker confirms this.  Oops.
DAY 15 – DOUBLE TREATMENT TUESDAY
Things are changing again. My throat is on fire much of the day. I have two different kinds of mouthwash to help numb and soothe my throat. One is commonly called Magic Mouthwash. For the love of God, I hope it really is magic. And I notice the hair on my neck really is gone. I hope the beard grows back. And my neck is noticeably red. I have a cream to put on it to help reduce the swelling and severity of the burn. Right now, it just looks like a really bad sunburn but I’m going to make sure I keep applying the cream. I craved pizza today. I ate it. Might not have been the best thing for my throat or my stomach but I was like, fuck it. I need to eat something I want.
I head to Cedars at 345 for the radiation treatment and then have an appointment before chemo with a clinical social worker.   I’m not surprised and I’m grateful that I have a team of people to help me get through this. I know other people going through this aren’t so lucky. This should really be a part of every patient’s care. It’s psychological and emotional. We discuss my support system (huge) and how I’ve been treated and how I’m handling things so far. I tell her I have my own therapist (who I will see more regularly now) and that my friends are the best. And I tell her about the text on I got on Friday that came out of the blue – that I will need a speech and swallow therapist. I wasn’t expecting it. I didn’t know it was coming. It threw me. She got it.
I head to Chemo at 5p. Again with the IV and it’s truly mind over matter. I can’t look and I have the nurse wrap tape around it so I can’t see it again. My blood pressure is always a little high when I start the chemo – anxiety – and always goes down at the end of the treatment. I hit the scale and weigh 176. I’ve gained weight, which they all see as a good thing. My bestie, Dale, comes and stays the entire time. In the 11 years I’ve known him, he has been right by my side and carried me through everything.   And … I’m starving. He brings me a Muscle Up smoothie (with extra protein) from Earthbar. My favorite. Got to get my protein. Then my nurse comes in and we get on the subject of the taco place by 7-11 on Santa Monica Blvd. Dale pops out of his chair and is on a mission to get burritos – beans and rice for me so I can get some more protein and some carbs. Zeb comes – again – while Dale is out getting food. When Dale comes back, we laugh and take pictures. And then, it’s over. Tonight’s seemed quicker. I get a craving for Ding Dongs on the way home –the cravings really do hit me at weird times. But then it turns out I can’t taste them. Bummer. So far, I can taste vanilla, key lime and bubble gum flavors.
DAY 16
I stay home and rest today. My body is hot and I’m sure it’s because of the steroid use again during the chemo. Bowel movements are a luxury. I don’t mean to be graphic but they are. I swear I’ll never take one for granted again.
DAYS 17 & 18
These are fairly regular days. I see my oncologist for the first time since he told me about the aggressive course of treatment I will endure. He tells me that everything is on schedule and reminds me that this is one of the toughest types of treatment but it’s also among the shortest durations. It’s 7 weeks, not 7 months. And he says something I hold on to. “You’re gonna be just fine.” I don’t know if he was just saying that but I hear it and I keep it. And I am very aware that tomorrow, Day 18, puts me over the halfway mark for radiation treatments. One day at a time.
DAY 18
I’m over the hump, so to speak.
Saturday – For the first time in two weeks, I get sick. I have been taking the anti-nausea medication and it holds it at bay until Saturday morning this time. Maybe I didn’t take it throughout Friday night? I can’t remember.   Anyway, Saturday was not a great day. I sacked out on my couch all day. Never left the house.
Sunday – I still don’t feel great but I feel well enough to have brunch with friends I have known for 32 years. They always know how to lift my spirits. Today was no exception. In the afternoon, another 4-mile Runyon hike with Eddie and Zeb. I am noticeably slower today and look forward to the day when I can run up the road again. My Sunday night binge-watching is Season 2 of the Leah Remini Scientology series. God, it’s good.
DAY 19 – OCTOBER 2
I wake up to the horrible news that dozens of my fellow Americans have been killed and an astonishing number hurt and wounded in what – as of now – is the worst mass shooting in this country’s history. I know I’m in a fight but I can’t imagine the horror of what those poor people went through.
My appetite has finally begun to return after a weekend of not. I pack my morning smoothie full of protein and have some egg whites. Lunch is salmon with lemon (because I can taste the lemon) and spinach with garlic flakes (because I can taste the garlic flakes). I’m going to get my protein today.
My radiation treatment is at 345pm and since it’s Monday, I meet with my radiation oncologist afterwards for a check-in. I step on the scale and have lost 5 pounds since last week. That’s not good. In fairness, after the diagnosis, I gained a few pounds. But my appetite had certainly been missing over the weekend. During our discussion, he’s hammering hard my nutrition and the need to stay hydrated. He’s also very concerned about me getting ahead of the pain that might be coming down the pike. Well, that doesn’t sound good. I’ve made it through 4 weeks but the final three are going to be the hardest, he says, and he wants to make sure I keep eating and that the pain doesn’t interfere with that. I have the mouthwash but also a prescription for a painkiller. Because I didn’t get out in front of the nausea this past week, he wants to make sure I get ahead of anything that might prevent me from eating and drinking. If I didn’t get it before, I get it. I need to keep eating and drinking. And, he says, I’m right on schedule. That’s a good thing.
I’ve found that I can’t really shop ahead for food because I don’t know what I’m going to be able to taste (which is virtually nothing these days) or crave. I have cravings. Tonight, my craving is the yams at Fresh Corn Grill in West Hollywood. Yams are full of protein but Fresh Corn Grill puts a little brown sugar on them and they are the bomb. And they’re soft and go down easy. I need protein but I also need calories. My entrée that night is turkey meatloaf for pretty much the same reason – it’s full of protein but it’s soft and I can swallow it fairly easily.
DAY 20 – DOUBLE TREATMENT TUESDAY
The treatment days now begin with a 2 instead of a 1 and there is little doubt that my body is starting to feel the effects. Whereas until now, I’d been having some really good days in between the days I felt not so great, the past few days I’ve definitely felt the malaise. I keep hearing my radiation oncologist say that I need to eat, I need to get protein, I need to get nutrition. So, I power on. Breakfast is eggs with cheese and a protein smoothie from Earth Bar (with extra protein). Lunch is a 26g of protein Muscle Milk shake. And then it’s time for radiation.
Back in August, three days after the diagnosis (which my friend, Eddie, calls my Cancer-versary), I went to see The Curious Incident of the Dog in The Night-Time at the Ahmanson Theater downtown with my great friend, Gary. My Uber driver that night was a woman named Chezere. She was beautiful with short buzzed hair, a British accent because she grew up on an island in the Caribbean and a spirit that was full of life and positive energy. Very Cynthia Erivo. We had a fantastic conversation on the 40-minute drive on the way downtown and she made me forget the diagnosis I’d gotten three days earlier.
Fast forward to this Tuesday. I always feel a little bit of anxiety all day Tuesdays because I know what my body is going to endure. I take an Uber to Cedars because I have a long night ahead with both radiation and chemo. And my Uber driver today? Yup. Chezere.   We re-acquaint ourselves (you sing with the Gay Men’s Choir!) and begin the drive.
            “You’re headed to Cedars. Is everything OK?” she asks.
            “Ah, I’m being treated for cancer.”
            She reaches her right hand back between the seats and I take it in mine. She looks at me in the rear-view mirror.
            “You’re going to beat this. I know it. You’re strong.”
            “I know I will.” And somehow, because she has said it, I believe it a little more.
We get to Cedars in 5 minutes. On most days, I’m grateful that my commute to Cedars is so short but on this day, I would have loved for it to be a little longer.
I get on the radiation table and close my eyes as they put the mask over my head for the 20th time.  Every day, I say a little prayer. I hear the machines whirring around my head. I have memorized the sounds, the sequence. I know what machine is coming next and what machine is last. Even though I can see everything, I don’t want to know what it’s doing to my poor neck.
Then it’s time for chemotherapy. For the first few hours, my ‘chemo companion’, as he calls it, is my great friend and former roommate, Shawn. And my nurse tonight is an awesome woman named Angie. Again, I am grateful for the team of people who are treating me and for the village of people who come to keep me company. The IV goes in again. I don’t look. (Have I mentioned how much I hate IVs?) and off we go. Shawn and I catch up and then he has to take off. I’ve ordered some food and found another that I can eat – chicken broth with noodles. It’s soothing and hydrating and I can still taste the chicken. Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune keep me company and then Zeb and Eddie arrive at the exact same time. Zeb is helping document the whole journey, which I have decided to put on an Instagram account. We are out by 9pm. Every week is a bit easier than the previous. When I get home, I take one of the mouthwashes that helps with the sore throat. It helps. I fall asleep watching This Is Us. God, I love that show. It’s comfort food with a good cry. I even love Mandy Moore’s odd wig that’s supposed to make us believe she’s her 60s (we could all hope to look that good in our 60s). Plus, Sterling K. Brown, Chrissy Metz, Justin Hartley and Susan Kelechi-Watson were all on Hollywood Today LIVE and they were as fun and lovely in person and they are in the show.
DAY 21 – WEDNESDAY
I get about 7 hours of sleep, which is a luxury like a bowel movement these days. And the general malaise is still there. I can tell there’s something going on in my body. I think we all can. I try to muster the energy to make a protein smoothie. I know I need to eat but my appetite is not playing along.   The past few weeks, I’d actually been feeling pretty good the day after chemotherapy. The steroid had kicked in. Today was not that day. I forced myself to make the protein smoothie, most of which I didn’t end up drinking. That happens a lot, too. I get hungry for something and then can’t finish it.   For lunch, I try some salmon, mashed potatoes and yams again at Fresh Corn Grill. I hate that I almost have to wait from meal to meal to know what I’m going to want to eat because that’s going to get expensive real fast. I get most of my lunch down but again, the taste.
I go to radiation at 345p. I check in and get my beeper. Five minutes later, it goes off. My table is ready. I go in, lie down and assume the position in the plastic headrest. During the treatment, I close my eyes again, listen to the machines … and think. The final laser machine ends pretty close to my face. It has a glass panel so that when I open my eyes, I can see myself like a mirror. Every day, in those few seconds when I see my reflection, the same few questions race through my mind:
Is it over?
How’s my neck?
What’s my hair look like?
Why me?
DAY 22 – THURSDAY
I get my horoscope e-mailed to me every morning. Today, the first line is – I shit you not – “You may be asking, “Why Me?” in almost every realm of your life today.” It was actually concerning the fact that everyone else might look like they have everything they want but my standards are high and this is fine. And then the line, “You’ve picked the largest mountain to climb.” Um, yep. Maybe not Everest but certainly a bit Kilimanjaro.
My departure from my job last Friday has made a website that gives you “inside news and gossip” from newsrooms around the country. Someone I have worked with has tipped them off that I’ve left. Not how I would’ve liked the news to get out. Anyway, I did leave because of health issues. I need to devote myself to my health full-time. I’ll get back to work when I’m ready.
Today is the day I meet with my Speech and Swallow Therapist, that text that threw me the week prior. I feel like they should change her title but that’s really what it is. She gives me some exercises to make sure that my jaw and neck stay loose. And then she gives me some pears in a cup and watches me swallow and she tests my ability to swallow, which at this point is mostly encumbered by a bit of a sore throat. The foods that I eat are fairly soft. And today, my mouth is really, really dry from the radiation so I’m constantly drinking water. I make a promise to do the exercises and we will meet again next week.
The appetite hasn’t quite returned. I stuff down leftover salmon and a yam from yesterday’s lunch but add some macaroni and cheese, which I love and it’s easy to eat and I will definitely be adding that to the rotation. Radiation at 345pm is uneventful today. I grab a vanilla shake at Shake Shack after to try to get some calories. I have plans to go to a screening of “The Mountain Between Us” tonight at The Grove with my great friend, Athenia. My body holds out. I even eat some popcorn (but I have to put a ton of butter on it so it slides down my throat) and drink a Diet Coke (because you have to in a movie) even though I can’t taste them at all. The movie turns out to be much better than I thought it was going to be, powered by the charismatic, compelling performances of Idris Elba and Kate Winslet.
DAY 23 – FRIDAY
I’m waking up about 4:30am every morning these days. That’s when I sit and write about the previous day while it’s still fresh in my mind. I still drink my coffee (even though I can’t really taste it) and sit outside on my balcony to watch the sun rise over downtown Los Angeles. And every morning, I’m grateful that I’m still here to see that sun rise. I don’t mean that to sound dramatic but I’m very aware every day that I’m still here.
Today is a good day physically but about midday, I start feeling it. Maybe because it’s 85 degrees on this beautiful October Friday and if things were different, I’d likely be throwing on a tank top and shorts, throwing my inhaler and ear buds in my pocket and heading to Runyon Canyon to run. But things are different. I have to go to the Samuel Oschin Cancer Center at Cedars-Sinai. Because I have cancer. And for the first time in a long time, I’m pissed. I’m pissed that I have cancer. I’m pissed that on this beautiful day with perfect Holzerville weather, I can’t go to Runyon. And I can’t go to Runyon because I have a radiation appointment at 1:15pm. And I have a radiation appointment because I have cancer. But as I walk into the Cancer Center, I pass people in wheelchairs and women wearing scarves because they’ve lost their hair. And suddenly, the pissed is gone. These people are experiencing far worse than I am. I can walk. I still have my hair. And while I’ve had days where I feel like I couldn’t get off the couch, I’ve been able to function. Gratitude takes over the pissed.
I lie back on the table and as the radiation burns into my neck, I count the calendar days I have remaining. Two more Monday-Fridays and then a Monday-Tuesday. In my mind, I put X marks over each day on a calendar. The final week will include my birthday. I’d planned to spend the night of my birthday watching Britney Spears perform in Las Vegas. That won’t be happening now.
It’s Friday so I meet with my nutritionist. I tell her that although I maintained my weight, my appetite was gone for a lot of the week. She gives me a pep talk about the protein and gives me a list of foods that I might want to eat in the next few weeks. She asks about my bowel movements, which have been fairly non-existent.
And she reiterates how much my overall fitness going into this whole thing has been a huge asset in the fight. I am again grateful beyond measure for The Phoenix Effect and my classes and my family there and I make a promise to myself as I walk out of the Cancer Center that my fitness has to be a priority for the rest of my life. I don’t know if or when I might have to fight this thing again but if I do, I want to be ready.
Turns out I’m starving. I tell the nutritionist that I think I’m going to have the turkey meatloaf at Fresh Corn Grill for lunch because that sounds good then but when I get there, I order a Fresh Corn bowl with chicken. I know it comes with sauces and I know that there’s rice, so I get chicken, some vegetables and some wet rice for lunch. I can’t actually taste much of it, but I feel good about the fact that I’m getting some protein and real food and that I’m hungry for it.
But this little outing has taken it out of me. I’m tired. I go home and spend the rest of Friday watching TV, dozing in and out and cheering on the Dodgers in Game 1 of the NLDS. Yes, I like baseball.
SATURDAY – I have no plans today but to rest because I’m trying to save my energy to go to an event tonight – The Point Foundation annual gala. I’m not sure I’m going to feel like putting on a suit and spending time socializing but Eddie and Zeb and I are going together and I know that if I need to leave at any time, we can. They’ll take care of me.
But as the day goes on, it becomes pretty obvious that I’m not going to make it. I’m not nauseous but I can almost feel the chemo seeping through my system. It kind of overtakes me and there’s not much I can do about it but lay down. I don’t feel like going to an event but I also don’t feel like being alone so my friends Shawn and Will come over with dinner. I had a craving for cold noodles with peanut sauce from Kung Pao Bistro (I told you, you have no idea what the cravings are going to be and when they’re going to hit) so I order and they pick up dinner and bring it over. But when they get here, we discover I’ve ordered the wrong noodle dish. Let me tell you, there’s no worse feeling in the world than thinking you’re about to dive into a dish that you’ve been craving because there aren’t many foods you can eat only to find out it’s not the food you were craving. OK, pregnant women can probably identify. It was actually the second time that day that something I’d been craving wasn’t available. But the Dodgers won again and are up 2-0 in the series so that’s a good thing.
SUNDAY – I spend my Sunday mornings with the great Jane Pauley on CBS Sunday Morning. This Sunday is no different. And I think about the fact that I’m going to let the world know today what’s been going on with me for the past few months. Why? Why tell people? One reason is that before my doctor told me I had something called squamous cell carcinoma caused by HPV, I wasn’t really aware that I could get a cancer caused by HPV. I had never paid attention to the fact that I could get cancer in my neck (WTF?) And now, invariably, every time I tell someone that I have a cancer in my neck caused by HPV, someone says that they know someone else who just got the same diagnosis. I don’t know if doctors are becoming more aware of it or if it’s becoming more prevalent. But I didn’t know and I think it’s important to know. And look, for the rest of my life I will have a pre-existing condition and I will do everything in my power to fight for health insurance for people with pre-existing conditions. It’s horribly unfair to jack up people’s premiums or worse, deny them coverage, for something beyond their control.
SUNDAY AFTERNOON – My phone and Facebook are blowing up with messages of love and support. I’m so grateful. Obviously, there were a lot of people in my world who didn’t know what was going on and the battle I’ve been in for a few months (and if you found out from reading the blog, my apologies). But an overwhelming number of people have written with their thanks for going public. I wrote earlier that diseases and illnesses are lonely, that you and you alone are going through it and your friends and family can’t really understand what it’s like unless they’ve gone through it. But diseases and illnesses are also very personal and a lot of people still choose to keep them private. I totally understand that. My Mom battled lung cancer when I was in college and I’m pretty sure that very few people outside my family knew. But my reason for doing this is twofold: it’s selfishly cathartic. Writing about this experience helps me deal with my emotions surrounding what I’m going through – all of the emotions. But I truly hope that people will gain an awareness about HPV-related cancers. I’m told that HPV is the #1 cause of head and neck cancers. I DID NOT know this before August 1st, nor would I have had any reason to know this.
I feel pretty good on Sunday evening, good enough to get dressed up and go to the event called Best In Drag Show. My good friend and fellow GMCLA member, Joshua Skidmore, was one of the contestants and I’d bought my tickets back in July before this whole mess began and I really wanted to go. Eddie was my date and he picked me up, we headed downtown and I felt pretty decent. Once we arrived at the Orpheum Theater, I ran into dozens of people I knew, which was exhausting. We took some pictures and honestly, if I didn’t know any better, I wouldn’t know I had cancer except for the fact that the right side of my neck is really red and there’s a scar on it. People keep telling me how good I look, considering. And that … is a bit of a downside because it raises my hopes and expectations that hey, maybe it’s not that bad after all. My mind fools myself into thinking I’m better off than I really am. All during the show, every time Joshua comes on stage, I was punching my fists in the air because I couldn’t scream my approval. And when he won, I jumped up and down with my hands in the air.
As Julia Roberts said to the sales woman in that Beverly Hills boutique in “Pretty Woman”:
“Big mistake. Huge.”
Eddie can’t get me home fast enough. The evening, the talking, the jumping up and down has completely wiped me out.
MONDAY – DAY 24
And I spend this entire day wiped out. I lay on the couch pretty much all day.   I have my radiation treatment at 345pm as usual and then since it’s Monday, I meet with my radiation oncologist. He asks me how I’m doing and of course, about my appetite. Are you still eating? Are you getting your protein and calories? I tell him that my appetite is more noticeably on and off these days. Until now, there had been days when I’d have an appetite. Now it’s just from meal to meal. I’ve gone down to 168 pounds, which is exactly what I usually weigh when my body isn’t fighting cancer. My radiation oncologist tells me I won’t need a feeding tube (thank God) because I still have my appetite and I’m still eating.   And he tells me that although I’ve got a mountain to climb over the next few weeks (because the treatments are cumulative and are going to get tougher on my throat), it seems as though my mountain won’t be as high as others who go through this type of treatment.  Kilimanjaro, not Everest.  Again, that has everything to do with my fitness going into this battle. I’d spent 4-5 days a week at The Phoenix Effect doing all types of their boot camp classes so that I could build a well-rounded body. I might have been doing it because I wanted to look good at 50, but it turns out it probably saved me a lot of pain and trauma during these treatments.
“Keep doing what you’re doing,” he says and walks out.
My friend, Lisa, takes an Uber to see me for 10 minutes and brings me a piece of chocolate cheesecake from Magnolia Bakery. The cheesecake is amazing but it also makes me crave the banana pudding from Magnolia, which is truly the 8th wonder of the world. And those cravings will eventually win because those are foods I feel like I can’t live without.
I manage to eat some chicken with butternut squash for dinner, grateful that I can still eat the chicken – although I have to dip it in the squash and chew it up finely. I feel like a kid playing tricks with his food to eat.
TUESDAY – DAY 25
I sleep nearly 10 hours. My body is still wiped out. I try to rest on the couch and decide to binge watch Season 7 of one of my favorite shows, The Walking Dead, before the new season begins on October 22nd. But as I start off with episode 1, I can’t take the brutality. I’ve noticed that about other shows I’ve tried to watch. If there’s an abundance of gore or brutality, I don’t want to watch. This might come back after all this is over and I really hope it does because I think The Walking Dead is brilliant and that Andrew Lincoln and Melissa McBride have been robbed of Emmy nominations. But right now, I’m digging Jeopardy, game shows, and political intrigue like House of Cards. It’s brutal in a different way.
My radiation treatment today is normal and I go to get my blood drawn before my chemotherapy infusion. So glad we figured out I could get my labs done beforehand so I don’t have to sit and wait for them to come back real time. My greeter comes to get me and walks me to my room (I have a room again. Very happy about that.) My nurse tonight is Dustin – and he comes bearing some bad news. My labs show that my white blood count has fallen just below the acceptable level to administer the chemo. He has the chart of my blood work for the past four weeks and wow, my white blood count has dropped dramatically. I know that means that the chemo is working but I’m certainly hoping that this means it’s killing the cancer cells as well as the good white blood cells.  Dustin has to get the approval from my oncologist before he can give me the chemo. That phone call comes quickly and he gives the OK.
While all this is going on, Dale brings a vanilla shake from Shake Shack. Have I mentioned how much I love the vanilla shakes from Shake Shack and that I’m going to have as many vanilla shakes from Shake Shack as I want for as long as I want because I have cancer and I can? Yeah, that felt good.
Dustin gives me the anti-nausea meds and steroid with the hydration and then we do the chemo and final hydration at the same time and I’m out before 8pm. Zeb has come – again. He hasn’t missed one chemotherapy appointment with me – and he takes me home where I fall asleep watching This Is Us. Not because it was boring, but because I’m wiped out.
Wednesday – DAY 26
Yep, still on the couch. And I don’t have much of an appetite but that’s pretty normal the day after double treatments. I try to keep up the regimen I have been given: timely rinses of baking soda and salt to keep sores out of my mouth, 30 grams a day of L-Glutamine mixed with water or coconut water to keep my mouth healthy, brush and floss a few times every day because radiation also screws with your teeth. There’s a lot going on. I force myself to drink a Muscle Milk and I make some eggs with cheese and force that down because I know I need the nutrition. I’m not really hungry for lunch and I head to radiation at 345p.
I run into my radiation oncologist’s resident, who was in that very first session with me in August.
“How’s it going?”, he asks.
“Eh, today not so great but I’m hanging in there.”
“Well, you look good,” he says.
“So I hear,” I respond.
I haven’t lost my hair and look if I had, then all bets are off as to how much I would be going out. I’m incredibly appreciative when cancer patients let it all go proudly. I hope I would do the same and I guess because I’m writing this blog about I’m being honest about what’s going on with me, I would eventually just let it go.  One thing that is weird is my beard. The hair on my neck is gone on both sides, but the radiaton has left patches on my face and has given me these weird mutton-chop looking sideburns. Very Logan, Very Wolverine. And honestly, it’s so even on both sides it looks like I’ve done it on purpose. But I haven’t touched my face with a razor in weeks. I’ve decided I’m just going to let happen whatever is going to happen. Apparently this is happening.
My beeper goes off. My table is ready. And as the mask goes over my head and I’m snapped into the gurney and I grab the notches on the table with my index fingers, it hits.
My appetite. My stomach growls. I’m really hungry. So after I say the little prayer I say every day and after I’ve crossed off this treatment with a big X on the imaginary calendar in my head, I start to think about what I want to eat. Suddenly, there are no options. I have to have the cold noodles in peanut sauce from Kung Pao Bistro, the dish I wanted so badly on Saturday night but ordered the wrong thing. I call ahead and order the noodles but when I get there, I decide I should probably get some hot and sour soup because I know that will go down easy. And I’m so glad I did because I ate every bit of the soup but could only eat a little bit of the noodles. They just didn’t taste good. I have leftovers.
All through the day again, I’m getting messages on Facebook and texts from people throughout my life – a woman I’ve known since I started first grade in Yuma, the woman who was my date to our high school senior Homecoming Dance, former co-workers.   It’s really my belief that when this thing called life ends, we are measured by the people.  And I am so grateful for the people.
And the excursion to my radiation treatment and to Kung Pao Bistro has wiped me out.  My brother, Jerry, calls and we make plans for me to go to Colorado for Thanksgiving, as I do every year.  It gives me something to look forward to, something good in my future.
Thursday – DAY 27
This day is filled with appointments. I start at 915am with the Speech and Swallow Therapist. So far, my speech is still fine. It’s a little more deliberate, maybe, because the radiation has made the jaw on the right side a little tight.  I sit across from her and do stretching exercises. I take my thumbs and put them on the top and bottom palates and stretch my jaw as wide as I can for 30 seconds. We do that five times. I think this would be hard even if I wasn’t going through radiation treatment. And then, the swallow test, which is a little more difficult. There’s no doubt it’s more difficult to swallow and that was to be expected. My throat is always a little sore now. I’m told that will last for a while even after the treatments are done. But I’m adjusting my diet to eat things that are softer and more liquid protein that make it easier to go down.
The big appointment is with my oncologist at 2p. The last time I’d seen him, he’d told me that there might be the possibility that we would be done with chemo treatments after #5.  Nothing would make me happier. The radiation is particularly hard on my neck, of course, because there’s where it’s concentrated but the chemo is just fucking hard on the rest of my body. And since my white blood count was below the acceptable level, I wonder if he’ll say I can’t get the sixth one (six was always the plan).
I weigh in. 165. Still pretty decent.  My oncologist is a lovely Jewish man in his mid-60s who’s been doing this for 30 years and who I liked the second I met. He’s one of those doctors that just makes you feel good – and on this day, he makes me feel good. He comes in and feels my neck.
“That’s just radiation. I don’t feel anything left of the tumor,” he says.
“Huh?”
“Yeah. It feels like anything left from the tumor is gone,” he says.
Well. Wasn’t expecting that but I’ll take it and hope that means that these treatments are doing their job, although I know we won’t know anything for sure until several weeks after I’m done and I have a PET Scan.
We talk about my low white blood count.
“Do I have to have another chemo treatment?” I ask.
“I think you should. One more. Last one,” he says.
“Got it.” And I realize right then that I wouldn’t want to look back on this and not have done everything in my power to knock this shit out of my body. I’ve done five. I can do six.
“And when you get past all this, I still have somebody I want to set you up with,” said my matchmaker oncologist before I leave (he’d actually said this during our very first appointment).
“Yeah, let me get past all this. Right now, that’s the furthest thing from my mind.”  Besides, right now, I look like Wolverine.
My radiation appointment is 345p and when I lie back on the table, my appetite hits again. So weird how it does that. It’s almost like my body knows it’s about to take a beating so we better get some food in it to build it back up again. I decide that the hot and sour soup at Kung Pao Bistro ($4.95, thank you very much) will be dinner again tonight because I know I like it and I know it tasted good. And once again, this little outing to the oncologist and radiation and then Kung Pao Bistro wipe me out and I am on the couch for the rest of the night.
Friday – DAY 28
I’m grateful that I’m sleeping at least 7 or 8 hours a night but I wake up with a mouthful of mucus (sorry, it’s gross but it’s true). The oncologist told me I needed to start using the Magic Mouthwash that was prescribed every four hours because I’m getting mucus buildup in the back of my mouth a lot and it might be curbing my appetite. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened this morning. No appetite at all and absolutely no desire to eat or drink anything, much less anything nutritious like a protein shake or eggs.   I have a breakfast planned with Beth Bishop, the owner of The Phoenix Effect where I have gotten my fitness on for the past three years.   I guess I’ll just visit because I’m not hungry.
But when I arrive at Fratelli’s to meet Beth, food smells good. I order 2 pancakes with lots of syrup (easier to swallow), two eggs and a latte. To my surprise, I finish the eggs and about half of the pancakes. I even order a side of turkey bacon for some more protein but it was too hard to swallow. Beth offers to help me ease back into my fitness routine when I’m ready. Turns out she has a special certification to help cancer patients. And I tell her that I want to do a Spartan Race when I’m back at full speed. The Phoenix Effect has a Spartan team that raises money for several charities and I’ve always wanted to do it. And if I have to walk the course, I’ll do it but it’s a goal for me.
And that breakfast wipes me out. I don’t know if I’m feeling the three-days-post-chemo effects in my body but for whatever reason, I am toast the rest of the day. It’s Friday so I meet with my nutritionist at 3pm before my radiation appointment. I’m on the couch until the very last second. And as I park my car across the street from the Samuel Oschin Cancer Center, I realize that I’ve started to feel a word I didn’t want to feel. I feel frail. My steps are more cautious. I plant my foot when I step off the curb instead of just hopping into the sidewalk like I normally would. It’s a bit unnerving and I wonder if it’s just the chemo racing through my system.
I meet with my nutritionist. I weigh in. 166. Up a pound from the day before (not quite sure how but I’ll take it). She’s got a few more recommendations for foods as I head into the final two weeks – won ton soup (not hot and sour anymore – too hard on my throat), and soups with cream for calories. Chicken Corn Chowder (which I love), Broccoli and Cheddar (yum), and chicken pot pies (now we’re talking). Even if I can’t eat the crust on the pot pie, I can eat the filling. And she wants to me to start drinking Ensure Enlive. Now, I have resisted drinking things like Ensure or Boost until now because I’m not an octogenarian and I thought Muscle Milk sounded better for a guy my age to drink. But she gives me coupons and tells me it’s only for a few more weeks. Hey, who can resist a good coupon? I promise to buy some on my way home.
I go check in for my radiation appointment. There’s a young man in the waiting room today. He can’t be more than 25. He’s wearing a gown and I hear the nurse say they are preparing his IV (I wonder if he hates them as much as I do). He’s scared. The hand holding his cup of water is shaking. I want to go over and wrap my arms around him. He could be any of my boys in the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles. I can’t imagine going through what I’m going through at my age, much less his age.
After radiation, I head to Shake Shack for a vanilla shake to get me through to some grocery shopping. And something happens today for the first time. The shake doesn’t do the trick. It tastes good but I realize I still have to be in the mood for whatever it is I eat or drink – and I wasn’t in the mood for this and still tried to force it down. OK, lesson learned. There will be many more Shake Shack visits in my future.
When I get to Pavilions on a busy Friday, I have to park up on the second level because it’s so crowded. I take the stairs down to do my shopping – chicken corn chowder, broccoli cheddar soup, chicken pot pies, avocado for good fat. But when I’m done, I walk back to the stairs, then turn around and take the elevator. The thought of climbing those two sets of stairs is exhausting.
And when I get home, I’m exhausted. I manage to make and eat the entire can of chicken corn chowder but I’m plopped on the couch the rest of the night. After watching the great HBO documentary about Steven Spielberg, I decide to watch Jaws. When was the last time you watched Jaws from start to finish? Having gotten some insight from the documentary, I wanted to see some of the shots he used. Dude was 25 when he directed that movie and it’s still brilliant today. I fall asleep hoping for some fresh energy tomorrow.
Saturday –
I’m grateful for the weekends because I get a break from treatments. I know they’re still working on my body but to not have to physically get up, get dressed and go to Cedars and have my neck burned gives me a little bit of joy. Sure enough, I wake up with more energy today. But again, my horoscope keeps me in check:
“You’re likely feeling strong, healthy and energetic. You might be inclined to take on huge tasks, some of which are more appropriate for three people than one. Be careful. You could take on more than you can handle. The strength and energy you feel now could wilt under too heavy a load. Pace yourself!”
Even my horoscope knows.
And while I wake up with a little more energy and a bowel movement (did I mention I started taking a stool softener?), my neck is noticeably more red and burns a little more today. I soaked it in the cream last night but I’m definitely feeling it.
The energy doesn’t last long, unfortunately. It’s frustrating that all I feel like doing is lying on my couch, watching Netflix. I know that in the busy scheme of life, it’s what a lot of people would be grateful to do. I get that – when it’s your choice. It doesn’t feel much like my choice right now. It’s being chosen for me. I spend most of Saturday binge-watching the new series, Mindhunter, on Netflix. Dinner is the broccoli cheddar soup, which doesn’t go down as smoothly as I had hoped it might. The creamy soups – while adding more calories to my diet – are not mixing well with the mucus that I’m trying to keep at bay (sorry). And for some reason, I have a lot of trouble falling asleep tonight.
Sunday –
And I sleep so late that I miss CBS Sunday Morning (sorry, Jane). The more days I get past a chemo treatment, the better I feel. I’m told that’s pretty normal. I have tentative plans to go to a movie with my sponsor, Peter, and his husband, Paolo. I only make tentative plans these days. Everything feels tentative. It just depends on how I feel.   Today, I feel up to a movie. I meet them at the Arclight for Breathe. Based on a true story, Andrew Garfield plays a man who develops polio in the late 1950s and is kept alive by a breathing machine. Claire Foy plays his wife who refuses to let him die, even when he wants to. Eventually, his inventor friend comes up with a respirator that they attach to his wheelchair so he’s not confined to his bed and he becomes one of the longest-living survivors of polio in Great Britain. It’s a tear-jerker, for sure, but it’s also an inspiring story about fighting through whatever circumstances you’re facing because life really is worth living. OK, point taken.
I suck down a Body Factory smoothie during the movie and it tastes good and goes down well but I’m still hungry (thank God) afterwards so we head to Fresh Corn Grill. I order the corn chowder – and discover that it’s not creamy. Woo-hoo! And it’s delicious and now I’ll be adding this to my list of foods I can and want to eat ($4.95, thank you very much). I add some yams for protein and that’s a decent lunch for me these days.
I’m feeling good enough to hit Starbucks later that afternoon with Eddie. I order a coffee Frapuccino because it’s smooth and creamy. I’ll be adding this to the list, too.
And of all this – wipes me out. My obsession tonight – and I mean obsession – is Life Below Zero on NatGeo. I’m fascinated by these characters, who are choosing to live off the land in the Alaskan wilderness. Plus, the show is beautifully shot and incredibly well-edited.
I turn on the Dodgers game in the 8th inning, in time to watch Justin Turner’s incredible home run in the bottom of the ninth that gives Los Angeles a 2-0 lead in the series. OK, this is good. Baseball will help keep me company the next few weeks. I pass out about 9:30.
Monday – DAY 29
And I’m wide awake at 3:30am. My neck is really red and I’m starting to feel the pain. It looks and feels like a really bad sunburn. I wish it was a sunburn and one that I’d gotten from laying out too long on the beach in Maui, but that’s not the case. A man can dream.
I’m awake so I start creating the Instagram account I’ve been promising, with pictures and video documenting the journey. I call it StevesCancerJourney (brilliant, right?) I start posting pictures and videos, reliving the path from when my cyst was just a cyst (a sigh is still a sigh …)
I don’t have much of an appetite yet, which is unusual for a Monday. It’s the day furthest away from the chemo so I’m usually feeling pretty good. But today – and most days now – there’s really not a ‘comfortable’ setting.  There’s “uncomfortable” and “less uncomfortable”.
And something happens today that hasn’t happened in weeks. I get sick. I’d only eaten eggs and had an Ensure Enlive so far that day but about 1pm, I start to feel it.  Honestly, I wonder if it’s all the mucus that’s making me sick.  I try to get out as much as I can but there’s a lot of it and I think it’s hitting my stomach.  And getting sick wipes me out even more.
I head to radiation at 345p and I’m definitely feeling the fact that I woke up so early and now have very little nutrition in my system. My energy is really low as I walk into the Cancer Center. There was some sort of power surge that morning or over the weekend at Cedars-Sinai so the technicians have had to spend the day re-calibrating the machines – which means they are very behind getting people through. The waiting room is packed. Since it’s Monday, I see my radiation oncologist so I see him before the treatment instead of after, like I normally do.  He’s very concerned about my weight and the mucus in the back of my throat – and he’s worried that my sore throat is keeping me from eating. We both think the mucus is what made me sick that afternoon. It’s a little disgusting.  And I’m down to 165, which doesn’t sound like a lot but I begin this journey about 171-173 and then went up to 176 (I thought of those first few weeks like a bear hibernating for the winter – gaining weight that I would store for later) so I’m really down about 11 pounds. It shows on my body. I’ve started wearing t-shirts that I’m not swimming in.  And my face is noticeably thinner, at least to me.  He tells me that I’m still doing great and that I’m right on track, but he’s very serious about one thing.
            “You have one job these next two weeks and that is to eat,” he says. “Things are going to get tough. You have to keep eating.”
            For a boy whose parents shopped in the Husky department at Mervyns, having someone tell you that your job for the next two weeks is to keep eating is a bit of a psychological mind-you-know-what.  I promise him I will try my best. He’s made it very clear it’s important.  And he prescribes a steroid cream to help lessen the severity of the burn on my fair skin.
My beeper goes off just as we’re finishing up.  I go in and take my place on the gurney, say my prayer and count off another day.  When it’s over, my tech tells me that tomorrow is the last of the prescribed treatments.  On Wednesday, we begin “the booster”.  My radiation oncologist had told me that during the five days, he’ll be concentrating on the back right side of my tongue, the point of origin.  Make sure that shit is dead where it started.
I’m hungry. I head to Fresh Corn Grill and grab the corn chowder, mashed potatoes and yams for dinner. I manage to get down the chowder and potatoes and try like hell to get down the yams but I get very full, very fast so I decide to save them for tomorrow.  I turn on Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune because I’ve really become my lovely late Aunt Ferno – the old lady who sits in her favorite chair watching her shows.  I fall asleep before Pat and Vanna can get me to the bonus round.
Tuesday – DAY 30 – Final Double Treatment Tuesday
I sleep 12 hours and wake up a new man. I still don’t have much of an appetite but believe me, my doctor’s directive is blaring loud in my head. Your job is to eat. I make coffee and a smoothie full of protein for breakfast.
Just an aside here: daytime television is full of commercials for medications obviously aimed at women and older people, who are the audience at home to see them.  But these medications – Jesus – they’re  full of side effects like dry mouth, itching, rash, pancreatitis, low blood sugar, nausea, vomiting, decreased appetite and heart attacks.  Um … why would I want to take these things?
Meantime, the banality of a day in the life of a cancer patient:  LIVE with Kelly and Ryan (I’m warming up to them.  They’re obviously very good friends), The VIEW (Meghan McCain was a great addition) and another episode of Life Below Zero on NatGeo (obsessed).  For lunch, I head to Starbucks and grab the protein box with eggs and cheese, lemon chiffon yogurt and a coffee frappuccino – almost 50g of protein in that lunch so I feel good about it and I can get everything down pretty easily – except the peel of the apples in the protein box scratches my throat a bit, so I end up eating the apples like corn on the cob.
I spend the afternoon before treatment keeping busy organizing my medical bills. Please let me say once again how grateful I am to have COBRA – or health insurance at all. I know very well that’s not the case with so many people going through this mess and medical bills only add to the stress of an enormously stressful situation. I don’t take it for granted and I will continue to fight going forward for fair and affordable insurance coverage for people with pre-existing conditions. And of course, doctors bill individually for their services. The anesthesiologist is a separate bill from the ENT is a separate bill from the doctor who examined you one time because your doctor was out of town is a separate bill from the radiation imaging. I put them in order from top to bottom of whose payment deadline I’ve missed less recently.
I grab my book (still reading Hillary’s book about the election because we are still trying to figure out What Happened) and call an Uber to take me to Cedars. My driver isn’t Chezere today, unfortunately. I’m always a little down on Tuesdays knowing I’m going to get both treatments and I try hard to focus on the fact that the next time I’m home, I will be done with chemotherapy.
Radiation is normal at 345p. 30 down, 5 to go. I check in a little early at the Infusion Center then stop by the phlebotomist to get my blood work drawn. It will be interesting to see if my white blood count has dropped any more. I’m sure we’ll have to call my oncologist to get approval to have the chemo treatment tonight.
I get another room, for which I am grateful. When it’s crowded during the day, people have to sit in chairs to get their treatment. I’ve always gotten a room. My nurse tonight is Joanna and we have saved the best for last. The nurses have all been fantastic but Joanna is a little special.  She’s Filipino and full of energy and we hit it off right away. She tells me that my white blood count has actually gone up since last week – from 2.8 to 2.9 – but it’s still just below the acceptable level so she has to get approval, which happens quickly. I tell Joanna about my extreme dislike for IVs and that I won’t watch as she inserts it and ask her to wrap it up again so I don’t look at it. Not only does she wrap tape around it but she puts a little gauze mitten over it so I really can’t look at it (Joanna calls it an Asian pear. You can see the pic on my Instagram account StevesCancerJourney)
My final chemo companion is Dale, who brings a vanilla shake from Astro Burger (nice to mix it up a bit and yes, it was delicious). I hear my radiation oncologist telling me to eat and we’ve really come down to soups and purees and very soft foods and not much else. I get some chicken broth with noodles and applesauce to go along with the shake. And I decide that when I get home tonight, I’m going to start the pain medication. I’ve been a little reluctant until now, trying to tough it out. But it’s time. It’s week 6. There’s a shit ton of radiation and chemotherapy building up in my body. Ain’t nobody got time for pain.  Also, I will note here that Zeb FaceTimed me from New York.  That means he was present in some way for every one of my chemotherapy treatments.  If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.
While I’m sitting in chemo, I get sent a story that had aired on NBC Nightly News about a guy who found a lump in his neck (sound familiar) that ended up being Stage 4 cancer caused by HPV (mine was caught much earlier). The story quoted a new report out this week calling HPV-related cancers in men “a silent epidemic”, especially head and neck cancers. Yep, that’s me. This man is straight, married with 3 kids and he’s making it his mission to increase awareness about HPV. There are no symptoms, which makes this type of cancer even more scary. I e-mailed him right away this morning.
Also during this final chemo treatment – which I was already a little emotional about – a text I’ll keep forever from my goddaughter who’s in her senior year at Elon University in North Carolina. When I told Maddy over lunch just after the diagnosis that the pathology report had come back and they’d found cancer, my voice shook and I got choked up when I said the word ‘cancer’. I tried to emphasize that we’d caught it early and that the percentage was very high that it would get the shit kicked out of it. Maddy and her parents had just been through the experience of seeing one of their great friends go through a lengthy battle with cancer, which ended up taking his life. The last thing I wanted her to think was that she was going to lose me, too. Because she’s not.   I don’t know if she knew I was right in the middle of my final chemo treatment, but that text could not have come at a better time.
And then, it’s over. The machine beeps, indicating time’s up. Joanna unwraps my hand while I look the other way. The IV comes out, hopefully for the last time in my life. I hug Joanna and am so grateful that on this final night, I had this nurse. She was meant to be.  I go to the bathroom one more time on the way out – and make sure I flush twice.
During treatment tonight, Dale and I discuss how and why people handle certain situations. I know my approach has everything to do with having been a TV news producer for so long. When a plane crashed or there was some sort of breaking news, I was often the guy sent to the control booth. You learn quickly to compartmentalize the tragedy/disaster/horrible medical diagnosis to get done what needs to get done. In the case of television, that’s getting the story on the air as quickly and accurately as possible, making sure that some of the horrible images you’re seeing come in on a live feed don’t make air. The gravity of the situation hits you later.  This certainly happened to me in April, 1999. Because I had lived in Denver for 5 years, KNBC sent me to cover the massacre at Columbine High School. For days, it was my job to help my reporter, Conan Nolan, gather facts and every bit of new information, and talk to families whose lives would never be the same again. A huge memorial to the victims had sprung up on the school grounds and as I walked around that memorial on our third evening there and saw the pictures of those beautiful kids who had lost their lives because they’d gone to school, I lost it. Fell down on my knees in the snow, lost it.   I had compartmentalized the horror of what those defenseless kids went through.   That’s very much how I feel about this cancer. When I got the diagnosis, I put it in a box and said, “OK, what do I do?” I went into producer mode. But there’s definitely a component to all this that’s scary as hell. It’s cancer. It kills people. That reality – and likely the relief over the final chemo – is why I had tears in my eyes as I walked out of the Samuel Oschin Cancer Center.
I’m hungry when Dale gets me home so I heat up the yams from the night before (eat, eat). I take my first pain pill and settle in to watch the Dodgers beat the Cubs and get to within one game of the World Series.
Wednesday – DAY 31
One of the worst days of this journey so far, likely due to the pain medication. I had tried to hold off taking the oxycodone as long as possible, mostly because I just didn’t want another medication floating around in my system. But my radiation oncologist had asked me to get ahead of the pain before it gets too bad, so I took one that night after chemo and was fine. When I woke up, I actually felt more normal than I had in weeks.  And later this morning – because they’re prescribed every four hours – I took another one and had some coffee. Chemo drugs + pain medication + coffee + no food = big mistake.   I threw up as violently as I did that first Friday night after chemo, but it’s that much more difficult now because of the condition my throat is in from the radiation.
I spend the rest of the day watching season 2 of Sex and The City.  I didn’t remember all the cussing and nudity when that show was new. But it makes me happy and on this day, I needed something to make me happy.  I can hear my nutritionist in my head telling me I need to eat, so I try to force down an Ensure Enlive and some yogurt but there’s not much of an appetite.
Eddie comes and picks me up for radiation today. He hasn’t been since my first treatment when I was so nervous and didn’t know anything about what was about to happen to me. We run into my nutritionist and then my radiation oncologist’s nurse, who all greet me by name. Eddie says it’s like I’m Norm from Cheers now.  I’m grateful that I’ve developed these relationships with these people who are all helping me fight this thing. I tell the nurse about my episode that morning. She tells me to definitely eat solid food when I take the oxycodone – a bread item or milk – anything to help it absorb into my system. I tell her I’ll try again that night.
My treatment today is different and will be for the remainder. I went through the first 30 treatments on my general neck area, which has made it very red. The last five will be focused on the right back side of my tongue, the origin of the cancer. That area, in particular, is starting to peel a bit. So as I take my position on the table, new images have to be taken of the mapping field and the radiation oncologist has to sign off on them. And then, the new treatment takes about 5 minutes. Done.
Starbucks Vanilla Bean Frappuccino with whipped cream is the new Vanilla Shake Shack in my life. I know I’ll be going back to Shake Shack very soon but for now, the Vanilla Bean Frapp is getting me by. I feel well enough to sit and have coffee with Eddie and Zeb and catch up and I know I need to eat something substantial for dinner if I’m going to take another pain pill. But my throat can only take so much these days. I opt for cauliflower leek soup from Gelson’s. It smells amazing and tastes even better when I have it for my dinner. I let it settle a bit and then take an oxycodone and settle in to watch the Dodgers try to sweep the Cubs in four. I didn’t make it to the fourth inning. Everything I’d eaten that day comes up violently again. I guess caulifower soup – while delicious – isn’t a substantial enough food to absorb a pain medication. I crawl into bed – and wake up 13 hours later.
Thursday – DAY 32
The first things I think when I wake up 13 hours later: My body must’ve needed it, I have to eat and no more oxycodone until I can get some help figuring it out.   I forego coffee today for tea – can’t take the chance on it being so hard on my stomach. I grab an Ensure Enlive and a lemon Greek yogurt for breakfast. Both of those go down easily. And I start taking Zofran, the anti-nausea medication for the chemo. Zofran for nausea, Oxycodone for pain in my throat. I will be very glad when I don’t have all of these drugs kicking around in my system.
I have an appointment with my oncologist today at 1:30pm. The nurse comes to get me and I get on the scale – 160.6. I’m down about 5 pounds. Not surprising given the events of yesterday. My oncologist comes in and I tell him about the pain medication.
“Then you need to stop taking it immediately because it’s obvious your body isn’t tolerating it. I’ll put you on something milder.”
Also, he is less concerned about my food intake and more concerned about my hydration. “You’ll gain the weight back. I’m not worried about that. I’m worried about you staying hydrated. These treatments take a lot out of your system.” He tells me not to feel guilty if I’m not eating and not to force myself to eat if I don’t feel like it – just stay hydrated.
He reiterates that while my final treatment is Tuesday, the cumulative effects of the radiation will be working for about another four weeks afterwards, which means I’ve got another month ahead of me of being diligent about my sore throat and the pain and the redness on my neck. Great.   And before I leave, he tells me that he told his friend that he has someone he wants him to meet – after he gets me through all this mishigas.
I’m hungry and I’ve got some time to kill before my radiation treatment so I stop at Greenleaf. It’s where I had lunch the last time I went to my oncologist and I’ve become weirdly superstitious about doing the same things so as not to affect the order of life somehow.  I know I like the spinach there so I get some tomato basil soup w/bread to go along with it. The tomato and the chili flakes on the spinach are a little hard on my throat but I manage to eat a decent-sized lunch. On the way back to the car, I have a conversation with a guy named Jason Mendelsohn. Jason was featured in an NBC Nightly News piece that had aired the night before about the skyrocketing cases of HPV-related cancers in men. I’d reached out to him through his website and found that he’s doing the same thing I’m doing – trying to increase awareness about these types of cancers. We have a great 15-minute conversation about how similar our stories are. He found a painless lump in his neck while he was shaving. By the time the doctors got around to finding out what it was, it had reached Stage 4 in him. He went through everything I’ve gone through but he also had to have a feeding tube. Thank God I have not. We promise to keep in touch throughout the rest of my journey. It helps talking to someone else who has gone through this and come out the other side fully recovered.
I run into my radiation oncologist’s nurse again when I go for my treatment and tell her that my oncologist has prescribed a milder painkiller. She tells me she hopes it’s enough to do the trick but understands that the oxycodone was killing my system.   My treatment today takes a total of about 5 minutes – as long it took to park, walk in and wait.
I grab a Vanilla Bean Frappuccino on the way home and I know I have some chicken noodle soup to eat for dinner so I am in for the night. The Dodgers are playing to get into the World Series so they’ll keep me company. I eat the soup and I figured since I had a good lunch that included bread, I could try the milder painkiller. Sure enough, it stays down although I can tell it doesn’t take away as much pain in my throat as the oxycodone did. I think I’m just going to experiment and find out which one can work.
But the Dodgers put in the work and are headed to the World Series and I know I’ll have them to keep me looking forward to something for the next few weeks.
Friday – DAY 33
I know that today will be a maintenance day, one of those days I just have to get through. I eat a couple of boiled eggs for protein and I make my own smoothie with protein – and that’s going to be it for the rest of the afternoon. I play Yahtzee and Words with Friends on my phone to pass the time until my 3pm meeting with my nutritionist.
A lot of people have asked if they could bring over food or if I want some company or if there’s anything they can do for me – and I can’t tell you how much I appreciate that. But the truth is, most of the time I feel like I just want to be alone. I don’t think it has to do with isolating – anyone who knows me knows I thrive on being around people. It’s just not easy to keep a conversation going unless I really feel like it. I want to watch TV and rest and play mindless but mind-bending word games on my phone – and let these treatments take their toll on my body until they don’t.
Time for the nutritionist and I pop on the scale. 160. I’ve lost 16 pounds in a month. This was the first week where I thought, “I look like a cancer patient.”  My face is thinner. I had to tighten the belt one more loop. I know I’ll gain back the weight but it has dropped quickly.   She tells me to keep eating and drinking calories. We’re all about the calories now.  Get ice cream, creamy soups, add avocado to eggs – whatever I can do to keep piling on the calories, I need to do that. And while it may sound easy, it’s not if you just don’t feel like eating at all. That’s not the case right now, though. I’m starving and I’m going to go eat after my radiation treatment.
While I wait for radiation, a woman I’ve seen the past few weeks has brought a few friends with her today. It’s her final radiation treatment for breast cancer. She goes into the other radiation room and when she comes out, she’ll get to ring the bell, signifying the end of this round of treatments – and the hope that you never have to ring that fucking bell ever again. I’ll get to ring it on Tuesday.
The treatment takes no time at all again and I meet Zeb at the Granville Café right across the street. Their mac and cheese has chicken and vegetables in it so that’s perfect and I order their vegan chili. To my surprise, I get most of both dishes down so that’s a win. On the way home, I pick up Butter Pecan Haagen-Dazs and when I get home, I sit back, throw on the final episodes of Mindhunter on Netflix and try to load up on the calories. And that’s my Friday night – me, cancer, Jonathan Groff and Butter Pecan Haagen-Dazs.
Saturday – It’s My Birthday
I don’t know anyone who can say that they expect to spend their birthday/anniversary/holiday fighting cancer – or any other medical condition for that matter. It’s not something you plan on. But that’s what has happened. My birthday has fallen right at the end of my sixth week of treatment for HPV-related cancer in my neck. It still sounds crazy to say. The medical report that came out this week really helped me understand that I’m not alone in this fight but it still feels crazy to say that it’s happening to me.
As it turns out, my niece, Camy, is spending a few days in southern California with her family so she drives up from Newport Beach to have breakfast for my birthday. Camy is a nurse so she has an understanding of what’s going on.  Also, Camy is a mother of three boys and at some point, is going to have to decide whether or not to get them vaccinated for HPV.  Again, I’m not a parent.  I’m never going to tell a parent what to do with their children.  I completely understand not wanting to put something in a child’s body that doesn’t belong.  And – now I know too much about this.  If I was a parent, I couldn’t take the chance of having my child go through these treatments later in life.  This cancer is most often transmitted sexually.  Everyone is going to have sex.  And until recently HPV-related head and neck cancer patients were mostly heterosexual white men because they perform oral sex on women, who carry HPV.  But that study this week shows that cases are skyrocketing among men who have sex with men as well.  Sadly, this isn’t going anywhere – but it can be prevented.
We talk about the fact that going through treatment for anything like cancer is really a full-time job. Besides the appointments for the medical treatments and the doctors’ appointments, there are medications to manage. For me, it’s sometimes choosing between a sore throat and a sick stomach. And the medication I take to manage the sick stomach makes me constipated so I have to take a stool softener. And then there’s the mouth rinse every 4 hours to make sure I don’t get sores and the pill I take to handle all the mucus that radiation causes to secrete in the back of your mouth (lovely). It’s a lot and again, how people do it and raise kids is beyond me.
I manage to get down some eggs and pancakes with syrup – and then I’m wiped out. Was a nice surprise to get to spend my birthday morning with my niece but when I get home, I lay down on the couch and crash. And that’s honestly all I can muster the rest of the day. I can feel the effects of the final chemotherapy in my body. Saturdays are when I usually feel it – and I feel it. I don’t feel nauseous as much as I am just tired. I know it’s also the cumulative effects of the radiation.
I get a flood of Facebook messages, texts and phone calls all wishing me Happy Birthday – including a tear-inducing Happy Birthday video from my brothers in the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles (Girl. Down.)  I’m so grateful. I don’t feel like talking much or to many people. I don’t even have the energy to get a birthday Salt ‘n Straw with my friend, Howard. My birthday dinner is broccoli and cheddar soup and banana pudding from Magnolia with a few bites of Butter Pecan Haagen-Dazs watching Fast Times at Ridgemont High on HBO. And that’s OK.
I had planned to spend this weekend in Las Vegas. In fact, I was planning on seeing Britney Spears in concert tonight on my actual birthday. Obviously, life intervened. My friend, Robyn, reminded me that I’m giving myself the best birthday gift of all … beating this thing, which is indeed something to celebrate because it means there will be many more birthdays ahead.
Sunday –
I spend most of the day sacked out on the couch but feel well enough in the afternoon to head out for a little birthday celebration at my sponsor’s house. My friend, Howard, comes to pick me up because for the first time, I don’t really feel like driving.  I’ve held off asking for rides because I wanted to maintain as much independence as possible through this whole thing. Driving myself helped me keep that independence. Today, I feel like being picked up.
I spend a few hours out with people who feed my soul and my spirit – and that’s all I can muster. Howard stops at Gelson’s so I can grab some soup on the way home and when I get home, my couch is my BFF for the rest of the night.
Monday – DAY #34
And when I wake up, my throat is on fire. Like on fire, on fire. I’ve been warned that this would happen and that this week would likely be the worst week I’ll have to endure. Right on cue. I still get down a protein smoothie for breakfast and somehow I eat a waffle but it’s soaked in syrup. And then, I do everything possible to take my mind off my sore throat. I have the painkiller but it made me horribly sick and the one I’ve been given now is milder on my stomach but it’s also … milder. It’s really hard to swallow and it sucks. I know I’ll see my radiation oncologist after my radiation appointment today so I can ask him what to do.   It’s a waiting game until then, which is pretty much my life these days.
I head to the Samuel Oschin Cancer Center and park in my usual spot on the street next to the Granville Café.  I’m aware as I put money in the meter that I will only have to do this one more day after today.  My treatment is pretty standing operating procedure today and then I head to meet with my radiation oncologist for the final time during treatment.
My radiation oncologist is a young-looking man and very likely gets called Doogie Howser a lot, but I’m so grateful he’s my doctor. When he comes in, I tell him first thing about my throat and the pain. Right away, he says he’ll give me something a little stronger – Dilaudid. I know it’s strong but I could definitely use it.
He assures me that relatively speaking, I have done very well with these treatments. He knows it’s been tough but I haven’t had to take any breaks during treatment, I didn’t need a feeding tube and I’ve had a fairly high threshold for pain (today notwithstanding). He says it’s gone as well as it possibly could. And then he lays out the next few months.
I’ll see my oncologist next week and then come back in and see him the week after. He wants another check-in or two before the end of the year and then at three months, we’ll do another PET scan to make sure that all the cancer is gone.
            “I have no reason to think it’s not going to come back negative,” he says. I get a little choked up.
            “And If I’m not here tomorrow, congratulations, well done, and ring that bell. You earned it.”   I tell him I will definitely be ringing the bell.
One of the other things he tells me is that I need to try to manage the expectations of my friends and family that just because the treatment is over, the process isn’t done. It’s not. Radiation is cumulative. It keeps building in my body after the final treatment. He says it’ll be at least a week or two before any sort of healing begins. My oncologist told me it would be four weeks. So this is me, managing expectations. It’s not over.
I get the prescription for the Dilaudid but wait a few hours because I took one of the milder painkillers right when I get home from my treatment. I thought I waited long enough. Nope. About 11pm, I head straight for the bathroom and lose everything in my stomach. Again, it would be hard enough to do without a fiery sore throat but the throat compounds it.  Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be the last time before morning that I would head for the bathroom.
Tuesday – DAY 35 – Final Treatment Tuesday
I’m so bummed that I wake up on the final day of treatment feeling like total crap. I wanted to be up. I want to eat. I don’t want to have a sore throat or a sick stomach. But that’s the reality. I make some coffee – and that comes right back up. OK, no more coffee for a bit.   I keep hearing my oncologist telling me to stay hydrated. I need to stay hydrated. I’ve lost quite a bit of water in the past 12 hours so I drink as much water and Gatorade and Arbonne Hydration powder as I can to stay hydrated. Food does not sound good at all. And I lay on the couch and watch AMC’s Fear Fest and play Words with Friends pretty much all afternoon until it’s time to go to Cedars.
I drive to the hospital. It’s the first time in six weeks I haven’t taken an Uber on a Tuesday – and that’s because I don’t have a chemotherapy treatment after my radiation. It’s not Double Treatment Tuesday. It’s Final Treatment Tuesday. There is definitely some relief as I park and head into the hospital, knowing I don’t have to stay there for the next five hours.  My sponsor, Peter, meets me out front to be there for the final treatment and to watch me ring the bell.
I see my radiation oncologist’s nurse and tell her about the issues with the Dilaudid. She said my body must not like opiates, which is a good thing because I’ll never get addicted. I tell her I’m just going to try to stick with the milder painkiller and hope that works.   I check in and not five minutes later, my beeper goes off. My table is ready for what I hope will be the final time.
I lay back and take my position in the headrest. All the techs know it’s the last day. The mask goes on and snaps to the gurney. My index fingers assume the position in the notches. I close my eyes, say my prayer and cross off today with a big X on the imaginary calendar in my mind. Then, it’s over. 35 radiation treatments. 35 times that a beam has focused on my neck and my tongue, aimed at killing the HPV-related cancer called squamous cell carcinoma out of my system, hopefully never to return.
I jump off the table and thank the techs, who’ve all been very kind and encouraging every day, even on days when I didn’t feel like saying a word to them. The head technician asks if I want the mask to take home with me.
“Of course I do. I never want to forget this,” I say. And besides, I might need a Halloween costume somewhere down the line (not this year).
There’s a bell that hangs on the wall of the waiting area that patients ring after the final treatment. I pick up some discharge information from my nurse and she asks if I’m going to ring the bell.
“Um … absolutely.”
They gather the nurses and techs around the bell and I ring it – loudly – three times. Peter records the moment so I’ll always have it. I fall into the arms of my radiation oncologist nurse and have a hard time keeping it together.   I say my thanks again, pick up my mask and Peter and I head down the hallway.  I can’t hold back the tears and I fight back sobs all the way up the elevator and out the door.
This has been traumatic. My body has had poison and radiation put it in for seven straight weeks. I know that I’ve tolerated the treatments well – relatively speaking – and I’m grateful for that. But this has been very, very hard on my body. Psychologically, I think I’ve done pretty well. I’ve tried to stay upbeat and positive, even on days when I did not want to be because I truly believe that attitude plays a huge role in one’s health and well-being. But fuck, this hasn’t been easy. Not by any stretch.
I grab some black bean soup for dinner ($3.95, thank you very much) and to my great surprise, it stays down. I lay down on the couch and watch Game 1 of the World Series (Go Dodgers!), This Is Us and The Menendez Murders. I barely move. I’ve posted the video of me ringing the bell on Facebook and Instagram and I’m overwhelmed – again – by the number of comments and words of encouragement and support. Truly, every one of these has helped push me through.  Unfortunately, it’s not a good night. I head to the bathroom again about 3:30am and lose my cookies. Again, with the throat. Ugh.
Wednesday – Day 1 Post-Treatment
My college roommate, Kim, is coming today to stay with me for a few days.  Last week, one of the nurses asked me if I had anyone staying with me in the week after my final treatments. I said no. She said you might want to think about having somebody there in case you need something. I called Kim, as I have for the past 30 years, and she agreed to come and stay for a few days.
My throat is on fire much of this day again. I’m bummed that my body rejected the stronger painkillers because I could have and would have used them today. And I have zero appetite. It’s not that I’m not eating because of my sore throat. Nothing sounds good at all.
The first thing Kim says when she sees me: “You look skinny.” Ordinarily, for a guy who’s been chunky his entire life, those would be three magic words. But I can tell she doesn’t mean it to be complimentary. The treatments have taken their toll and I’m glad they finished when they did or else we might have had to talk about having a feeding tube. That thought alone kept me shoving things down even when I didn’t feel like it.
We meet Eddie and Zeb for coffee and it’s also the first thing Eddie – who hasn’t seen me in a week – notices.  He says he thinks I’ve been a trooper the entire time I was going through treatment but this is the first time he can tell it’s taken a toll on me. OK, I get it. I’m skinny.
I’ve warned Kim that I don’t feel like doing much of anything. My life right now consists of trying to manage a really sore throat, trying to eat something I don’t really feel like eating and staring at a TV (when I’m not writing this account).   In yet another Pavilions run (I feel like I own stock now), we grab some soup and Kim suggests a baked potato. Bingo! That sounds delicious. And we head home to watch Game 2 of the World Series. The baked potato does the trick although I only eat about half the soup and by the time the Dodgers have lost a heartbreaker to the Astros, I’m wiped out.
Thursday – Day 2 Post Treatment
To my surprise, not only do I not throw up, I sleep 9 hours straight. I know it has everything to do with the fact that Kim is here. It has made a difference knowing someone else was here in case of emergency – and this isn’t just someone else. It’s her. Kim and I were roommates our junior and senior years of college at the University of Arizona. We were Will & Grace before there ever was a Will & Grace. After we graduated from college and she moved to San Francisco and I moved to Denver, we talked on the phone nearly every day. She’s that person in my life and I’m grateful that her business allows her the freedom and flexibility to come and hang with me.
Because my throat is still really sore again. I know it’s because it’s had 7 weeks of radiation focused on it, poor thing. Also, I can tell that the right side of my throat – where the radiation was intently focused – is the side that’s taken the brunt. The appetite still hasn’t returned, either, but I have noticeably more energy today.
That doesn’t last long.
I’m on the couch all day, watching mindless movies (“Eight Legged Freaks” on AMC’s Fear Fest, thank you very much) and playing Words With Friends. Kim gets a lot of work done. That afternoon, I have an appointment with the Speech and Swallow Therapist. This should be fun – not. It’s hard to swallow today. Kim and I head to Cedars for my appointment. My therapist has me do my stretching exercises to make sure my jaw doesn’t tighten from the radiation. I turn my head and stretch. And then she wants me to try to swallow. I manage to get a couple in but I’m working real hard to do it. The therapist wants me to come back in three weeks and when I do, she wants me to sing something to test my vocal range. She wants to make sure the radiation didn’t affect it.
Kim and I head to Pavilions (again) to grab some food and my newest craving – coffee ice cream. And suddenly, I start to fade. Like I start-to-get-dizzy-and-need-to-get-out-of-this-store-and-get-home-and-lie-down fade. I’m sure it’s from not eating and the fact that I’m still medicated. I’m still getting down the milder painkiller, I’m still taking the medication that supposedly stops the mucus secretion in my mouth (although there’s still a shit ton of it and it’s disgusting), I’m still taking the stool softener and there’s not a lot of food in my stomach for it to rest on.  And I’m doing all of this because I have cancer (although I like the phrase ‘because I had cancer’ better).
Kim gets me home and I head straight for my bed to lie down for a few hours and I know that we are in for the night. It’s 4:30pm. When I get up, I’m hungry and yet another surprise. Kim has found some frozen kale and cheese ravioli in my freezer and that sounds amazing to me. Actually, I think anything I haven’t gotten bored eating – baked potato, ravioli – sounds great. I wolf down nearly an entire bowl of ravioli drizzled in olive oil and coffee ice cream for dessert, which feels amazing on my sore throat.   We settle in to begin binge-watching Ozark on Netflix (Jason Bateman is amazing).
Friday – Day 3 Post Treatment
And I have slept another 8 ½ hours. I know my poor body needs the rest and is still being torn down by the radiation but getting a good night’s sleep is really a Godsend. And while my throat is still sore – “Duh, you’re not just going to wake up and it’ll be gone,” says Kim – I am hungry.
This is another day of managing pain, managing nausea and trying to eat as much as I possibly can to maintain my nutrition. My appetite has returned somewhat but not much. My nutritionist e-mails me some reminders and pushes the Ensure Enlive again as a good source of protein and calories. Um … but it tastes like chalk.
Kim and I spend most of this day binge-watching Ozark on Netflix (uh-mazing) and then watching Game 3 of the World Series, another heartbreaking loss to the Astros. It’s a good thing I don’t have high blood pressure, too, because the Dodgers would definitely induce it.
Both of these take my mind off of the fact that my body is definitely feeling the effects of all the radiation. And when I hit the sack after the baseball game – even though I’ve done absolutely nothing today and didn’t even leave the house – I am wiped out yet again.
Saturday – Day 4 Post Treatment
I’ve slept another 8 hours but feel like I could’ve slept 8 more. Kim is heading back to Santa Cruz today and I’m a little bummed about it, as much because I just love being with her more than the fact that she’s come to take care of me, which has also been really nice.  Our great friend, Ana, comes over for breakfast and takes Kim to the airport.
I’ve started classifying the days into three categories when people ask how I’m feeling: not great today, OK today, and pretty good today. This was a day that started out pretty good, segued into OK and ended not great.
After Kim leaves, my friend, Greg Weaver, brings over a ton of food – beef stew, chicken soup, ginger tea, etc. For the first time in a long time, real food sounds good. I eat a big helping of beef stew, managing to get down the chunks of beef and potatoes and vegetables as long as I chew it pretty well. I eat some of a cinnamon roll but that’s harder to get down – any bread item is difficult. And I begin to think that maybe I’m on the upswing, maybe my appetite and taste for food will come back sooner than we expected. Maybe the cumulative effects of the radiation won’t be as tough on me as the doctors warned it might be.
And maybe I’m fooling myself again.
I settle in to begin binge-watching Stranger Things 2. Then, Game 4 of the World Series comes on and distracts me from the fact that I’m going downhill fast. My stomach is starting to feel queasy and I’m getting light-headed. I eat some leftover wonton soup for dinner – and that only makes things worse. I feel bad enough that I can’t even make it through the end of the game to watch the Dodgers even the series at 2-2. Not great has won and I have to crawl into bed.
Sunday – Day 5 Post Treatment
I had hoped that sleep would help me feel better. If anything, I’ve gotten worse. What’s gotten noticeably worse is my ability to taste. I can’t taste the things that I once could, which was already fairly limited.
I get a text this morning from Jason Mendelsohn. Jason is the guy whose story was featured on NBC Nightly News last week. I reached out to him after seeing that report. He’s a straight, married, father of three from Florida who had noticed a painless lump in his neck, which turned out to be the exact same type of cancer I had. Jason has a website – www.supermanhpv.com – in which he is trying to raise awareness about HPV-related cancers. Jason had asked if he could upload the video of me ringing the bell after my final treatment and I agreed. He texts me to tell me it’s now up there – but he has labeled me a survivor. Now, I’m more than a little superstitious and I have every reason to believe that all the cancer has been eradicated from my body – but I’m uncomfortable being called a survivor just yet. I don’t want to jinx anything. It’s the same reason I don’t round up when people ask me how long I’ve been sober. Jason makes the adjustment and I tell him that once I get a clean bill in three months, we can change it to #Survivor.
The rest of this day is what I have called a ‘hardened malaise’. There’s no doubt a malaise has come over my body but it feels like I’m dead weight. I have a hard time even getting off the couch. This fucking radiation is wiping me out.   I manage to make a quick trip to the grocery store, where everybody bugs the shit out of me. It’s Sunday evening so it’s busy and the guys behind me reek of alcohol and have no concept of personal space in a grocery checkout line (something I have noticed many times before, I must say, so back the f— off until it’s your turn). I manage to get a good helping of ravioli down for dinner and coffee ice cream for dessert but with the game tied at 12-12, I can’t make it another minute. I say a prayer for the Dodgers and climb into bed.
Monday – Day 6 Post Treatment
The prayer didn’t work and now the Dodgers will come back to Los Angeles to try to tie and then win the World Series. I’m glad we’ll get to win the World Series at home. I get up to turn on the news about the indictments when something happens that hasn’t happened in a few days – I have to toss my cookies. I make a beeline for the bathroom and because there’s nothing in my system yet, I end up dry heaving for about 3-4 minutes straight. Something has made me sick. The only thing I’ve done different in the past two days is that I had stopped taking Zofran, the anti-nausea medication that they gave me after the chemotherapy. So, I make some toast – and take a Zofran. It’s going to be one of those days that I spend managing – managing my pain, managing my nutrition, managing my fatigue.
I bought a book that came highly recommended about two months ago and it’s been sitting on my shelf ever since I bought it. Today is the day I feel compelled to read it. It’s called Spoiler Alert: The Hero Dies. It’s TVLine writer Michael Ausiello’s account of taking care of his partner (then husband) of 13 years, Kit Cowan, who was diagnosed with neuroendocrine cancer and passes away less than a year later. So why would someone fighting cancer want to read an account of someone dying of cancer? Because it’s truly about love – and the lengths we go to for the people in our lives. It reminded me very much of the summer of 2004. My best friend at the time, Carlos Gambirazio, had been diagnosed with colorectal cancer. I didn’t know it, but after the initial diagnosis, he only had about a year to live. In the last six weeks of his life, I moved in to his apartment and became his full-time caregiver. I went and got our breakfast at McDonald’s every morning, I took him to chemotherapy appointments, I made sure he stayed hydrated per the doctor’s instructions (sound familiar?) and I generally just tried to make sure he knew that I loved him. When Carlos died in the early morning hours of June 19, I was the last person he saw and the last person whose name he spoke. Believe me, that transforms you.
I devour the book all Monday afternoon and evening, stopping only to take calls from people checking up on me to see how I’m feeling (‘today’s an OK day’) and I notice something happening in my body. Reading this book – maybe it would be any book, but most certainly this book – has relaxed me. My mind and body are relaxed.
Tuesday – One week post treatment
It’s Halloween and I didn’t get that gene. Ever since I was too old to go trick-or-treating, I have not been a fan of Halloween. Maybe it’s because I was never creative with costumes. From ages 3-5, I was Casper the Friendly Ghost (it required a sheet and a Casper mask). I had that mask for years. Anyway, I posted on Instagram the most recent mask in my life – the mask that I had to wear during the radiation treatments I got every weekday for 35 days at Cedars-Sinai. And I got those radiation treatments because I have cancer. Although I will tell you, my friends are all now telling me I should change the name of this blog to #BecauseIHadCancer to set that intention but the superstitious part of me says not to change it just yet. My friend, Robyn, says the mask looks more like one of those medieval chain-link masks. She’s not wrong. (You can see it on the Instragram account I created for this blog called stevescancerjourney).
I spend the rest of the morning finishing the book and then decide to reach out on Facebook to the author, Michael Ausiello. We are in the same industry and it turns out he and I share a love of Diet Coke from a fountain (although I take mine with a splash of regular coke and easy ice). I thank him for writing the book and share this blog with him. He writes back almost immediately, thanking me for reading the book and wishing me luck on my journey.
Today is also the day an article comes out on the VICE website vertical, Tonic. Writer Matthew Terrell was writing an article on why gay men, especially, should get the HPV vaccine even if you’re over age 26, which is the normal cutoff age.  Matthew had seen this blog, so he reached out to me for an interview.  Also, I gave him permission to post the video of me ringing the bell after the end of my treatments. I post the article he’s written on my Facebook page and am happy to see that it sparks a discussion among several people I know about getting the vaccine. I’ve had about a dozen men message me privately, telling me that they are all checking with and talking to their doctors about HPV – and they wouldn’t have if I hadn’t gone public with my diagnosis. And that – is the reason I am doing this. Truly, I don’t want anyone to go through what I have gone through these past eight weeks. It’s exhausting. It’s tough on the body. It’s tough on the spirit. And if there’s a chance it can be prevented, then I hope people might take that chance.
Sticking with our categories, today is a pretty good day. Although my throat is still fairly sore, I definitely have more of an appetite. I try to eat so I don’t scare any more of my friends who see me and are taken by surprise at how much weight I’ve lost. And I pretty much bide my time until … GAME 6 OF THE WORLD SERIES! So yes, I’m a baseball fan. It’s really the one professional sport I enjoy watching other than tennis. My love of baseball began when I was a kid and the San Diego Padres had their spring training in my hometown of Yuma, Arizona. I sold concessions in the stands, which meant I got to watch the games for free – and I loved it. And I have loved baseball ever since. Of course, I’m thrilled that the Dodgers won Game 6 and the team will play the first ever Game 7 of a World Series in franchise history at Chavez Ravine.   And not that I am in any shape to do it anyway but not for a second am I jealous that I’m not walking down Santa Monica Boulevard with several hundred thousand people. I guess I could have always gone as a cancer patient.
Too soon?
Wednesday – November 1 – Day 8 Post-Treatment
Today is what my friend, Eddie, calls my three-month Cancer-versary. Three months ago today, August 1, my ENT called me (at 7pm – never a good sign) to tell me that the pathology report on the cyst he removed from my neck had come back positive for squamous cell carcinoma caused by HPV (‘Molly, you have cancer, girl’).  And with that, the cyst graduated to tumor.  To quote the great Joan Didion, my life changed in the instant.   The ordinary instant.
I now have an oncologist and a radiation oncologist who are helping to save my life. I have had six rounds of chemotherapy – basically poison – inserted directly into my bloodstream. I have had 35 sessions of radiation pointed directly at my neck and then, more specifically, the back of my tongue, which have changed the look of my face for the rest of my life because my hair will likely not ever grow back on my neck.  I’ve experienced fatigue and malaise unlike I’ve ever experienced before.
Beyond all of that, I have been the recipient of a huge outpouring of love and support. I made a conscious decision to share this journey for two reasons – to raise awareness about what cancer patients endure during treatment and to raise the awareness about HPV-related cancers. I hoped that reading what I have had to go through would inform decisions about HPV. So far, I’m grateful that seems to have been the case.
Sticking with the categories, today is another pretty good day. The throat is still a little sore, but I am hopeful I have turned a corner.
I do something today I haven’t done in a bit – take a shower. It’s time to be out among the living again, but I know I need to take it easy. I walk down my hill to the bank on Sunset Blvd., take a little walk down Sunset and then head back home. It feels good to be outside after spending three days resting, even though I know it’s what I needed for my body.  But I feel like this was a step on the road to recovery.
My agent calls to check up on me. Phil Ervin at Rebel Entertainment Partners is more than an agent – he’s a hell of a nice guy who cares about people. I tell him that I should – and I emphasize should – be ready to get back to work on January 1st.  He tells me he’s going to start looking for things now because January 1st will be here before we know it.  I’ll be ready to get back to work after this ordeal.
I definitely have more of an appetite today. I spend much of the rest of this day reading Donna Tartt’s The Goldfinch until the first pitch of Game 7 of the World Series. The Dodgers give up five runs early (why didn’t Kershaw start again?) and can’t quite make the comeback. I still think this was one of the best World Series in baseball history and I’m grateful that the Dodgers not only gave me some hope, but gave me something to look forward to during the toughest time of this treatment.
Thursday – Day 9 Post-Treatment
Day by day, I’m starting to feel like myself again.  I don’t for a second think this is behind me yet. My taste is still pretty much non-existent and again, if anything, has gotten worse in the week and a half since treatment ended. And I still don’t have much of an appetite at all.  But while I’m still tired a lot, it’s not the malaise I had been feeling. It’s tired. Because I have been treated for cancer for the past eight weeks. That will make you tired.
I see my oncologist today for the first time since treatment ended. I get on the scale and I’m a little surprised – 162. Honestly, my appetite has sucked the past few days so I’m surprised I haven’t dropped below 160. My oncologist – the one who wants to set me up when this is all done – comes in and we literally shoot the shit about the Dodgers and the World Series for about 10 minutes. He had gone to 5 or 6 games, including games in Houston. #MyOncologistiscoolerthanyouroncologist   He tells me I have one job for the next few weeks – well, it’s actually three jobs. Rest. Eat. Hydrate.  Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Other than that, he said, “keep doing what you’re doing.”
And sure enough, by the time I’m done with this little excursion, I’m wiped. I follow the doctor’s orders to rest and stay hydrated and I’m trying really hard to get my nutrition.
Tonight, I get out to a meeting for the first time in about two weeks. I just haven’t felt like going, not to mention answer all the questions people have, including the #1 question: “How are you feeling?” But it feels good to be out among people again. I feel well enough to grab dinner afterwards at Kung Pao Bistro, where I order Orange Chicken, thinking I’ll be able to taste the pungent orange sauce. And I do – but I can’t taste the chicken. Ugh. Hey, I tried. And when this little excursion is done, I’m wiped again.
Friday and Saturday – Days 10 and 11 Post-Treatment
I’m lumping these two days together because they played out very much the same. Each day further away from treatment, I have started to feel better. My body has started to feel better. I still don’t have a consistent appetite but it has started to come and go rather than just be gone all the time.
I feel good enough to go to lunch with my great friend, Jack, who is not only like my brother but is also the father of my amazing goddaughter. Jack hasn’t seen me in person since the treatments. I launch the pre-emptive strike: “I know, I’ve lost weight.” He agrees but I think he’s relieved it’s not more.
We grab lunch at Hugo’s (hey, Glen Powell and Jason Gould) and pretty much all I can muster is some tomato soup and vegetable spring rolls – not a lot of calories. And when this little excursion is done, I’m wiped out. Home to rest for a few hours before my next appointment, which is coffee with Eddie and Zeb, our regularly scheduled Friday fixture. And when that little excursion is done, I’m wiped out. In fact, I’m in my Josh Groban concert t-shirt and sweats by 7pm and zonked by 9pm.
Saturday plays out the same way.  I hit a meeting in the morning and I’m wiped out from all the activity but I really want to make a ‘Welcome to LA’ party for the husband of a friend in the chorus and I know some chorus members will be there and that it will do my heart good to be there – and I’m right. The party is catered with tacos and beans and rice. I force down some carnitas (my favorite) but can’t really taste them. I can taste the beans and rice, though, and the amazing caramel cheesecake being served for dessert. So, I got some calories.
And – I’m wiped out. Home to rest for a few hours before a few friends come over to help me do some damage to a delivery of Jeni’s Ice Cream I’ve gotten as a thank-you gift from my friends, Keiko and Rob.   The ice cream gives me some more much-needed calories – and I’m in my Josh Groban concert t-shirt and sweats by 7pm and zonked by 9pm.
I’m so fun on Friday and Saturday nights.
Sunday – Day 12 Post-Treatment
There’s no doubt that today I feel much better, although my neck and jaw where I’ve had the surgery and where the radiation was focused are noticeably more sore than usual. I do my neck exercises and jaw stretches, but it doesn’t do much to relieve it.
My friend, David Arenas, has asked if I would sit for some pictures for his photography class. Even though I’m incredibly self-conscious about my weight and the fact that I’ve lost a lot of muscle, I decide to do it so I can document where I was on this journey 12 days after going through a very tough course of radiation and chemotherapy.  David is a fantastic photographer and I decide to do whatever he asks.
We start with me wearing a black t-shirt and jeans. It’s my idea to stay barefoot. David is working with lighting and we get one shot that looks like it could be the cover of an album, should I ever decide to record one (no). Still, I’m incredibly self-conscious. My face is noticeably thinner. My arms are noticeably thinner and less muscular. And I try my best to be in acceptance that I have just ended cancer treatment not two weeks ago.
And then, we do some shirtless shots. When I was working out 4-5 days a week at The Phoenix Effect, I was fine with some shirtless pictures – but 15 pounds lighter and decidedly less muscular, not so much. But then I was like, fuck it, it’s where I am right now. I don’t know that those pictures will ever be seen in public and I’m OK with that. But they exist.
We finish with a black dress shirt – and as I leave, I notice that I’ve barely thought about how I feel for the last two hours. That was a nice change. But I do know that I’m starving. I stop at Bossa Nova and order the traditional chicken dinner with rice and beans and plantains. My throat is much less sore and I get down almost the entire meal, something that hasn’t happened in weeks. This whole excursion has wiped me out and when I wake up after a nearly two-hour nap, I feel like crap.  My stomach hurts and I wander if I’ve actually eaten too much.  Also, my neck hurts as do several teeth on the right side of my mouth.  I spend the rest of Sunday evening vegging out in front of the TV, hoping that the trend of feeling good returns on Monday.
Monday – Day 13 Post-Treatment
Today is my first checkup with my radiation oncologist since my treatment ended 13 days ago. I still don’t have much of an appetite but my craving this morning is a sausage biscuit with egg from McDonald’s. I mean, it’s my craving a lot of mornings (I love their sausage biscuits) but my healthy self keeps me from getting them very often.  This reminds me so much of when I was taking care of Carlos and I would drive to McDonald’s every morning to get their Big Breakfast and bring it home to him.  What is it about McDonald’s that cancer patients crave?  I manage to get it down but it leaves my stomach a little upset, as do a lot of the meals I eat these days, unfortunately.
It’s time for the appointment and for the first time since my final treatment, I make the short drive to the Samuel Oschin Cancer Center at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.  Walking in, I can honestly say I feel a little PTSD.  It brings back memories of when I was being treated for cancer.  And right now, I’m hoping beyond hope that I don’t have cancer. I go to the desk in the department of Radiation Oncology and check in.
“Wow, you look good,” says Tracy, my buddy behind the desk.  Just then, the resident who was in my first appointment with my radiation oncologist walks by and looks at my neck. “Quick healer,” he says. All great to hear but what I really want to hear is that I’m cancer-free. I know I won’t hear that, though, for three months when we do another PET scan.
I sit and wait for my appointment. Beepers go off around me. Someone’s table is ready. I’m grateful that it’s not mine.  In the waiting area today, there’s a disproportionate number of husbands – older husbands – waiting for their wives. They sheepishly hold on to purses and bags while the women go in for treatment.  Some of the men look very worried, but you can tell the husbands who have been doing this a while. They’re passing their time on their iPads and Kindles.  Most of the women are wearing wigs.  I try to smile some reassurance at each of them when their beeper goes off.  You’ll get through it, I say to them with my eyes.  It might get tough, but you’ll get through it.
It’s time for my appointment. I weigh in. 160.4. Bummer. My lack of appetite is doing a bit of a number on my weight. I can tell. I still have to go in one more loop on my belt. I have even less of an ass, if that’s possible. And I’m throwing my t-shirts in the dryer before I wear them so that they’ll tighten up a bit and I’m not swimming in them (yes, there’s my secret).
I see another resident first who asks me some preliminary questions about how I’m feeling, my appetite, my throat, mucus secretions. “You look good for not even being done with treatment two weeks,” he says. “So I hear,” I say.
My radiation oncologist comes in for my checkup. “Hello, Mr. Holzer. You look good,” he says. Again, thanks, but let’s just hope there are no more pesky squamous cell carcinoma cells in my poor neck.
I tell him that my appetite isn’t great and he wants to know more about the mucus secretions, which have alternated between being really horrible and almost non-existent.   I tell him that I’m eating pretty much anything I want to eat now, when I’m hungry.  I don’t have to limit my intake to liquids or creamy food.  He takes a look at my throat. “Oh, yeah, it still looks like you had radiation there for seven weeks.  But it’s healing and the next time I see you, it should be pretty much healed.”
He says I will see him again in a month, when we will put a scope in the back of my mouth to make sure I’m healing like I should be – but he’s optimistic I will be.
“You’re doing great,” he says. “Really great.”
And this – has left me wiped out. I head home and crash on my couch for a few hours. I get up to go to a meeting and then grab some food at California Chicken Café for dinner. I pretty much force myself to have some chicken and roasted potatoes – and then my stomach hurts again and I can’t even touch the fruit salad I’ve gotten. I crawl into bed at 8:30p to try to sleep it off.
Tuesday – Two weeks post-treatment
I wake up (before sunrise, thanks Standard Time) to a text from one of my great friends who I’ve known for more than 30 years. Hans and I were fraternity brothers (Sigma Chi, if you care) at the University of Arizona and became much closer after graduation.  He’s in town on a layover from Cuba and is flying out at noon. He’s staying in Santa Monica and is there a chance I would want to come and meet him?
That answer is yes. My gut says that I don’t want to drive all the way over to Santa Monica during morning rush hour. But during this treatment, I decided that from now on, I’m going to try to take as many opportunities to see people who matter in my life as I can. I’m not trying to be morbid but you don’t know if or when you’ll get another chance. I get dressed and head to Santa Monica.
Hans and I have a great breakfast catching up at Urth Caffe. I never go to the west side so this is actually pretty cool for me. The marine layer clears quickly so after breakfast, we take a walk on the beach. We have known each other since September of 1986 and even though we don’t see each other that often, it’s always like no time has passed.
And when I get home, I’m wiped out for the rest of the day.  I know I need to find some energy before tonight because I’m going to see Hamilton (for the third time). I bought the tickets months ago, way before all this mishigas (that’s for you, Jay Shore).  I’m taking Zeb to thank him for taking such good care of me the past few months. He’s never seen it. And it’s even more appropriate – as my GMCLA brother Will Aguila points out – that I’m taking Zeb on a Tuesday night because Zeb was with me for five of the six chemotherapy treatments on Double Treatment Tuesday nights (and he FaceTimed with me from New York on the sixth).
I get dressed for a night at the theater and hope that I can hold out for the next 4 hours. I meet Zeb in front of the Pantages and we take our seats.  Just as the show is about to begin, my friend, Shannon, who I’ve known since I was 18, texts me a picture from the sixth row of the orchestra and says she’s finally in the room where it happens. Uh, so am I, I text back.  We can’t believe we are both at Hamilton on the same evening.  We catch up during intermission.  She and her husband tell me how good I look. So I’ve heard.
And by the time the show ends just after 11pm, I’m wiped.  It’s hours past my bedtime.
Wednesday – Day 15 Post-Treatment
I’m exhausted and wiped out pretty much this entire day.  I realize it’s still going to be the way of my life for the time being – I can get out for a few hours but I’m going to have to rest to balance that out. Today is also the day something happens that hasn’t happened in a few days – I toss my cookies. There’s absolutely nothing in my system so I stand over the toilet and dry-heave for about a minute but something has not settled well with me.  I’m trying to wean myself off of the medications a bit.  I’m tired of having them in my system. The one I take fairly religiously is the milder painkiller, Tramadol. Occasionally, I will still take the one that helps dry up the mucus secretions in my mouth and the Zofran for nausea and vomiting. Since my stomach is the thing giving me the most trouble now, I eat something and then take a Zofran – and my stomach feels better the rest of the day.  Duly noted.
I just looked at my calendar and there is absolutely nothing on it for this day. The only thing I did of any significance is get my car washed (for the mid-week discount, of course), eat and nap. The thing about my food intake now is, I really only want to eat prepared foods. Frozen or canned – not so much. So I’m picking up things from the deli and freshly made soups near supermarket salad bars – which is great but gets a little pricey after a bit.  I remember being in Hong Kong and watching people on their way home from work shop for dinner at open-air markets. They grabbed fresh vegetables and fruits – everything they eat is freshly prepared and that includes chickens, which are alive and squawking in cages until … they’re not. I can’t taste much, so what I can taste is precious.
Thursday – Day 16 Post-Treatment
This was a day of firsts and the day that I really felt like a corner was turned. I spent most of the morning on the couch, resting. I’m surprised at just how much going to Hamilton on Tuesday night affected me.  At noon, I get my first haircut in six weeks.  I’m very lucky (and grateful) that the chemotherapy and radiation treatments – which I had to have #BecauseIHaveCancer – didn’t make my hair fall out.  Except for about a weird inch and a half in the back along my neckline. And the weird part was, it fell out in a completely straight line. It looked as though someone had taken clippers and gone zipppp. So, I decided to let the rest of my hair grow out a little bit so that Jeff, who cuts my hair, could fade the part that fell out in with the rest of it.  And that’s exactly what he did, brilliantly.  You can’t even tell anything fell out.
The next first was a trip to the gym. I hadn’t set foot inside a gym or my beloved boot camp, The Phoenix Effect, since the day before the initial surgery to remove the cyst – July 27th. It’s not that I couldn’t make it physically and the doctors never said I couldn’t go to the gym but after the diagnosis, I just didn’t feel like it. I was very protective of my neck where doctors had removed the cyst and I didn’t want anyone accidentally hitting it. And frankly, I had other things on my mind. But lying on the couch Thursday morning, I decided it was time. After the haircut, I head to LA Fitness. I know I need to take it easy – and I do. After a long stretch, I hit the bicep curl machine and I set it to 10 pounds. I just want to get my muscles moving again. I do a set of 8, rest and then up it to 20 pounds. I do a set of 8, rest and then up it to 30 pounds.   I don’t do any cardio because I can’t afford to lose any more weight. My jeans are falling off me the way it is. I spend about an hour on machines working on my arms and then on the mat doing some core work – and I’m wiped out.   Time for a nap.
This evening, I meet up with a friend who – it turns out – had the exact same kind of cancer back in 2009 that I had – squamous cell carcinoma caused by HPV.  I hadn’t seen him in person since the diagnosis and going through the treatment. We arrange to meet outside the Salt and Straw in West Hollywood (yum). When he crosses Santa Monica Blvd, he walks up to me and asks – before anything else –
“When did you finish treatment?”
“16 days ago.”
“I hate you,” he says.
“Why?”
“Because you look good,” he says. “If I didn’t know you’d had cancer, I couldn’t tell.”
He goes on to say that he lost 60 pounds – not 16 like me, 60 – during his treatment. I can’t even fathom that. We talk about the fact that we both did everything possible to avoid having a feeding tube, including wearing our heaviest tennis shoes and layers of clothes on the day we weigh in to add any possible additional pounds. I’m grateful that he shared his experience with me – and it makes me even more grateful for the care that I have been given by the doctors at Cedars-Sinai. Also, my friend tells me he didn’t have much of a support system during the time he was going through his treatment. He went through it pretty much alone. I had an army of angels.
That night, before I crawl into bed, I say an extra little prayer for that army. I’m so lucky.
Friday – Day 17 Post-Treatment
Another day of getting out of the house mixed with naps. Welcome to the life of a cancer patient, post-treatment.
I grab coffee with a friend in the morning and then head to the Arclight Theater in Hollywood to see “Murder on the Orient Express”. It’s a much different experience than when I went there to see a movie there just a few weeks prior. My energy level is different (more). My pain level is different (almost non-existent).   My ability to taste is … unfortunately, about the same. I get some Junior Mints at the concession stand and I can taste the mint for a hot second but can’t really taste the chocolate (which I have found during the entire treatment … I can taste vanilla, but not chocolate.) Still, I make it through the movie (beautifully shot, superb acting) with no problems at all – and then I’m wiped out. Nap time for a few hours.
It’s Friday afternoon and I can feel myself starting to get a little stir crazy. I’ve cleared my schedule to recover through the end of the year and I’ve told my agent that I’ll be ready to go back to work January 1st. But as I sit at Starbucks later that afternoon with Eddie and Zeb and see people scurrying home from work, I’m almost a little envious. I know this time will pass quickly and it will be January 1st before I know it – but I wasn’t expecting to feel this good so fast.
At the meeting that evening, a fantastic reminder that I needed: my serenity is inversely proportional to my expectations and is directly proportional to my level of acceptance.
I had to get into acceptance very quickly that I had been diagnosed with cancer. I needed to accept it so that I could get it treated before it spread anywhere else in my body. And even though I was being treated for cancer, the fact that we caught it early and that I was treating it early really helped my level of serenity. It would not do me – or anyone around me – any good to worry about the possible outcome. Do I have an expectation that it will all turn out in my favor? You bet I do. But that’s really based more on hope than on true expectation.
The doctors have done their job.
I have done and am doing my job.
It’s up to the Universe now.
Saturday and Sunday – Days 18 and 19 Post-Treatment
For the first time since October 1, I feel strong enough to head to Runyon Canyon for a hike. The round-trip hike from where I park my car, up the road to the gate at Mulholland Drive and back down is a little over 3 miles. It takes about an hour at a good, brisk clip.
Zeb and Eddie and I start up about 2pm. I am slathered in sunscreen and wearing a hat because I have to, from now on. I don’t want my neck to turn beet red from all the radiation it’s endured the past two months. I need to take it a little slow on the steeper sections but for the most part, I get up and down pretty well.
So well in fact, that I do it again on Sunday morning with one of my producers from Hollywood Today LIVE. It’s a little overcast but I am still slathered with sunscreen and wearing a hat. We are talking and catching up and I don’t even realize that we’re going at a pretty brisk pace.
And then – I’m wiped out. Those two hikes have completely exhausted me and all I can do for the entire rest of Sunday starting about noon is take a shower and lie on my couch and finish reading “The Girl On The Train”. My one big craving today, though, is KFC and I drive all the way to 3rd Street for chicken tenders, mashed potatoes and gravy and cole slaw. Those mashed potatoes and gravy are amazing and slide down so easy. My throat is a little sore today so I decide to rest my voice and watch what I eat the rest of the day.
Monday – Day 20 Post-Treatment
In a weird way, it doesn’t seem real – or possible – that I have been diagnosed with cancer.  I’m not in denial in any way but I’m starting to feel more and more like myself every day.   And the words, ‘I’m sorry, you have cancer’ almost seem like they were told to someone else, not me. I decided right away when I heard those words on August 1 that I wasn’t going to let that diagnosis rule my life. The treatments took their toll on my body and are still working on me and they let me know that yes, indeed, I’m being treated for cancer.
But these past four months are starting to feel like a blip on the radar of my life. They certainly seem surreal. Hearing the doctor tell me I have cancer, meeting with an oncologist and a radiation oncologist, laying on a table every day while beams of radiation were pointed at my poor neck, sitting in an Infusion Center for hours while toxic poison was pumped into my bloodstream … it almost doesn’t seem possible that it happened to me.
I’m brought back to reality by a call from my radiation oncologist’s office (wah wahhhhh). They’re calling to schedule my six-week follow-up, where he will put a scope down my throat to make sure it’s healing properly, and to schedule my PET-CT scan, which will show us if we got all the cancer out. That will happen the third week of January. I have to believe it’s all gone and I will be prepared to do whatever is next if it’s not.
And I have some news for them: I’m going to be appearing on Good Day LA on Wednesday for a segment on HPV-related cancers. The news director, Kris Knutsen, who’s been a very good friend for more than 20 years, told me right away when I was still working there that she thought this would be a good segment for the show. Not enough people are aware. Not enough people know. Not enough parents know. So I’m going to appear on the show I used to produce. And I plan to give a huge amount of love to my radiation oncologist and the fine folks in that department at Cedars-Sinai.
I was thinking about this last night, how I just fell into being cared for there. When my ENT called with the diagnosis and I asked him what I need to do next, he told me who to call the next morning. He gave me the name of an oncologist and a radiation oncologist. I guess I could’ve gone to another doctor or another hospital for treatment, but that thought never crossed my mind. I just went where he told me go. I’m so glad I did.
Since I’m starting to feel better, I’m scheduling lunches and coffee and desserts and anything else possible. It feels like I was cooped up in my condo forever but it really was only about four weeks. Lunch today is with my great friend, Zachary Krasman, who used to be in the chorus. Zach and his husband, Nikolas, are now the parents of a gorgeous two-year-old and he’s a little busy raising a child to sing in the chorus right now. We have a great lunch catching up – and I’m wiped out. I have to go home to take a nap before a meeting tonight and then, dessert at Salt and Straw with another one of my favorites, Melvin Robert. Melvin’s never been to Salt and Straw so we pop that cherry and have a great time catching up – and I’m wiped out.
I’m home and in bed by 8:30 (I’m so fun) and I have to set my alarm because I’m meeting Beth Bishop, the owner of the Phoenix Effect, for a training session at 7am. Beth has graciously offered to give me a free training session to help me get back into working out again. I trust her to help me get my body back in shape but not hurting it in the process. I’m going to take it easy. I have to. But my mind says I’m ready to get back to boot camp.
Tuesday – Three Weeks Post-Treatment
I’m a big one for dates and anniversaries and momentous occasions. I remember them. They mean something to me. So it made sense that three weeks after I finished my last radiation treatment – which I had because I have cancer – that I would do my first training and workout session with my fitness boss, Beth Bishop.  Beth is one of the owners of The Phoenix Effect, where I have gone to boot camp classes for more than 3 years. I was going to class there four days a week during the months of May, June and much of July and had gotten myself into some of the best shape of my life.  It turns out, doing that was key to why I seemed to tolerate the cancer treatment as well as I did, even thought it was tough as shit.  Fitness.
For an hour, Beth puts me through some pretty basic moves, moves I’ve done a thousand times before. But while I get through them all, I wear out easily. Not surprised.  I have to take a lot of rest breaks and drink a ton of water. I’m grateful to Beth for helping me ease back into something I have missed as much as I have missed anything else during this whole ordeal.
By the way, this was not always me. When I was in my thirties, I had a 35-inch waist and weighed about 185 – and that was not muscle.  When I got into my 40s, I realized that I’d better start taking care of myself if I wanted my body to hold out until old age. I had started working out with a friend, going to the gym fairly religiously. But it wasn’t until I started going to The Phoenix Effect a few years ago that I found my religion. Working out with a group of people is fun and pushes me harder than working out alone. After the diagnosis, I didn’t go to boot camp at all. In fact, I haven’t been since July 27th, the day before the surgery. My plan – if my body agrees – is to do my first class back at The Phoenix Effect on December 1st. That’s four months to the day since I found out I have cancer (I told you, I’m all about dates and momentous occasions). We’ll see if that works out but I like the significance.
And then – I’m wiped out. I have to go home and take a nap. That’s still my routine these days. I can get up and do something but then I have to take a nap.  I have an event tonight so I know I need to rest.
That night, I get a little dressed up and attend a event for donors and subscribers to the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles. I’m the Vice-Chair of the Board of Directors and it’s important for me to be there. I’m grateful that I feel well enough to attend and see not only the people who support the chorus but my friends I haven’t seen in a while and who have all been very worried about me.  It does my heart and soul good.  A friend who has known me for 15 years says I look too skinny and when I see pictures the next day, WOW, my face looks skinny. I know it will come back but it’s noticeable.
And then – I’m wiped out and I have to be up in the morning for an appearance on Good Day LA (weird to even write those words.)
Wednesday – Day 22 Post-Treatment
I started working as an Executive Producer on Good Day LA just about the same time I got the diagnosis. Honestly, I thought I could continue working and get through the treatments. I lasted exactly a month. I started treatment on September 6th and my last day at Good Day LA was October 6th. It was just too taxing on my body to get up hours before dawn every morning, oversee a 3-hour show, plan coverage for the next day and days, go home, take a nap, get up, go to Cedars-Sinai to have my treatment because I have cancer (and on Tuesdays, that meant double treatments), go home, sleep for about 5 hours and do it all again the next day.  It’s a tough-enough schedule even if I wasn’t going through what I was going through.
From the minute I told my friend Kris Knutsen, the news director at KTTV, about my cancer and the diagnosis, she thought it would be an important news story to tell.  HPV-related cancers in men is not something that has been very much in the public consciousness.  I certainly didn’t know about it. So last week, she called and asked if I was physically and mentally ready to come on Good Day LA and do a segment about it. I told her I’m ready. There’s a segment called Wellness Wednesday so it made sense to do it there. I would do the segment with the show’s resident doctor, Sonu Ahluwalia (to provide medical context) and the hosts, Steve Edwards and Lisa McRee, both of whom I know and love and who love me.  Steve and Lisa had both texted me throughout the treatment to see how I was doing and to send me their love and support.
I worked with my friend, Josh Kaplan, the show’s longtime Executive Producer.  I sent relevant pictures and the video of me ringing the bell after the final treatment. When I arrived at the station on Wednesday morning, there was so much love coming my way. I know they were all concerned because even though I hadn’t shared the diagnosis publicly while I was there, they knew something was going on.
I warmed up by doing a Facebook LIVE interview with morning anchor Araksya Karpetyan and then the segment on the show about 8:40am. Weirdly, I was nervous. I’m used to being on the other side of the camera and in the ears of the anchors telling them to keep the show moving. But I was really pleased with how the segment turned out. I felt like we got a lot of information out and I really want men and parents of boys to be aware that this type of cancer exists. The doctor handled his part perfectly and I got to have a little fun with the mask that I’d worn during radiation.
After the show airs, I start getting messages on Facebook and Twitter from people telling me their stories of having cancer caused by HPV – mostly from wives and sisters of men (straight men, by the way) who have had it. Some of the stories are survivor stories. Some are not. And that – has been an interesting part of this journey. When I decided to go public with this battle, I knew I was opening myself up and giving people permission to reach out and to have a reaction.  It’s natural for people to want to share their own battles or the journey that they have been through with loved ones.  It’s hard though, sometimes, when I hear stories about people who didn’t make it, particularly if they have the same kind of cancer that has affected me.  It’s tough – because I want to make it.  I want to be a success story, a story of survival.
I spend the rest of the morning and early afternoon answering messages – and then I’m wiped out. The adrenaline, the emotion, everything has exhausted me and I need a nap.
When I wake up, I’m craving KFC again. The chicken is a little difficult to get down but as long as I have their sweet tea to help me, I can. But the mashed potatoes and gravy and the cole slaw are AMAZING and I need them in my life one more time.   I spend the rest of the day answering messages from people who saw the segment on Good Day LA.  I’ve posted it on Facebook for friends and family to watch as well. S everal of my friends respond that this will be the most important work I’ve ever done – to raise awareness. If one man finds a lump somewhere it shouldn’t be or if one parent talks to their doctor about vaccinating their child – especially their sons – it will have been worth it.
Thursday – Day 23 Post-Treatment
I wake up VERY SORE from my workout on Tuesday morning. My muscles were not used to that and I feel it.  I spend the majority of this morning taking it very easy.  Wednesday was a big day and it really left me wiped out so I decide not to push it.
I still can’t eat really spicy foods and I feel like I’ve been pushing myself a little bit on foods that I shouldn’t be eating yet.  Bread is very difficult because it’s so dry. Crackers and cookies are definitely difficult for the same reason – they’re dry.  It doesn’t matter if it’s a moist cookie, it’s difficult for me to swallow yet without get a bit of a sore throat.  My throat has definitely been a little more sore the past few days because I think I’m pushing foods I shouldn’t and I’ve been talking non-stop. So it’s a good thing that today is my final regular appointment with my Speech and Swallow Therapist.
Remember, this is the appointment that threw me for a loop the first time I found out about it. I couldn’t believe that my speech was going to get so difficult and that my ability to swallow was going to be so hard that I needed a rehab therapist to get me through it. At today’s appointment, it’s obvious that my speech is absolutely fine and I’m swallowing nearly everything without any trouble (except for the spicy and dry foods).  She was concerned about my singing voice and my vocal range and I tell her that I did scales on the way over with no problem at all.  Because my voice isn’t warmed up and I haven’t sung in a few months, I’m not pushing the high notes but I wouldn’t push them even if I hadn’t just gone through radiation treatment.  She has me swallow some pears in juice (no sweat) and tells me to continue to do my jaw stretching exercises. My jaw has been a little tight the past few days so I promise I will continue those and my exercises to stretch my neck – but apart from that, I’m cool for three months.
The next appointment of the day (I’m busy) is with my regular therapist, who I haven’t seen since about week 2 of my treatment. Cedars-Sinai provides a clinical social worker to help their patients through treatment (a huge plus) that I could’ve seen every week but I told her I have my own therapist who I love and will see throughout the treatment to keep my head on straight when my mind told me otherwise. I’ve seen him exactly once, so I was ready.
I tell him about being on Good Day LA and having people reach out to me, including family and friends of men who didn’t make it. I tell him about the conflict I have with that = I want people to be able to reach out and I want to hear success stories. It’s tough. I admit to him something I’ve only admitted that one night to Zeb during my second chemotherapy.  In the back of my mind, I’m scared.  What if the PET scan in January shows more cancer or that this treatment didn’t kill what was already there? I know it does me absolutely no good to worry or think like that because even if I worry about it, whatever is going to happen is going to happen.  I need to keep moving forward as if it’s gone.  And in the entire hour, I tear up only once. My therapist asks me if I’ve had good support throughout the treatment.  I can only shake my head yes because the tears are starting to fall (and are starting to fall again while I’m writing this). I’ve had what I call an army of angels watching out for me, checking in on me, offering to bring me food, offering to give me rides, offering to just come and sit with me to be here in case I wanted another human being present. I am extraordinarily lucky and extraordinarily grateful to have been the recipient – and continued recipient – of so much love and concern.
And then – I’m wiped out. I grab a chicken pita for dinner, head to a meeting and I’m in bed and asleep by 8:45. I’m fun.
Friday – Day 24 Post Treatment
I’m supposed to start the day hiking Runyon Canyon with a friend but his back hurts so I head up alone. It’s my first solo Runyon Canyon hike.  I stick to the road, not the more difficult incline on the far west side, which is my usual route (next time).  But I do manage a little jog up the road a few times and that’s new. I don’t push it and when I get tired – which is pretty quickly – I stop and walk again. But being outside in the fresh air and sunshine is giving me some motivation and I manage a few bursts of a run. Baby steps. I get a little under 4 miles in and I feel good about that.
After an afternoon coffee catching up with one of my former producers on Hollywood Today LIVE, I head to Culver City to see Spamilton at the Kirk Douglas Theater. I’m meeting my great friend, Gary, there for dinner and the show. But I’m missing a reunion of my family on Hollywood Today LIVE in Sherman Oaks. I’ve had the tickets for this show forever and I’m so bummed I’m missing that reunion. That show was special and will always be special to me, mostly because of the staff and crew and the hosts. We were a family and will be forever connected. But catching up with Gary is fantastic and Spamilton is fabulous and I love a good night at the theater. Gary takes me home and I’m passed out by 11pm. Because I’m fun on a Friday night.
Saturday – Day 25 Post Treatment
This is the day I can’t believe has come so quickly.  My birthday was on Saturday, October 21st. If you’ve been reading, you know that it fell at the end of my sixth week of treatments.  My final chemotherapy had been on Tuesday evening, earlier that week.  So by the time Saturday rolled around, I was feeling it.  All I could muster was sitting on my couch eating soup, watching Netflix. My friends had decided we would celebrate three weeks later.  It felt so far away.
It turns out that one of my favorite groups, The Tenors, was performing that night at the Saban Theater.  Eddie got tickets for my birthday. We went to Taste for dinner before the show and I ate what I could … taste.  My throat still can’t handle a lot of bread items or things like Brussels sprouts that have somewhat of a rough exterior.  But the chicken dinner came soaked in gravy with mashed potatoes and it all went down smoothly. Our waiter tonight is named Athens. That really has no bearing on anything, other than the fact that his name is Athens and that’s his real name.
To The Tenors. It was the fourth or fifth time I’d seen them in concert and this night did not disappoint. They are powerhouse vocalists and it was the perfect birthday present. And for 90 minutes, I forgot about the fact that I was at this concert not just because I love The Tenors, but to celebrate another year of life.  I’m still here.  And I plan to be for a long time.
Sunday and Monday – Day 26 and 27 Post Treatment
I spent these two days really resting.  In the past week, I’ve had a training session to get my body working again, I’ve been on television and heard from so many kind folks after that appearance, hiked Runyon, gone to the theater and a concert.   Basically, I lived my life.   That was a very far cry from just two weeks prior when I still couldn’t muster doing anything but head straight to my couch after getting out of bed.  I’m about to take my first trip since treatment ended so I use these two days to give my body a break.
Tuesday – Four Weeks Post-Treatment
I’m heading to Colorado to spend Thanksgiving with my two oldest brothers. Quite honestly, when I made the reservation more than a month prior, I made it to give me some hope, something to look forward to. But I wasn’t sure if I was going to be feeling up to the trip, much less stay the entire week I have planned to stay. My flight is four weeks to the day since I rang that bell after my final radiation treatment (#BecauseIHaveCancer and which I still get teary-eyed watching). But I feel much better than I thought I was going to feel at this point in the journey so Colorado, it is.
I spend nearly every Thanksgiving there, but this one is a little different. As much as my family (and friends, for that matter) can see pictures of the progress I’m making on social media and they can hear my voice and know that it’s getting stronger like my body, it’s not the same as seeing someone in person who’s gone through what I’ve gone through. This was a scary, shitty, traumatic thing. Even though I handled the treatments better than a lot of people, say my doctors, it was still fucking grueling. So I’m excited not just to leave LA and the events of the past 3 ½ months behind for a bit, but to let my brothers see me in person.  I know they were scared for me.
And no surprise, it’s emotional. My brother, Jerry, picks me up at the airport in Denver. When he gets out of the car to put my luggage in and to hug me, I damn near burst into tears. I have had great friends in Los Angeles take such good care of me and my longtime best friend, Kim, flew down to stay with me right after the treatment but for the most part, I’ve gone through this ordeal at home alone.  Jerry had offered to come and stay with me after Kim left, which was actually the most difficult time of the whole thing.  I appreciated the offer but declined.   That was my choice. I could’ve gone to stay with friends and if I had asked any one of them to come and stay with me for a few days, they would have.  But I realize as I am hugging my brother (and for an extended amount of time and I don’t care that there are cars waiting to pick up other passengers) that I have missed the love of my family.
We drive the 45 minutes to his home in Loveland and my sister-in-law, Carolyn, who I have known since I was 3. A nd when I hug her, more tears in my eyes.  Carolyn’s mom, Nancy, went through radiation treatments for throat cancer so Carolyn has seen it firsthand. She knows the challenges and how difficult it can be.  And five years after the end of her treatments, Nancy is still here (and will figure prominently in my Thanksgiving dinner).
I’m tired after traveling so our evening is just grabbing some dinner out and then a little trip to a sporting goods store called Scheel’s, which has a full-sized Ferris wheel AND a full-sized aquarium in it. Seriously, it’s incredible. Also, this is the first day in a very long time that I don’t take a nap and my body is definitely feeling it.  I’ve been running on adrenaline – and the adrenaline is running out.
Wednesday – Day 29 Post-Treatment
My brother, his son – my oldest nephew, Josh – and I drive up to Black Hawk, the casino mountain town, to do a little gambling (because isn’t that what everybody does the day before Thanksgiving?)  We meet up with my oldest brother, Terry, and his girlfriend of 30 years, Karen, who come to Colorado nearly every Thanksgiving as well.   We arrange to meet them at a casino and when I see and hug both of them for the first time – more tears. Can’t help it.  My luck hasn’t been all that great lately (or maybe it has?) so I decide I’m going to play $40 and that’s it. I sit down next to my brothers to play my usual video poker and I am sucking wind, big time. $20 is gone fast so I’m done there.   I wander around and find a slot machine, insert a $20 bill, bet the max and spin the reels. Nothing. Bet the max, spin again – 7’s all the way across. I won $215! I decide not to press my luck any further. I cash out and I’m done gambling for the day.   After a dinner to avoid Thanksgiving Eve traffic, we head to Loveland. For the second day in a row, I have not had a nap.  And for the second day in a row, I’m exhausted and I have to get up early because of a Thanksgiving Day tradition.
Thursday – Thanksgiving Day
For as long as I’ve been going to Loveland for Thanksgiving, I get up just before sunrise and take a picture of the sun coming up. Jerry and Carolyn live next to a lake so if I time it just right, I can catch the reflection in the water. And when I post that picture, I always include the gratitude for my life and all of the incredible blessings that have come my way in the past year -and there have been many.
But this year is different. I’m still here. Again, I don’t mean to sound dramatic. But I do hear the words of my ENT in my head often. “This is serious. This could kill you.”   I take those words to heart. I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure this shit doesn’t kill me, of course, and that sounds weird to even write. But this year, I have an enormous amount of gratitude that I am still here on another Thanksgiving morning.
And Thanksgiving morning means the Fort Collins Turkey Trot. It’s something we have done for several years as a family. Some walk (we have little kiddies to push in a stroller), but my nephews Josh and Joe, my niece, Camy, and I usually run it. This year, I don’t plan to run.  Even though I’ve hiked up Runyon a few times, I know my cardio and stamina are not what they used to be. And it’s only been four weeks since I ended those grueling treatments.
It’s an unusually warm morning – about 43 degrees at the start time (easily 20 degrees warmer than it was the previous year). In the sun, it feels warmer. I get to the starting line and start to walk with the thousands of other people. But as I get out of the pack a little bit, I start a light jog and find that I’m actually feeling pretty good.   I have my Map My Run app open on my phone so I give myself goals to try and reach while I run. I want to try to run ½ mile and then walk ¼, then run another ½ mile and so on. The sun is pushing me but the altitude is holding me back. Not only have I not run like this in 4 months but I certainly haven’ t run like this at an altitude of more than a mile high. So I run as much as I can and when I get tired, I don’t push myself. I walk. The run is exactly 4 miles and when I round the final corner, I can’t help myself. I sprint to the finish line. My time is 55:03 – a full 13 minutes slower than the previous year and nearly 13 minutes per mile – but I feel like I just crossed the finish line of the Boston Marathon.  I think I ran about 2 ½ miles and walked the mile and a half.  This was an accomplishment and I’m damn proud of my body for holding out.  But I can’t go three days in a row without a nap – especially after that run – so after a late breakfast at my nephew’s house, it’s home to sleep before Thanksgiving dinner.
At dinner that evening, I sit next to Carolyn’s mom, Nancy.  I’ve known this woman since before I can remember and she’s now a spry 87.  Nancy went through radiation treatments on her throat and had a hellish experience. But she is still here and she is cancer-free – and she gives me hope. She’s been following my blog and she’s constantly sending me her prayers and I’m grateful. And now we share something that the others at the table do not. We have battled cancer. Nancy is also a nurse so she asks me about my course of treatment and what the doctors and nutritionist suggested in the weeks after. Four weeks later, I can eat most anything if I really want to, but I still have to be cautious of my throat. I’ll eat turkey but I’ll soak it in gravy. The mashed potatoes and green bean casserole are perfect, but I pass on the kale salad because the leaves are rough. I eat a dinner roll (hello, it’s bread) but I soak it in butter because bread is usually too dry to go down my throat. For a second, I think about all the weight I’m gaining but I know it’s good that I’m putting the pounds back on. Four weeks ago tonight, I looked and felt like a cancer patient. My face was gaunt, my clothes didn’t fit and I had zero appetite. That is less the case now, especially after this big dinner. And for dessert, there’s pumpkin pie. It’s my favorite but I’m bummed to find out that I can’t really taste the pumpkin. I’m not sure why it’s just one of those flavors that don’t come through on my taste buds.  I sure can taste the Cool Whip, though (can I get a whoop whoop for Cool Whip?)
And when I hug Nancy goodbye – again with more tears in my eyes – I get the feeling that this is not the last time I will see her. I don’t know why I feel that. Maybe it’s hope. But I feel it.
Friday – Tuesday
I won’t bore you with every minute of the trip but I will say that I attended my first-ever semi-professional hockey game (surprisingly fun, especially with a bunch of little boys watching with you) and for the first time, I went to a driving range to hit golf balls. I wasn’t sure about my strength but it turns out you really just need a good swing and good form to send that little sucker flying.  I find myself saying ‘yes’ to a lot more things these days.
The goodbyes to my brother and his girlfriend from Indianapolis on Saturday morning are, as expected, not easy. I know that they hope for the best possible outcome from the treatments, as do I. And I know the thoughts that can creep into your mind if you let them. But after they leave, my agenda until I return to Los Angeles is to rest. It’s been a whirlwind few days.  I’m wiped out. My throat hurts at the end of each night from both talking and eating pretty much everything in sight (including an entire bag of saltwater taffy from a shop in Estes Park on Friday).   So for three nights in a row, my brother, sister-in-law and I watch screeners that I get as a member of the Producers Guild of America. We saw Last Flag Flying (great performances in a poignant movie), Wonderstruck (I wasn’t) and War of the Planet of The Apes (loved – one of the best movies of the year, IMHO).
And just like that, it’s Tuesday and time for more goodbyes. The hugs are a little tighter and a little longer. The tears spill over rather than just fill. I know my family has been scared. I hope to give them news in a few months to take away some of that fear.
Tuesday Afternoon (five weeks post treatment) – Thursday
I return from that week in Colorado to a flurry of medical bills. Anyone who has ever experienced an extended illness knows what my mailbox looked like.  It’s overwhelming.  It’s daunting.  And it’s not pretty.
Again, I will give some gratitude here for the fact that I have COBRA – or health insurance at all, for that matter. I have not allowed myself to add up what the cost of this whole thing would have been without it. Doctors appointments to try to figure out the cause of the lump in my neck, the initial surgery to remove it, oncologist and radiation oncologist appointments, another surgery to try to find the origin of the cancer, 35 radiation treatments, 6 chemotherapy treatments, etc. It’s a lot. And of course, every little thing costs money (those little yellow booties I put on my feet during the surgeries cost money).  I don’t know how much it’s all going to cost me, at the end of the day. But what’s the alternative?  Not being treated for cancer? Not fighting it to the absolute best of my ability? That’s not a great alternative.
I arrange the bills on my desk in the order of their deadlines and promise myself that I will call these folks to set up payment plans.
These days, I’m starting to be a little more judicious about my eating. My throat starts to get really sore in the evenings. One reason might be that I’ve been eating French fries nearly every day and the salt is irritating my throat. What am I supposed to do, not eat French fries?  But I might make the sacrifice to avoid the pain. Also, I’m never without water. My mouth still gets very dry not only from the radiation but from the fact that both Colorado and California have been so dry this winter. There’s no moisture in the air.  Plus, I still need water during meals to help wash things down.
Wednesday and Thursday are spent handling some business and accepting invitations from friends to see shows and for coffee. This time is allowing me the opportunity to hang out with people with whom I would not normally get the chance or have just never taken the chance. Turns out I know some pretty great people.
Friday, December 1st – Four months since the diagnosis
It’s my four-month Cancer-versary, as my friend, Eddie, calls it. Four months ago today came the phone call that changed my life from here on out. At times, it feels like that phone call was four years ago. I have an appointment with my oncologist today and on the way over, I start to reflect on everything that I’ve gone through in the past four months. Since I’m feeling pretty good these days, it’s weirdly easy to forget. And maybe that’s not a bad thing.
The big surprise when I get to my oncologist appointment is my weight. I’m back up to 171. I can’t believe it. I guess Thanksgiving and all those French fries did the trick. My face still looks a bit thin but I can tell the difference in my body. There’s more weight on it. I decide right there that if the oncologist gives the OK, I’m going back to boot camp on Sunday.  I know I needed to gain weight but I don’t want to overdo it.
My oncologist comes in and what’s the first thing he says? “You look good.” I start laughing and tell him I’ve been hearing that a lot lately and I’m not getting tired of it.  I think people expect me to be frail and gaunt and while I experienced that for a couple of weeks, that is no longer my story.  I’m getting a little chunk around the middle and he is very happy to hear that I’m back up to 170 (I’m glad one of us is.)
I get up on the examining table and he starts feeling all around my neck. No lumps.
He feels all up and down my shoulders and upper chest. No lumps.
He lifts my arms and feels underneath both armpits. No lumps.
So far, so good, he says, and I breathe a little sigh of relief.  But there’s another thing I want to discuss with him.
The husband of a good friend of mine had been diagnosed with the exact same thing as me – squamous cell carcinoma caused by HPV.  It was already Stage 4 by the time of the diagnosis. And it turns out that his husband’s oncologist … was my oncologist. Many of the same reassurances that had been given to him about his prognosis and chances for beating the cancer were also given to me. So I started to ask my oncologist about it and before I could even finish my question, he puts his hand up and stops me.
“Hold on, hold on. These are two very different things. These are two very different cases. Your situation is not his situation. You cannot compare the two,” he said. And then, he says something a bit surprising.
“This is why I’m not a big fan of cancer support groups. People compare. It’s natural. It’s also why I tell my patients not to go online and do their own detective work. They’re going to read about things that don’t apply to them. Everyone’s body reacts differently to treatment,” he said. I tell him that I needed to ask him for my own peace of mind, which he completely understood. “You’re going to be fine,” he said. “And when this is over, I’m setting you up with my friend.”  And he says there’s no reason at all why I shouldn’t go to boot camp on Sunday.
Since the checkup went so well, I feel pretty much on top of the world. So what else would I do but walk to Club Monaco in Beverly Hills and buy a cute black hoodie (way on sale, I have medical bills). But I’m anxious to spread the good news with my family and friends.  I head home to nap to get ready for an annual holiday tradition that night.
It’s the fourth year in a row that I’ve organized a group of my fellow members of the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles to hit Zoo Lights at the Los Angeles Zoo. The lights are great but basically, it’s turned into a chance for us all to catch up with one another and eat what may be the best kettle corn I’ve ever had in my life. Our tickets are for the 8pm entry so we have plans to meet outside the front gate about 7:45pm.  All but one of us is there on time.  My friend, Melvin, walks up late with a grocery bag.  Inside are plastic drinking glasses and a bottle of sparkling cider.  Once all the glasses are poured, Melvin proposes a toast … to me.
“We love you, Steve,” he says, “And we’re so glad you’re here.” (I’m pretty sure I’m quoting him accurately but I had tears in my eyes and my right ear is still pretty plugged up from the radiation so I wasn’t concentrating on the direct quote.)  We clink our plastic glasses, down our cider and head into the Zoo. Pictures are taken. Conversations are had. Tea is spilled. But above all else, there is love.  And after a day that saw a good health checkup, a great bargain and the strengthening of enduring friendships, I’m exhausted.
But damn, my heart is full.
Saturday – December 2
I’m exhausted after that full night of walking around the zoo so after a morning meeting, I take a nap and then in the early afternoon I head to Runyon Canyon with one goal in mind.  Tomorrow, I’m doing my first boot camp class since July 27th so I want to try to make sure my fitness level is up somewhat. My goal this day is to hike up the more difficult, furthest west trail of Runyon Canyon.  It’s a really steep incline and there’s no doubt you get a great cardio workout, especially if you push yourself not to stop until you reach the top (which I usually do – but I wasn’t sure about that today).
And so about 2pm, I slather on sunscreen, throw on a hat to protect myself, crank Idina Menzel in my headphones and begin the trek up the hill.   There’s a dead tree that lies on its side about a quarter of the way up. It’s my goal to make it there without stopping. I make it. But I need to catch my breath. That location offers a fantastic view of the entire city of Los Angeles. I look from the east – and the skyscraper-laden skyline of downtown Los Angeles – to west – the Pacific, grab a breath and march on.
There are a few spots that are flat on the hill where I typically break into a little jog but I am determined to keep going, up one incline then a run, then the toughest incline, then a little jog and finally up a few sets of wooden stairs that lead to a big power transmitter.  That’s where I take my big rest. I made it. I was slower and definitely more deliberate in my footing.  I checked myself every step of the way to make sure I wasn’t overdoing it.  And I made it. I’ll be fine tomorrow.  Again, that fitness has served me so well for the past few months.
My great friend, Gary, has invited me to see Something Rotten with him at the Ahmanson Theater. Gary is the one I called to go with me to see The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-time three days after the doctor told me I had cancer. He’s a therapist and I knew he would be a calming presence – and he was – and he is.
I love going to the Music Center in downtown Los Angeles. It’s my favorite place in this entire city that I love so much. But I love it especially during the holidays because Grand Park is decked out all the way to City Hall. I get downtown early on purpose so I can sit on the steps across the street and gaze at the city’s huge Christmas tree. There is no doubt that it gives me comfort, peace. Gary arrives and we eat my requisite pre-theater meal – tacos from the taco place on the plaza. They’re still a little difficult for me to get down – everything is still a little difficult for me to get down – so I take a gulp of water with pretty much every bite.  But I’m not going to not have tacos before the theater. I refrain from ordering my usual chips and guacamole, though.  My throat wouldn’t like the chips.   Gary and I run down and take some pictures by the Christmas tree and then it’s time for the show – which is one of the best touring productions I’ve ever seen. All of the performers are Broadway caliber because most of them have been on Broadway (including Adam Pascal from Rent – yowsa).  After the show, as I head back to my car, one more look at the tree. One more wish upon the star on the top of that tree that this cancer thing is behind me. I find myself doing that every place and every chance I get – saying a little prayer that it’s gone.
Sunday – December 3
Today was a day I had been anticipating for weeks – my return to The Phoenix Effect for boot camp. If you’ve been following you know this is the place I’ve been going for the past 3 ½ years to keep up my fitness. And the doctors all credited my fitness as a reason I got through the grueling treatments as well as I did (grueling though they were, indeed). The last time I had done a boot camp class was the evening before I went in for surgery to have the cyst removed.  I knew I wouldn’t be able to exercise for a bit after that so I went to class right up until the last possible minute I could.  I didn’t know my hiatus was going to last more than four months.
Eddie, Zeb and my great friend, Michael Kelly, have all signed up to be there with me. We are taking a Burn class from CJ, one of my favorite instructors (Burn is the introductory class at The Phoenix Effect.) As we go through the warm-up, there are times as though I feel like I never left and times as though it’s my first class ever. My body is not nearly as limber as it used to be.  In my mind, I almost yell at myself to give myself a break.  I have to build up to this again.  It’s going to take some time.  Patience is not my strong suit.
There’s no doubt I get a little better and the exercises a little easier as the class goes on.  My muscle memory is returning.  I start to find the rhythm again.  My friends are encouraging me, checking in on me, patting me on the back, giving me high fives, making sure I’m OK.  I feel like I’m pretty much running on adrenaline.  I’m so happy to be here.  I work up a sweat in no time.  45 minutes later, we are done.  And once again, for the second time in a few weeks, I feel like I’ve just crossed the finish line at the Boston Marathon.
After boot camp, the requisite breakfast at Joey’s Café in West Hollywood.  I order my usual Joey’s Omelet with chicken and no tomatoes.  And on this Sunday, four months after the diagnosis, everything feels … dare I say … normal.
Tuesday – December 5
I have spent most of Sunday evening and Monday resting and relaxing after that boot camp class.  I know that my body is still healing and recovering from the radiation and chemotherapy and I want to make sure it has every opportunity to do that.  Plus, I know it’s the holidays and I will likely be pushing myself a little bit more, as most of us do during the holidays.
This day is notable because I went to my second boot camp class at The Phoenix Effect and – much to my surprise given how well I did the first time – it was much more difficult.  I don’t know if it was the time of day I went – 5pm – or the fact that I wasn’t really running on adrenaline like I had during the first class.  But man, this was a bitch.  I gasped for breath more than a few times and really had to stop in between stations to rest.  But rest I did when I needed to do it.  My Mom would be so proud.
There is one more thing of note here.  My neck where I had the surgery – and the subsequent 35 treatments of radiation – is stiff and noticeably more sore.  I don’t know if it’s from bootcamp and maybe my muscles are just sore from doing that class, but I notice it.  It has begun to wake me up at night.  I’m seeing my radiation oncologist in two weeks so I make a note to ask him about it.
Wednesday-Saturday morning December 6-9
I’m in Las Vegas to visit my good friend, Robyn. Robyn and I used to work together at the cable network REELZ and she has become not only one of my closest friends but also a life mentor.   I seek her counsel on many things professionally and personally.   Although she’s never said it, I’m pretty sure that Robyn, like so many other people in my life, needs to see me in person.  Also, she has one of the most comfortable beds in her guest bedroom that I’ve ever slept in so this trip is as much about me getting some good rest and it is anything else.
For nearly three days, all I do is eat and sleep.  Very little ‘Vegas’ actually happens.  Although on Friday evening – my delayed birthday present and one of the most magical experiences of my life.  Robyn gifts me with a helicopter tour of the Strip.  Our departure is 6pm so the sun has gone down and it is pitch dark – as dark as Vegas can be.  It was my first time in a helicopter so that was exciting enough but then to be flying right over all those lights … incredible.  The tour is only about 15 minutes – you take off at one end of the strip and do a loop.  But it was something to look down on the roller coaster on top of The Stratosphere.  And when that was done, we hustled out to the Red Rocks Casino where American Idol winner Taylor Hicks was performing. Taylor had been on Hollywood Today LIVE and he and I follow each other on social media and he was kind enough to set aside tickets for us. Not surprisingly, he did not disappoint. The man can sing, play damn near every musical instrument and tells a great story in between.  It was a great birthday night.
What did happen during my time in Vegas was I noticed my throat got very sore, very quickly.  I tried to watch what I ate but I may or may not have eaten every French fry in sight and I’m sure the salt and the potatoes did not do anything to help my throat heal. I went to sleep every night in Vegas with a bit of a raw throat but – no surprise – when I rested it all night by not eating or talking it felt completely fine the next morning.
So the lessons of these past few days:  my neck gets stiff and my throat gets sore.  I know I’m recovering fairly quickly but I really would love for all of this to go away.
Saturday evening – December 9
And this evening is certainly not going to see me refrain from talking.  I fly back to Los Angeles because I’m the speaker at a meeting, where I’m grateful for the chance to relate how being sober for 11 ½ years is helping me get through the experience with having cancer – one day at a time, literally.  And perhaps the biggest lesson that I’ve learned for my emotional well-being has come from something I’ve learned in sobriety – that it does me no good to worry about the outcome.  I know that’s far easier said than done and I think it would be much more difficult if I had to raise a family.  And in that sixth week of chemotherapy and radiation treatments, it was easy for my mind to begin to wander to the darker side because I was so run down with that ‘hardened malaise’.   But what’s going to happen is going to happen.  I can do everything in my power to help myself – get medical attention, follow the directions of my doctors and surround myself with as much love and support from my family and friends as possible.  But at the end of the day, I ain’t making the decision whether or not this treatment did the trick.  I’m hoping beyond hope that it did and I feel like it did.  But someone else is pulling that string and I am in acceptance of that.  I might not always like it but I can certainly try to be in acceptance of it.
Enough maudlin. This evening is also the first party of the holiday season for me. It’s at the home of a fellow member of the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles and I know that a lot of my friends will be there. It’s a good opportunity to start working my way back into my chorus life that I have missed a great deal over the past four months. Music has the power to do many things, not the least of which is heal.  It heals emotionally, it heals spiritually and it has certainly helped me heal physically. And that’s exactly what this night does – it helps with the healing. But after flying back from Las Vegas and more than a few hours running on pure adrenaline, my body is wiped. Out.  I’m signed up for boot camp in the morning but I’m not going to make it.
Sunday-Tuesday
In fact, the only activity I can really muster in these three days is boot camp on Monday morning. I’ve tried to get back to my normal life as much as I can, but I have to realize that it hasn’t even been two months since my treatment ended. As much as I want to get back to the level of stamina and energy I had in July, I’m not there yet.  And on Tuesday night, I do something for the first time that most of my friends cannot believe.
The Arclight in Hollywood is playing “It’s A Wonderful Life” for one night only as a holiday thing.  I’d never seen it. I knew the story line and I knew the protagonist’s name is George Bailey and that’s there’s an angel named Clarence. But I’ve never sat and watched the entire movie from start to finish (actually, I don’t think I’d ever seen more than five minutes of it). So weeks ago, I bought two tickets. And wouldn’t you know, I end up taking a friend who’s never seen it either.  We were both IAWL virgins.
So the movie itself is … long, right? But it’s sweet and it’s effective and by the time George lifts up Zuzu to put the star on the top of the tree and the bell rings signaling Clarence has gotten his wings, I’m all in. And – of course – the message is not wasted.  One person’s life affects so many others. The ripple effect of loss is unending.  I think it would be impossible to watch that movie and not take stock of one’s own life.
My life is wonderful. It has been wonderful. And I believe it will continue to be wonderful.
Wednesday December 13
This was a day of rest.  I paid my COBRA (because I’m trying to make sure I don’t let it lapse) and I’m getting ready for what I know will be a big weekend that is going to wear me out – and it does – but that’s not all it does.
Thursday December 14
I didn’t lose all my hair during chemotherapy and I’m grateful for it.  But I did lose a bit along the back of my neck.  In fact, my head is nearly bare for about two inches above my neckline and I think I’ve said this before, but it fell out in a straight line.  It’s almost as if someone took clippers and buzzed me right across the back of my head.  Nope, just nature and poison.  But it’s time for the rest of my hair to get cut so it’s off to see Jeff again.  I ask him not to take the top too short but to try as best he can to fade in the back of my hair naturally.  God love him, he does his best.  But I’m so bummed that my hair is missing back there.  I know I didn’t lose it all but man, I hope it comes back. When he’s done, Jeff turns me around and I hold a mirror so I can see the back of my head.  That’s when I notice something.
“What’s that?” I ask, pointing to a red spot in the middle of the back of my head.
“It’s a birthmark,” he says.
“I have a birthmark?”
“You do. It’s always been there.”
“Yeah, but until now I had hair to cover it up,” I respond. And that’s how I found out that I have a birthmark I never knew about.
This night is also the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles Holiday Spectacular. I did not sing this concert (he was busy) and I’m excited to see my boys. I know there will be tears because it will be the first time I’ve seen many of them since the diagnosis and going through treatment.  And that’s exactly what happens.
I run into several people I know who are also there in the audience, then take my seat in the fifth row with my great friend (and landlord) Chris Verdugo.  The lights are such that the guys can see me from stage – and I can see them.  The show is completely entertaining and the enthusiastic audience is with the chorus every step, kick ball change and pas de buerre.  And I’m fine – until the song ‘Family’ from “Dreamgirls”.
The song begins “It’s more than you. It is more than me …” I look up at the faces of the new members who joined in September, names I do not yet know. I look into the faces of the friends I have made since I joined this incredible organization nearly 15 years ago. Many of them know what I have gone through. They have checked in on me over the past few months, brought me food, texted me to tell me that they’re thinking about me and praying for me. I think about how this group has become my family – my logical family, not my biological family.  Tears stream down my face. Tears are streaming down faces on stage. And there’s that full heart again.
After the concert, I hang out with some of the boys until nearly 1:30 in the morning (I’m usually in bed by 10pm these days so this is very late).  The night is capped by a car ride home with three guys I won’t soon forget because of the frank, honest conversation that was had.  And of course when I get home, I’m wiped out and I actually have to get up in the morning so I set my alarm.
Friday December 15
Because I’m going to boot camp at 915am this morning – and today, Tanner Thomason is joining me. Tanner was one of the hosts of Hollywood Today LIVE. He and I worked together for the better part of three years, trying our damnedest to make that show a success.  I’ve kept up with him on social media but I haven’t seen him since the wrap party on April 28, although he did send me some … interesting gifts from Amazon when I told him and the other hosts about the cancer.  So I’m excited that I not only get to do boot camp this morning, but that Tanner is joining me.  And – no surprise – we have a blast and the very fit Tanner is great in his first class.
After taking care of some car crap that afternoon, I head home to take a nap because I know it’s going to be another busy night. My bestie, Dale, is taking me to dinner and then we are joining his boyfriend to see Carol Burnett In Person at the Dolby Theater for my birthday/Christmas present. Dinner that night is at Beauty & Essex, a new restaurant on Cahuenga. The ambience is spectacular and it’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had – and that’s not hyperbole. Then it’s off to the Dolby for 90 minutes with the great Carol Burnett. The woman is a national treasure. This was an evening where they ‘bump up the lights’ and let people just ask her questions.   She’s 84 and is still as sharp as a tack.  It’s a perfect evening of food and fun and friendship.   And when it’s over and time to head home, I’m wiped out.
Saturday – December 16
I’m exhausted today.  I know I should stay in and rest but I have some things I need to get done for life that I’ve been neglecting.  I try to get in a nap, though, because tonight is Zeb’s birthday dinner.  If you’ve been following, you know the role this young man has played in my life the past four months. He was the one I took with me to my very first oncologist appointment and who grabbed my arm when we found out that I was going to have to undergo both radiation and chemotherapy.  He was at five of the six chemotherapy appointments and the only one he missed was because he was in New York City. He brought over ice cream and food and kept me company and was one of the very few people I even wanted to see during my treatment. I’m grateful for the chance on this day to get to celebrate him.  My present to him is a black and white picture of the two of us that we took back in May in Palm Springs, PC.  That’s Pre-Cancer.  But of course, being at a dinner with a group of people is exhausting and I have another big day planned for Sunday. And … I’m starting not to feel great.
Sunday – December 17
Today is marked by two big gatherings for the holidays: the first is with my sobriety family.  I’ve been sober for 11 ½ years and my sponsor has eight other sponsees.  We all gathered at my sponsor’s house for a meeting and to catch up on life.  I feel so lucky that I get the benefit of not just having a sponsor but to walk this road of sobriety with these other truly lovely men.
The second event is a holiday party at the home of my BFF, Eddie, and his husband, Kenny.  If you’ve been following, you know that Eddie has been a vital part of my life, but especially these past four months.  He branded August 1st my “cancer-versary”, he took me to my first radiation appointment and he’s been with me every step of Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride.   So there’s no way I was going to miss this party at his house.  My date for the evening is my 21-year-old goddaughter, Maddy.  I knew she could hold her own (she does) and I knew that everyone would love her (they do). Of course, at the party, person after person asks how I’m doing, how I’m recovering, what the next steps are.  Many people assume – because of pictures and events I’ve posted on social media – that the cancer is gone.  We don’t know that for sure, so I spend a bit of the evening explaining that I will have a PET scan in January that will determine if we got it all.  And people ask if I’m tired of being asked how I’m doing.  The truth is, I’m not tired of it at all.  It means they care.
The party is another great chance for me to get back into the swing of life.  Eddie tells me later that as we are getting ready to leave, Maddy thanks him not only for the party but for taking such good care of me the past 4 ½ months.  I take Maddy home … and then I’m really starting not to feel great.
Monday – December 18
I’m so grateful that during the entire time I was going through treatment, I stayed physically healthy. I didn’t get a cold or the flu or anything else during those two grueling months of the treatment. But now, I’m starting to feel what seemingly everyone else in the city of Los Angeles is feeling.  I make it out to look at some new apartments since I’ll be moving at the beginning of the year.  I was supposed to move back in September but I was a little busy and decided that moving probably wasn’t the best thing to do while you’re fighting cancer.  Dinner tonight is the amazing matzo ball soup from Greenblatt’s and I’m in bed early for a big checkup in the morning.
December 19 – 8 weeks post treatment
Since I’m one for dates, it’s only fitting that I have my checkup with my radiation oncologist exactly eight weeks after I finish treatment.  It’s the first time I’ve seen him since I appeared on Good Day LA and talked about my treatment and showed off my radiation mask.  And since I’m sick, I can ask him if he can prescribe me something for it.  I’m a little anxious, though, because I know he’s going to put a tube with a camera down my throat to see if there’s anything nefarious lurking around (i.e. The Big C).
I drive to the Samuel Oschin Cancer Center and park in my usual spot on the side street next to the Granville Café.  I check in with the desk (“Hello, Mr. Holzer!”) and sit in the waiting area where – again – there are a disproportionate number of older men waiting for women who have appointments.  I can tell this because the women are wearing gowns for their treatment.  I didn’t have to wear one every day because of where my treatment was located.
My name is called almost right away. First, I get on the scale – 171. Jesus. I’ve gained every single pound back that I lost.  It’s not in the form of the muscle it once was, but it’s definitely back.  All my vitals are good and I sit and wait for the doctor.
He comes in and greets me. “Mr. Holzer, before we start, I want to tell you one thing. Nobody – and I mean nobody – appears on television three weeks after finishing radiation treatment. It’s just not done.  When I  heard you were doing it, I was like, “what? He’s going on television?”  Actually, I was worried for you.  But I have to say, you did a great job. A great job.  You got out the information about getting boys vaccinated.  And you got out the information about men your age still being able to get vaccinated. The medical community doesn’t really even know that. Where did you learn that?”
I told him I have friends who are doctors – gay men – who had gotten the vaccination in their 40s.  I know that HPV is spreading in the gay community, even though he’d told me that HPV-related cancers primarily affect straight white men (again, how’d I get so lucky?)   I’m glad that I have done this man proud.  I feel like I just got a Gold Star on my homework.  And then, my nose is numbed for the procedure.
A few minutes later, he comes back in with the same resident who was also there five weeks ago.  My right nostril is apparently very good for things like this – very clear – so up goes the black tube through my nasal passage and down into my throat.  I close my eyes and say a prayer and hope beyond hope that they don’t see anything that shouldn’t be there.
“Your throat is still raw.  It’s still healing.  But there’s only scar tissue. Nothing else,” he says.  I breathe a sigh of relief, and not just because the black tube is now out of my throat and my nostril.
“OK, the next big thing is the PET scan. We’re going to schedule it for three months after your final treatment.” I tell him it’s already scheduled for January 23rd.  “Great. Let’s get you past that. Meantime, have a great Christmas and a Happy New Year.”  I thank him – but really, there aren’t really the words of gratitude to thank a man who is working to save your life.  On the way out, I stop in to say Merry Christmas and Happy New Year to my nutritionist.  I tell her that I’m back up to the weight at which I started.  She hasn’t seen the segment I did on Good Day LA nor has she read this blog so I tell her that I’ll send them both to her when I get home.  And I thank her for everything she has done for me for the past three months.
I walk out of the Samuel Oschin Cancer Center – where I have been again on this day because I have cancer. The next time I come to this hospital will be January 23rd, when I’ll have a PET scan that will determine if the cancer found in my neck and on the back of my tongue has been killed by 35 radiation and 6 chemotherapy treatments.  Until then, I can’t worry about it.  It will do me no good.  And it’s going to be a very busy next few weeks.
Later that afternoon, I get an e-mail from my nutritionist who has now watched the Good Day LA segment and read the blog.  And she has HORRIFYING news for me.  YAMS AREN’T HIGH IN PROTEIN.  What??!  Why did I think yams were so high in protein?  They’re sweet potatoes.  Aren’t sweet potatoes high in protein?  I was going to Fresh Corn Grill for their yams, thinking I was getting good protein and all I was getting was delicious carbs.  Oh, well.  No wonder I didn’t lose enough weight to need a feeding tube.
Wednesday – Friday –
I use these three days to rest, recuperate and try to do some Christmas shopping.  There isn’t a whole lot of Christmas shopping done, thanks to some medical bills I’ve got piling up.  Lovely.  But I also use these days to pack for an 8-day trip away from home.  I’m heading to Yuma on Saturday to see my family for Christmas and then to Palm Springs again through the New Year.  I know my family needs to see me in person and I want to make sure I’m not sick when I travel.  Sure enough, over the course of the next three days, I start to feel much better.
Saturday – December 23
I jump in the car to make the 4-5 hour trip (depending on traffic) to Yuma, Arizona, where I grew up. I was born in Indiana – where my entire family was from – and we lived there until I was 6 when we moved all the way across the country to a town in the middle of the desert near the Mexican border. Talk about culture shock. I made some great friends and lasting, lifelong friendships.
I make it in just over 4 hours and head straight to … Chile Pepper. For anybody who has never lived in Yuma, Chile Pepper is an institution. Every day for lunch, my friends and I would either go there or Ronnie’s Pizza. Back then, you could get a bean and rice burrito and two rolled tacos for $2. Add a coke and it was $3. And people wonder why my parents had to shop in the Husky department. I always head straight to Chile Pepper before seeing my family (I love my family, but seriously, this is good food). But the best part about this lunch is that my niece, Brandy, meets me. It’s the first time I’ve seen her since the diagnosis and everything I have gone through and when we hug, we hug tight and both of us are brought to tears. I love this girl (who is now 36 and not a girl but will always be Uncle Steve’s girl). She’s brought her fiancé, Jaime, with her and I dive into two bean and rice burritos. The salsa at Chile Pepper is truly the best salsa I’ve ever eaten and I try to eat some but boy, my throat isn’t happy about that.
I say goodbye to them and then rush to my Dad’s house, which is about 25 minutes away. We have a date to go to Mass at 4pm. He goes every Saturday and on this Saturday, I want to go with him. I was baptized Catholic the day after my 13th birthday and even though I don’t practice Catholicism or – obviously – believe in a lot of its dogma, sitting in a church and doing a little praying has never hurt. In fact, I’ve always felt better afterwards. I make it out to my Dad’s in time to change clothes and get to church. No surprise if you know my Dad, we arrive 45 minutes early.   But that time – sitting in the pew next to my 87-year-old Dad who has also fought cancer – gives me some time to reflect and meditate on the events of the past few months. And I find myself not annoyed that we are so early, but grateful for the pause.
After Mass, we head to his favorite local diner for dinner. My throat is still sore from the salsa I ate earlier so I muster some soup and that’s about it. Interestingly, my Dad and I have more things to talk about now. We compare how our throats feel, what we can and can’t eat, what’s difficult to swallow, etc. I can sympathize with everything he’s gone through and he can do the same with me.
But driving and seeing everyone has exhausted me and I’m wiped out. Wiped. Out.
Sunday – Christmas Eve
This is the separate post I wrote on Christmas morning in Yuma.  It applies perfectly here.
I am up early to go to 930am Mass with my Dad. Yes, I went to church twice within 18 hours and lightning did not strike. He wants to go so I go. Again, we are 45 minutes early. Again, I use this time for reflection and to stay in gratitude.
This is another day of seeing other family members for the first time since The Big C and I’m surprised this day is as emotional for me as it is.  I have a hard time letting go of my nephew, Scott, when I hug him. I have tears in my eyes when I hug my brother, Tony, and sister-in-law, Candy. Again, I know they have all been worried and needed to see me. I spend this day doing a little Christmas shopping around Yuma and then settle into dinner and later, opening presents with my great-nieces and great-nephew. We spend the evening as we spend most evenings in Yuma – playing Yahtzee. It’s my Dad’s favorite. He could play for hours and for 87, he’s damn good and quick at adding up what’s on the dice.
And without a nap, this day has wiped me out yet again.
Monday – December 25
It’s Christmas morning.  The sun will not rise over for another hour but the lights are shining brightly on the small tree at my Dad’s house.  These mornings have changed both in tenor and in the amount of anxiety since I was a boy and as I grew into an adult.  I remember the year I got tennis racquets – my sophomore year in high school – as being one of the best Christmas mornings ever.  They felt like such a grown-up gift.  I think I was on the courts by noon.
The truth is, Christmas has never quite been the same for me since my Mom died.  The last time I saw her alive was at the airport here in Yuma when she put me on a plane to go back to Denver, where I was living at the time.  That was either Christmas Day or the day after.  I can still see her waving at the plane as we began to taxi to the runway.  I was 23.  She was gone two months later, only 11 years older than I am now.
But this Christmas morning – and indeed, this Christmas – feels different.  I am very happy to see my family always, but this trip is definitely part of the PTCT – the Post-Traumatic Cancer Tour.  They have kept up with the blog and seen the pictures that I’ve posted since finishing those grueling treatments two months ago.  And they know the doctors have all said I’m recovering well and probably faster than other people who have gone through that aggressive treatment of radiation and chemotherapy.  But as much as I can tell them all of that, they still need to see it for themselves.  They need to see me, to feel me, to hug me.  They need to see their son, brother, uncle.  I get that.  I did the same thing at Thanksgiving with my oldest brothers and their families and believe me, I’m grateful I have people in my life for whom that’s important.  And everybody knows I still have a hurdle to cross next month when I’ll have a PET scan to show if they got all the cancer but right now, we are all operating as if they did.  I don’t want it any other way.
And my 87-year-old Dad and I now have something else over which to bond.  Several years ago, he had radiation treatments on his throat because he had cancer on his vocal cords.  Those treatments left his voice a little raspy, but they got it all.  And for the past three years, he’s gone through chemotherapy to fight cancer in his bladder.  I drove over here back in May to take him to a chemo treatment, not having any idea that I would be going through the same process just four months later.  And as of now, they got it all.  No cancer anywhere.  But he has continued to fight.  Whatever cancer has been thrown at him, he has done what he needed to do to keep going.  It’s been an inspiration and if he can do it into his 80s, I can certainly do it.  And both of us will have to keep getting periodic checkups the rest of his life.
I get tired easily.  My energy level and stamina is definitely coming back but it’s not quite there yet.  My neck where I had the surgery and where the radiation was focused is still sore at times and I have to do stretching exercises every day.  The hair is not growing back on my face and neck as quickly as I would like.
But I’m here.  And it’s Christmas.  And I’m so grateful.
This day is spent relaxing and eating and playing Yahtzee and eating some more.  I’m trying desperately not to gain too much weight back.  My body has definitely changed since this whole experience.  I’m not as strong or defined.  And that fatigue thing is a bitch.  But I’m grateful to even be up and around and well enough to drive 4 hours to visit these people who mean so much to me.
Tuesday – December 26
I have plans to spend Wednesday through Monday in Palm Springs for New Years again but I’m in a hurry to get there and relax and decide to leave Tuesday night. But not before I have lunch at Chile Pepper one more time and this time, it’s with my best friend from high school, Ana Maria Alvarez. Ana is a school administrator in San Diego but still has ties to Yuma because of her father, who is one of the few pathologists in Yuma.   Ana and I meet there to catch up and like everyone else in my life, she has needed to see me in person.   And today, I have decided against eating the salsa that burned my throat a few days prior.
I leave lunch and on the way out to my Dad’s to pack up my bags, I stop by and visit Tracey Turner, another of my best friends from high school whose husband went through the exact same cancer that I have gone through.  He’s in great shape now.  They got it all and I’m always encouraged by these types of stories.  Anyway, these two women – Ana and Tracey – helped me get through a very difficult time growing up gay in Yuma, Arizona. Not that I was out then, but they became my very close confidantes. I’m grateful that I get to see and hug them because they have meant to so much to me.
Finally, it’s time for my farewells to my family. I hug them all a little longer, a little tighter. My Dad, a man of few words, tells me to “hang in there”.  I promise the man who has just battled throat cancer and three recurrences of bladder cancer that I’ll do my best.  And I know that I will do my best.
I spend the night with my friend, Terry, who runs a recovery house in Palm Springs. As it turns out, Terry has also had cancer – far worse than mine – and he’s sitting in front of me strong and full of life. He gives me hope that there’s no reason whatsoever that my cancer should be gone.  It while I’m sitting and talking to Terry that I realize something.
Everybody has their shit.   Right? We all have something. It might not be cancer. It might be diabetes. It might be a heart condition. It might be arthritis. It might not even be a medical condition but something else like financial stress or someone in your family is pissing you off. But everybody has something. And we must try to be compassionate because you never know what the hell someone else is going through.
Wednesday December 27 – Sunday December 31
Zeb, Eddie and I have rented a house for four days in Palm Springs. It’s a chance to spend some time together, to go house hunting for Eddie and to give me a chance to re-group a bit and set some goals for 2018. The house has a swimming pool so it’s the first time I go swimming since the treatment and everything is fine. My right ear is still a little plugged up from the radiation and it feels like there’s always a little water in it, anyway.
We’re in the pool swimming and talking and catching up when Eddie says that it feels like cancer was such a long time ago. The truth is, my final treatment was just a little over two months prior. It has not been that long. He tells me he knows that I’m the one who had to go through it but it feels like a lot of time has passed. I hear what he’s saying and I think that’s because I’ve done so much in the past two months that are so “normal”. But I’m reminded that I have had to battle cancer every single day. My hair hasn’t grown back (although the beard is coming back slowly but surely). I get shooting pains in my right jaw and the right side of my neck. I still have no feeling in part of the right side of my neck where they did the surgery and there’s a chance I won’t again. My throat is still raw from the radiation treatments and certain foods irritate the hell out of it.  These are still daily reminders.
These days are filled connecting with my best friends, making new friends and – quite honestly – living my life to the very fullest. I take breaks but I don’t take any naps. I slather myself in sunscreen. A couple of my new friends buy me a hat with a huge brim to protect me from the sun.  And I am happy. I’m happy to end 2017 feeling as good as I do.
New Year’s Eve –
I move over to spend this final day of 2017 with my bestie, Dale, at his boyfriend’s new home in Palm Springs. I spend much of this day lying on a flamingo in a pool with my big wide-brimmed hat on to protect me from the sun. I am very cognizant of my exposure to the sun. I can’t. Our friend, James, is also hanging out with us and we begin the very serious discussion about what to have for our final meal of 2017. All the restaurants in Palm Springs will be packed and reservations would be essential. That’s when someone says, “I don’t care what we eat. I don’t even mind if we have KFC for dinner.” Well, if you’ve been reading this blog, you know that I’m a huge KFC fan and suddenly those mashed potatoes and gravy and cole slaw sound like something I can’t live without. So, KFC it is for New Year’s Eve dinner.
We are scheduled to go to a big sober party to ring in 2018 but once we get there about 9:30, I know I won’t make it until midnight. My body is giving out. I’m exhausted. About an hour into the party, I say that I could be ready to go.   God love them, we leave. There is a plan to be swimming and in the Jacuzzi when the clock strikes midnight but when we get home, I put on my Josh Groban t-shirt and flannel pajama bottoms and crawl into bed. I miss the stroke of midnight and the beginning of the new year. And as I drift off to sleep, my final wish of 2017 is that I don’t have to deal with cancer in 2018.
NEW YEAR’S DAY
I start this year the way I have begun several of the past years – by going to boot camp at my beloved Phoenix Effect.  What’s different this year is that this day is also my five-month cancer-versary.  Five months ago today, I got the call from my ENT that the cyst had cancer.  So to celebrate (commemorate?), I get up early to make the drive back to Los Angeles from Palm Springs to avoid traffic but also to make the 11am class with Derek.  I know that my fitness is the reason I tolerated the cancer treatments so well so I have made a promise to myself that I will keep up my fitness as much as my body will allow.
Also in this new year, I’ve decided that to make sure that I keep spreading the word about HPV-related cancers in men – especially the gay community – as much as possible. This is an epidemic.  It’s a subject that’s not being talked about.  We need to talk about it.  We as a community need to know that it’s affecting us and that there are things we can still do to prevent it.
I breeze through boot camp, I’m happy to say.  I always love Derek’s class and this day is no different. There’s a great energy to starting the year doing something you love and – for the past nearly 12 years –without a hangover.
JANUARY 2 – 19
For the first nearly three weeks of 2018, I begin to live my life more fully again.   I am still not back to 100%. There’s no doubt my stamina and endurance still aren’t what they used to be. I get tired much more easily.  My neck is still sore and tight from the surgery and the radiation.  I’m not doing the stretches every day that I’ve been prescribed. My bad.  My throat still gets fairly sore and my voice tired pretty quickly.  I’m going to have to work my way back up to singing a full concert.
Also during this time, I move from the condo where I have lived for the past 15 months – the one that saw me through cancer.  Zeb even calls it the Cancer Palace.  The view of downtown Los Angeles from the balcony is one I will never forget.  I posted so many pictures from that balcony because I was grateful – every day – to still be around to see that view.   Honestly, I believe I was supposed to live there.  It was literally a 3-minute drive every day to Cedars-Sinai and the Samuel Oschin Cancer Center, the place where I had to go for 35 radiation treatments and 6 chemotherapy treatments because I have cancer.  I could take a nap in the afternoon, wake up at 3pm, brush my teeth, put on a hat and t-shirt and jeans, get in the car, drive straight down the hill, park across the street next to the Granville Café, walk in and get my buzzer and still be early for my 345pm appointment.  It saved me so much more time than if I had still been living in Silver Lake, where I had lived the previous four years.
But I have some medical bills and Daddy needs to save some money, so I have found a place in West Hollywood on Flores Street.  It’s on the top floor of the building and has Spanish tile floors and plantation shutters through which light pours into the living room and bedroom. I’m thrilled to begin 2018 in a new place – a new beginning.  And I hope beyond hope that when I get the results of the PET scan in a few weeks that I will begin 2018 with a clean bill of health.
I’m busy these three weeks. Like, every night.  One of the most emotional nights comes on January 8th, when I return to rehearsal with the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles. This month marks 15 years since I joined this incredible, life-changing group (I told you I’m one for dates and anniversaries). On this night, I am thrilled to be surrounded by so many friends – friends who have loved and supported me through everything the past 15 years, but especially these past 5 ½ months.  As is customary on the first night of a concert cycle, the Executive Director makes some remarks at the microphone and welcomes everyone to rehearsal. And then – to my surprise – he turns to where I am sitting and says, “And Steve Holzer – it is especially wonderful to see you here with us again tonight.” And the guys start clapping. And then the guys start standing up. Oh, man. I don’t know what else to do but stand up and blow them kisses but I’m about to burst into tears because of this incredibly kind gesture and show of love.
I spend a few of these days moving out and moving in, which is exhausting and leaves me wiped out. Something interesting happens during this move, though. I find that I am far less inclined to keep something I don’t use or wear often.  “Things” are less sentimental.  I realize I don’t need much to be happy because when I do eventually die – and I don’t intend that to be soon – none of this shit is going with me anyway.  I give away a lot of clothes or sell them at consignment shops.  And I get rid of a lot of old papers and workshops and notebooks and binders and shit that has just taken up room.  Don’t need it.  I de-clutter my life and it feels fantastic.
Not once in these three weeks, though, do I make it to boot camp. I’m so busy or fatigued that I just can’t muster the energy.
SATURDAY, JANUARY 20
The chorus is one of the featured performers at the second annual Women’s March in downtown Los Angeles. We’ll be performing a song with Melissa Etheridge, with whom we had recorded a powerful video a year ago.  Last year’s march – with 750,000 people – was one of the most empowering days of my life.  When I arrive by subway on this day, I can tell there are fewer people this year but not many.   I head to our position backstage with the celebrities who will be the featured speakers – Natalie Portman, Scarlett Johansson, Viola Davis, Allison Janney and Mila Kunis among others. The featured performers are Idina Menzel, Rachel Platten with her famous “Fight Song” – and us. One by one as we are waiting backstage, celebrities come over and ask if they can take pictures with the Gay Men’s Chorus.  It’s a little crazy.  And then it’s our turn to perform.  I am one of the 10 who are chosen to be on stage with Melissa and when we get up there … people as far as the eye can see.  It’s a sea of humanity.  I take a breath and take it all in.  I’m alive.  Today, I’m here for a purpose, to help a cause, to sing, to raise my voice.  I promise myself right there – in front of 500,000 people – that however long someone allows me to be here, I will continue to raise my voice, to help a cause, to fight for people who cannot fight for themselves.  With or without cancer, I have that responsibility.
The march and subsequent subway ride home leave me exhausted.  Wiped out. I can’t tell whether that’s just life or the fact that I’m now 51 or the cancer but by about 3pm these days, I need a nap.
Sunday, January 21
This is the day before I get my 3-month PET scan, the scan that will determine if they got all the cancer. I have tried to temper the expectations of all of my family and friends. I have hope, of course. I have to have hope.  But I have included the world on this journey with me.  My biggest fear is not that the cancer isn’t gone.  My biggest fear is disappointing everyone who is rooting for me and I know that’s an army of people.
You can’t have sugar or carbs for 24 hours before the PET scan because they inject with you a dye that’s sugar based. The sugar in the dye attaches itself to cancer cells that then show up on the scan. So all I can eat is chicken, fish, eggs, nuts and green vegetables. I can drink coffee until 6 hours before the scan but no cream or sugar and I can have zero-calorie flavored water or just plain water.  And that’s it.
I spend the day distracting myself – trying not to think about the fact that I find out if I still have cancer tomorrow. Well, I don’t find out tomorrow but I know this is the big test.  Both of my doctors have told me the importance of this scan.  It’s three months to the day since my final treatment but I have moved it up a day because of something exciting happening in my life.  Something I said “yes” to doing.
On Tuesday, I’ll be heading to Mexico City for a five-day trip with members of the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles. We will be there to begin an important collaboration with the Mexico City Gay Men’s Chorus, with whom we will do a joint concert here in Los Angeles in October.  My PET scan was originally scheduled for Tuesday but I moved it up 24 hours so I could make this trip.  Turns out, I almost didn’t make the trip.
Monday, January 22
My scan is set for 630am because I don’t want to spend the rest of this day without coffee. The last time I had one of these scans, it wasn’t scheduled until 11am and my head hurt so bad and was throbbing so much I could barely lay still on the table. I arrive at the Mark Taper Imaging Center at Cedars-Sinai and check in.  About 10 minutes later, my name is called and I’m escorted back to the room where they insert an IV (which we all know how much I love) and inject the dye into my system.
Side note: I decided to go to this appointment by myself.  Friends asked if I wanted company but they would just have to sit in the lobby while I had the scan done. They can’t go back with me into the imaging room anyway, so I’m flying solo today.
I am taken to what’s known as a quiet room at 730am. I’ll sit there for an hour (quietly) while the dye goes through my system. And I sit there (quietly) – for about 45 minutes.
About 815am, something happens.  I start sweating and suddenly, I am going to toss my cookies. I head to the bathroom down the hall, close the door and barely get it locked before I turn and completely start throwing up.  And I can’t stop.  Obviously, there’s not much in my system because I haven’t had much to eat in the prior 24 hours but that doesn’t stop my body from trying to get everything out. I am in the bathroom about 10 minutes. I wipe my face off with a wet paper towel and tell myself that I must be better because everything that could be out is out.
When I walk back to the quiet room, the technician is waiting for me to take me to the scanning room.  I don’t mention that I just got sick. I take everything metal out of my pockets and lie back on the table. My head is nestled into the headrest.  I try my damnedest to keep taking deep breaths and not think about what has just transpired in the bathroom down the hall.  Focus.  Keep going.  We are doing a full body scan first, for which I am grateful.  I didn’t want any of those little cancer critters sneaking their way down into my pancreas or anywhere else where cancer might develop.  We have moved me up all the way through the scanning machine and my head is sticking out the other end – when I suddenly realize I’m going to be sick again. I raise my head up and wave my hands for the technician to come into the room. I tell her I’m going to be sick. She pulls the table out of the scanning machine. I sit up and she hands me a bag and I start retching once again (sorry, I know it’s gross but it’s what happened). And I cannot stop heaving. At this point, only bile is coming up but let me tell you, a lot of bile is coming up. Something has gotten into my system that my body is rejecting. The technician asks me if I want to keep going. Absolutely, I want to keep going. We are not stopping this process. I need to know if I still have cancer.  And I begin to think the worst.  I wonder if the cancer has come back with a vengeance and is somehow causing this.
I lie back on the table once again. We’re about to begin the scan solely on my head and neck, the location of my cancer. This is the really important one. The technician tapes my head in place so that I can’t move and no sooner does she do that than I start to get sick again. She frees my head so that I can sit up and get sick again.  This time, I go back down to the bathroom to do this in privacy. I cannot stop throwing up. I walk back to the imaging room and she asks me again if I want to keep going. Yes. Keep going. We are not stopping. Somehow I manage 8 more minutes lying on that table and no sooner are we done than I get sick again. I ask her if she thinks I could be having an allergic reaction to the dye and she says that it’s just sugar and that no one has ever had a reaction like this.
I leave the hospital and head to my apartment. No sooner do I get there than I get sick again. I can’t stop throwing up. It’s getting to the point where I’m getting concerned and I debate whether or not I should text Zeb and ask him to take me to the emergency room. I’m supposed to be on a plane to Mexico City in less than 24 hours. This does not bode well.
I go in and lie down (pass out?) on my bed and I’m out until about 2:30pm that afternoon. And when I wake up – it’s like nothing ever happened. I feel fine. My stomach is fine. Whatever was in my body is now out of my body. Actually, there’s very little left in my body.  My abs look amazing.  My friends are, understandably, very concerned about me making the trip to Mexico City.  I promise them that if I don’t feel better that evening, I will forego this trip. But as the night progresses and I begin to pack and rehydrate my system, I feel great. Like really great. I have no idea what happened but I am going to Mexico City.
I’ve told my radiation oncologist’s office that I don’t want them to call me with the results of the scan while I’m in Mexico City. I don’t want to be anticipating that call the entire time I’m there. I want to stay present, to stay focused on my life. I will find out the results soon enough and I would rather find out in person in case I have questions.
January 23-27 Mexico City
These five days are filled – filled – with the joy of life. We are staying in a hotel on the edge of the Reforma district of Mexico City. When we arrive, I jump for joy over the fact that there’s a Starbucks IN THE LOBBY OF THE HOTEL. I mean … this is meant to be.
While I’m in Mexico City, I get a phone call from my oncologist reminding me of an appointment on Monday. That means I’m going to find out the results of my PET scan from him on Monday, not from my radiation oncologist on Tuesday as I had set in my mind.
The first night, we attend a dinner with the leadership of the Mexico City Gay Men’s Chorus and we are welcomed into their family as they are welcomed into ours. At meals these days, I still have to avoid foods that are especially spicy and that includes a lot of Mexican food but most of the meals this week were fairly mild.  And I drank a lot of bottled water.
Wednesday begins with a trip to the Frida Kahlo Museum, which is packed and has long lines even on a Wednesday in January. It’s a stunning museum that used to be her house with Diego Rivera. That evening is our first rehearsal with the Mexico City Gay Men’s Chorus. During the rehearsal, I host a Facebook LIVE so that members of GMCLA can be there with us.
Thursday begins with a master class in singing by GMCLA’s Artistic Director Joe Nadeau and Thursday night is our performance at the LA Tourism Showcase with the Mexico City Gay Men’s Chorus. The event is designed to market Los Angeles to businesses in Mexico City and it’s held in one of the most beautiful and historic buildings in the city.  And all of this leads to one of the most spiritual days of my life.
We begin Friday with a trip to the Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe. There are actually three basilicas and they encompass a square that I affectionately call the Catholic Tiananmen Square if only for their similar looks.  On December 12 – which is the date the Virgin of Guadalupe reportedly appeared there – up to 7 million people went through this square and surrounding area last year.   At one end of the square is a giant statue and sculpture with a clock.  At its opposite end is the current basilica, which can seat 15,000 people during Mass.  Lining the sides are giant Stations of the Cross.   There is no doubt there is a spiritual energy here. There’s a gift shop where several of us buy rosaries that have rainbow beads on them. I dub it my ‘gay rosary’ and proclaim I am going to gay Heaven (but hopefully, not anytime soon).
And then, we head to the pyramids at Teotihuacán about 45 minutes outside of Mexico City. There are two big pyramids – the Sun and the Moon – that were built by the Aztecs here beginning about 150BC. The site is said to have spiritual and healing energy and I find that to be true. Each of the pyramids has steps to climb to the top if you want. Of course I want. We begin with the shorter Moon pyramid and you can only go to up to the first ledge there but it offers a beautiful view of the Sun pyramid and the entire landscape.   Then we descend and walk the Avenue of the Dead to the larger Pyramid of the Sun. It’s the third tallest pyramid in the world and there are 247 steps to reach the summit. I am bound and determined I am going to climb to the top (I mean, little old Japanese ladies were climbing to the top so there was no way I wasn’t going to do it).
I feel great. My energy is high and I bound up the steps to the top. The altitude is tough on my lungs and I double over a bit to catch my breath before looking up – and my breath is taken away again. It’s a stunning view of the archaeological site. And I am struck by the fact that I am here. I am alive. I am present. And of course I want to share what I’m seeing so I decide to see if I can do a Facebook LIVE. Much to my surprise, I have service and do a nearly 7-minute live video feed from the top of the Sun Pyramid.  I’m in my element in the elements and I can’t tell you how great I feel about that.
Lunch that afternoon is at a restaurant there called La Gruta (The Grotto), which is built underground into the side of – you guessed it – a grotto. Our party has some adventurous folks in it who order what look like tostadas with grasshoppers, as well as caterpillars and ant larvae. I have a salad. I pull the cancer card and use my sensitive stomach as an excuse, but I’m not that adventurous when it comes to food. At the end of the meal, everyone who eats there lights a small candle and places it in the nooks of the grotto and they make a wish. I light my candle and walk up the stairs a bit and place it beside a step.  My wish is selfish: I hope beyond hope that when I get the results of my PET scan that the cancer is gone. I know there’s every possibility in the world that this wish will not come true, but that’s why it’s a wish.
We head back to the hotel and it’s a beautiful afternoon in Mexico City so my friend, Jason, and I take a walk to the Monumento de la Revolucion a few blocks away.  We had been to the top of this monument on Wednesday but on this gorgeous Friday, there are many more people walking about the square that surrounds the monument.  And then, an unexpected FaceTime call that lifts my heart.  Four of the people I traveled with in Up With People 32 years ago are together in Washington, DC, and call me to say hello and check in.  These people are my family and they have also been very worried about me. We talk for about 10 minutes and my heart is soaring when I get off the phone.  I go back to my hotel room and realize immediately that I need a meeting.
That’s because while I have been in Mexico City this week, something has happened that I had not allowed since the events of August 1st.  Fear is creeping in.  In the minutes before I fall asleep, I start to think about what might happen if the cancer isn’t gone.  Will I have to undergo more treatment? Will I lose my hair if I do? Will my beard ever grow back? Will I lose my sense of taste again? Will the chemo make me sick? What does that mean for my future? So far, I have been very good about staying present and not worrying about the outcome since being diagnosed with cancer. Hence, time for a meeting.
I get online and find an English-speaking AA meeting that night at 745pm. I get two of my friends who are also on the trip to go to the meeting with me.  We take an Uber to a beautiful section of the Reforma District (the high end). There are about 8 other men at the meeting. They’re very accepting of these strangers from Los Angeles.   During the meeting, I share with the group about the fear that’s creeping in about the cancer not being gone.  Two of the men then share their cancer battles and that they are both still here – and they are much older than I am. One of the men tells me that he knows that I’m going to be in the 90-95% of the success stories.  I hope he’s right. God, I hope he’s right.
After a late dinner, I head back to the hotel. Between the trip to the Basilica and its spiritual energy, the excursion to the pyramids and the spiritual energy of that historic site, the lighting of the candle and making a wish after an incredible lunch, a Facetime call with people I have loved for more than 30 years and a much-needed meeting that set my fears to rest … it’s been a day. I’m wiped out and head to sleep and on this night, the thoughts I have had the three previous nights about the cancer not being gone do not come.
Saturday – Sunday
We return from Mexico City and I try very hard on the flight and for the rest of the weekend to distract myself from Monday.   I have a rehearsal on Sunday afternoon for a show that I’m doing on Friday and Saturday nights at The Gardenia with my friend, Travis. He has asked me to sing on a couple of numbers in his one-man show to celebrate his 50th birthday. I’m grateful for the time I spend singing because it truly does make me forget.
Monday – PET Scan Results Day
I wake up this morning and do everything possible to make it seem like any other Monday morning. I make coffee and eat a bowl of raisin bran. My appointment is at 1015a and I keep looking at the clock. Time is moving very slow. I start to get ready and think about my outfit: what does one wear to find out the news that you may or may not have cancer? I know that regardless of the news, I will be going to Club Monaco afterwards for retail therapy so I decide on a blue t-shirt and jeans. Then I’m off.
I get a parking space right out front (Doris Day parking), put money in the meter and take a minute to pray. I know that whatever the outcome, I will handle it. I have decided to go to this appointment alone, too. It would make me more nervous to have someone here with me. I have had great friends who have walked with me on this journey but this is something I need to handle by myself.
After checking in, I step on the scales – 170.4.  Nothing wrong with that appetite now, is there? Then, I’m taken to an Exam Room. A fter a few minutes, my oncologist’s resident – a lovely young woman – comes in and sits down at the computer. We make small talk and I tell her I’ve just come back from Mexico City. I think she’s getting the PET/CT scans pulled up on the computer and ready for my oncologist to give me the results.
“OK, CT of the chest … “
Oh, wow, I think to myself. We’re doing this. We’re doing this right now. I brace for impact.
She starts reading. “Lung and airways clear. Chest wall unremarkable.   No suspicious lesions anyhere. Impression – normal examination of the chest. That’s normal.”
“Normal?” I ask. “No cancer anywhere?”
“Nope. Your chest is clear. Let’s go to the PET/CT of your body.”
Before she can go any further, I double over and burst into tears. I know I haven’t heard everything yet but so far, there is no cancer in my body. She reads the scan of my body out loud. She tells me that ‘no focal areas of increased activity’ is a good thing.  That means the scans didn’t find anything nefarious.
Neck: No focal areas of increased activity.
Chest: No focal areas of increased activity. Lung fields are clear.
Abdomen: No focal areas of increased activity.   The pancreas and adrenals are unremarkable (so no pancreatic cancer).
Pelvis: No focal areas of increased activity.
Skeleton: No focal areas of increased activity.
Impression: Normal PET scan with resolution of the previously seen mildly metabolically active lymph nodes in the right neck and no focal areas of increased activity in the PET scan to suggest recurrent or metastatic disease.
Resolution. Resolved.
“It’s gone? Like completely gone?” I ask.
“It’s gone. This is good news. Congratulations.”
And honestly, I pretty much start sobbing.
“I hope those are tears of joy!” she says.
I try to answer her but I’m crying too hard.
This was my wish when I lit that candle on Friday at the restaurant by the pyramids. This was my hope. I would’ve been in acceptance with whatever the scans showed, but this is the best possible news I could’ve gotten. I can’t quite believe it.
Truly, I can’t quite believe it.
I start to text people. It’s gone. No more cancer. It’s gone.
I’m crying when my oncologist walks in the room. He doesn’t know if I’m crying because the news is good or just the opposite. She tells him the good news. He gives me a fist bump. I leap up and hug him. Sorry, I just found out that I don’t have cancer. I’m not giving you a fist bump. Dude just saved my life.
“Good for you. This is the most aggressive treatment I do. And you did it. You didn’t need a feeding tube. You didn’t lose too much weight. You did it,” he says.
He puts me up on the examining table. He feels around my head and neck and lymph nodes. There’s nothing there but scar tissue. My throat is still inflamed and will be for a bit longer, he says, but that’ll go away with time. He tells me that he wants me to have another scan every four months this year.
The resident asks me if I want copies of the scans to take home with me.  Uh … yeah, I do.  I have read and re-read those scans about 50 times since and every single time, they say the same thing.  Normal.  Clear.  Unremarkable.  That … is remarkable.
I thank them both – another hug – and walk out of the office and head to the elevator. That’s when I’m hit with a sobering reminder of what could have been. A young girl – probably a teenager or early 20s – with very pale skin and a scarf on her head where her hair had once been is coming out of the elevator with a woman who is probably her mother. The girl is walking – slowly with the help of a walker. The woman is not helping her or encouraging her to move faster. The girl’s steps are deliberate. I remember those deliberate steps. Obviously, her outcome is not my outcome. She didn’t get to call all her friends and put on Facebook for the world to see that the six months of treatment she has gone through has left her cancer free. I walk out of the building into the bright sunlight and have to brace myself against my car for a second because I’m sobbing right there on Spaulding Avenue.
It’s gone. I can’t believe it’s gone. What just happened to me?
Obviously, I’m eager to share the good news. I call my brothers and best friends – the people who have held me and comforted me and pushed me through this journey – and tell them what I’ve just heard.  I spend the rest of this day calling people, recounting the exact words I heard from my oncologist’s resident again and again. I post the results on Facebook and start receiving texts and messages of congratulations. The army of angels who helped me on this journey is still with me – and it has now grown tenfold.
Eddie – the man who has been by my side every step of this journey and who coined the word “cancer-versary” – comes to pick me up for spontaneous coffee talk about 4pm. He’s really the first of my very closest friends who I see after getting the good news. He’ll tell you that he knew all along that the cancer was gone. I wish I had been as confident.
And tonight … is rehearsal with the Gay Men’s Chorus of Los Angeles.   Suddenly, I realize that I was supposed to find out the results on a Monday – and not Tuesday as had been originally planned – so that whatever the outcome had been I would be at rehearsal with the chorus that night. If the news had not been what I wanted to hear, singing would have helped comfort me. My brothers would have been there to support me. And since the news was the best possible news, they are there to celebrate with me.   I am hugged harder and tighter by these people tonight than ever. I will be here – with them – for a bit longer. Not to be morbid, but I don’t know anyone who hasn’t had that thought creep into their minds for at least a second. You can push it away as fast as it comes, but it comes. It’s natural.
It’s late when I crawl into bed. The last time I got out of this bed I didn’t know if I had cancer or not. On this night, I’m going to bed officially a cancer survivor.
Tuesday – 14 weeks post-treatment
My already scheduled appointment with my radiation oncologist is for 9am. This is the guy who created that amazing radiation mask that protected my face when those laser beams were pointed at my neck and protected my vocal cords by putting a stopper in that mask. This is the guy who my oncologist says is one of two people in this entire city he would let treat his family with radiation should they need it. This is the guy.
I arrive at the Samuel Oschin Cancer Center just before 9am. I look up at the sign on this building that I have entered many days in the past five months and take a picture for Instagram. And I hope beyond hope that I don’t have to walk into this building too many times in the future.
I check in and get weighed 170.7. There’s that appetite. My vitals are good and I tell my nurse that I’ve already gotten the results of the scans, which bums out my radiation oncologist when he comes in to see me.
“Mr. Holzer, I heard you already got the results. I wanted to be the one to give you the news,” he says. He tells me that he almost called me in Mexico City last week to tell me but his office reminded him that I had given them specific instructions NOT to call, so he didn’t.
He tells me that the technicians who prepare the reports about PET/CT scans rarely use the word ‘normal’ to describe the scan of a person who has just gone through radiation and chemotherapy. He says there’s usually some sort of inflammation somewhere.  But the technician wrote the word ‘normal’ on my reports over and over again. That’s not something we see very much, he says.
“So excuse my language,” I say, “but what the fuck just happened to me?”
He says that his answer will be dissatisfying. He says that everybody – and every body – responds differently to treatment. No two people respond exactly the same way. That’s human nature. But for whatever reason, my body tolerated that treatment and it heals quickly. Everything has been accelerated. My healing has been accelerated. My recovery has been accelerated. And he repeats what my oncologist told me.
“That’s the most aggressive treatment we do. The head and neck are very difficult areas. It was a lot directed at you in a very short period of time.”
He takes a look at my throat – still inflamed but much better than it was – and he wants to do one more scope of my throat. My nose is numbed and he slides the tube up my nostril and down into my mouth.
“It looks great. Nothing there.”
To my surprise, he tells me he doesn’t think I need a scan for another 9 months. I tell him that my oncologist told me four months. He tells me my scans were so clear that he doesn’t think every four months is necessary.   He says he’ll send my oncologist a message and then let me decide.
“What about recurrence,” I ask?
“With this type of cancer and how well you did with it and the stage we caught it in, I would say very minimal,” he says. Minimal. I like minimal. I’d prefer zero but I’ll take minimal.
He congratulates me again on the best possible outcome. I look him in the eye and start to tear up as I thank him for everything. If it was possible, I have just gotten better news from him than I received the day before from my oncologist.  And as I walk out of the Samuel Oschin Cancer Center – where I have gone many times over the past nearly six months because I have cancer – I’m overwhelmed again. I have a flashback to that first night I had chemotherapy when I walked out of here at 1201am into the darkness with no one around. I’ve said before that illness – especially life-threatening illness – is lonely. You are the only person going through what you’re going through, no matter how many incredible people you have on our side. It’s lonely. It’s personal. It’s intimate.
Suddenly – because my radiation oncologist has just given me good news and I remember the first night poison was pumped into my body to kill cancer cells – I am overwhelmed again. This shit is not just lonely, it’s emotional. I have to sit down on the stone steps on Beverly Blvd. and start sobbing again, trying not to pay attention to the drivers in morning rush hour traffic who are staring at me – and who have no idea.
Thursday, February 1, 2018
Today is my 6-month cancer-versary, as Eddie calls it. It was six months ago today that my ENT called with news that changed my life forever. It’s still surreal to me that in six months, I went from being diagnosed with cancer to going through fucking grueling treatments for cancer to being cancer free. I don’t quite know how it happened. I suppose it’s not mine to know.
But here’s what I do know. I will never, ever be able to thank or express enough gratitude to the doctors and all the medical staff who got me through it. How do you adequately thank the people who have saved your life?
Also, I will never be able to adequately thank #TeamSteve – the friends who went to the oncologist with me after the getting the diagnosis and who were at every single chemotherapy session, who brought me vanilla shake after vanilla shake from Shake Shack, who took me to doctors appointments, who brought me ice cream, who came to stay with me after the treatment was over during the roughest time of this entire journey and who kept me trying to live as normal of a life as possible despite the assault that was taking place on my body.
Speaking of normal life, mine has returned as much as is humanly possible at this point in my recovery. I’m back to taking boot camp classes at The Phoenix Effect, a place I will always credit with helping to save my life because if I hadn’t been so physically fit, my body wouldn’t have tolerated those treatments like it did.  I will be physically fit for the rest of my life because I know that it helped save my life.
I’m going to continue to raise and spread awareness about HPV-related cancers, particularly in men and especially in the gay community.  Back in October, a medical report called this a silent epidemic. It’s not something that we know about or talk about. I want to help change that, to sound the alarm.  And again, I will say this: I’m not a parent nor would I ever tell a parent what to do with their child. But if I were a parent, I would get my girls AND boys vaccinated against HPV. I would not want to put anyone through what I have just gone through. I know there are people and parents who disagree. That’s fine. This is my opinion based on my personal experience. Get your kids vaccinated.
Six months later, my neck is still a bit sore and stiff. I have to keep doing stretching exercises. My beard has mostly returned although the hair on my neck will likely never grow back. My throat is still a bit raw and I still have to watch what I eat (although I really am eating pretty much everything I want to again).  My right shoulder hurts like a mother and I don’t know if it’s from doing boot camp or the fact that I’m 51 or if the radiation and chemotherapy affected it.  I get tired more easily.  My right ear is still a little plugged from the radiation.  I can have a tube put it like they do for kids to help drain it but I’m not ready for doctors to be poking at my body again quite yet. But that … is really about it.
I know I’m lucky. I know I’m blessed. Please know I’m grateful.
And this … will be the final entry for this particular blog. It feels like it’s time. You all know I’m one for dates and anniversaries so six months to the day since I found out I had cancer – feels like the right time to end it.  Obviously, if the outcome this week had been different, I would’ve kept going. Writing this blog was often the reason I could pull myself out of bed on some very tough mornings during treatment. I would wake up before dawn, make coffee and sit on my couch and write about the experience and my feelings about what was happening to me from the previous day. Honestly, it kept me going. It gave me purpose.
I know that I still have a road ahead. I have to have scans for the next few years (every four months or every nine months or maybe there’s a compromise). I know full well those scans might come back with news that I don’t want to hear. I will take that as it comes.  And I will continue share that journey in a new blog about the reason I have to have those scans in the first place …
#BecauseIHadCancer
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17 thoughts on “#BecauseIHaveCancer”

  1. Brian Maass

    Wow. Steve. Just read this entire post. Its pretty clear that if there is anyone who can win this fight, its you. That really comes through in your words. I am so glad you did this. I learned alot and so appreciate you sharing tough stuff. And you like baseball? Who knew? From a thousand miles away, count me in as a member of Team Holzer. You got this..

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  2. Nancy Selle

    STEVE, YOUR DIARY OF YOUR TREATMENTS FOR THROAT CANCER BRING BACK MANY MEMORIES-I SHARE YOUR PAIN AND YOU ARE IN MY PRAYERS-GOT YOUR PHONE # FROM CAROLYN AND WOULD LOVE TO TALK TO YOU. MY PRAYERS ARE WITH YOU AND KNOW THAT YOU ARE LOVED BY SO MANY. NANCY

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  4. Alan Campbell

    Thanks so much for sharing your experience. I feel as though my attitude has been adjusted in a necessary way. I hope you continue to succeed in beating cancer, I feel strongly that you will.

    Much love,

    Alan

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  5. Lisa Schnebly Heidinger

    I feel bad I had no idea…as if I should have known. I’m so glad you’re doing these for all who may walk this road someday. I have always loved you, and now add tremendous bring-me-to-my-knees respect. Remember when we did the overnight to Phoenix for the impeachment story? That kid you were would be in awe of who you have become.

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  6. Debbie Beets

    Steve,
    I’m so sorry that you are going through this. I love you my sweet friend and hope that your battle is almost over and that you continue to be strong. You’re an amazing, accomplished man and you will make it through this.
    Thank you for sharing your story! You’re very brave.
    Love,
    Debbie

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  7. Patrick Cullen

    I’ve been in the other side of the bed with my brother, and my dear friends Judith and Dennis. They did not share what you have shared here. I have to wonder, had I known the depth of pain, anxiety, and fear if I might have been able to help them more. Stay strong, Steve. You will beat this, and beard or no beard, you will still be a beautiful man.

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  8. tvtoni

    Steve –
    First, I want to know where you get your horoscopes from. I kid. More importantly, so much love is headed your way. You are strong and in time this will be but a chapter in your long story. A sucky one, but one nonetheless. If I may offer some advice… let Cancer be a part of you, but don’t let it define you.
    Do let me know if you need anything.
    My support of you will remain for eternity.

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  9. joann holzer

    you are in our prayers. I really appreciated the detailed account of your journey. It is not easy to share something so personal -thank you. Keep fighting. love aunt joann and uncle tony

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  10. Bob Gain (AKA, Little Boy Bob)

    Love you, Steve! I’m so sorry you’re going through this. I am there in spirit, and am so glad Kim is there with you. You are one of my dearest friends, and I will be forever there if you need me. LBB

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  11. brandon johnson

    Nice blog. Stumbled across it via an article about a news interview you did. I’m an alum of your new club as well. Dx on 1/9/17. Treatments done 4/21/17. Feel pretty damn good, actually at 6 months +. It does get better… Good luck at your 6 week. Brandon

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    1. steveholzer Post author

      Brandon – thanks for reading and for the great encouragement about how you feel. Tbh I feel pretty damn good right now physically – still some sore throat stuff but I know that’ll heal. My best to you. Steve

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  12. ClifDunn (@ClifHDunn)

    Hi Steve,
    Just discovered this via LAObserved…what a read — insightful, humorous in the Holzer style, and inspiring. Thank you for sharing your journey with us. Sending good vibes your way and towards all who have first-hand knowledge to say, #fuckcancer.

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    1. steveholzer Post author

      Clif – My sincere thanks to you for even taking the time to read. As you can imagine, writing it has been selfishly cathartic but also, I want to get the word out about HPV. I so appreciate the good vibes and hope you are doing so great. Holzer

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  13. Reuben Carranza

    Steve – i had no idea Ana have read you’re Mir blog from start to finish. I’m so proud of you and in your courage and so grateful that your recovery is in full force. Thank you for sharing so openly – it will help others. You are a hero my brother. Reuben

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    1. steveholzer Post author

      Ah, my brother and dear friend, thank you so much for reading this. It’s really my goal to raise awareness about HPV and vaccinations and how to avoid even getting this in the first place. We will know more after my next PET scan on January 23rd and hoping it’s all gone but will do whatever we need to do if it’s not. I wish you the best Christmas. Steve

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