Mojo and a Glass Cage of Emotion

I went down the rabbit hole recently, thinking of classic crying scenes in movies. Several immediately came to mind. No doubt, Matt Damon’s breakdown in Good Will Hunting is a solid one—the old, “tough guy finally breaks after confronting all the past abuse he endured” setup. Having Robin Williams there, wrapping him up in a hug, telling him “It’s not your fault,” doesn’t hurt either. Then, of course, there’s Tom Hanks in Cast Away, floating helplessly on his makeshift raft, sobbing over the loss of his Wilson (everyone’s favorite volleyball). Man, if that one doesn’t take the starch out of you … you simply have no starch. A lesser-known classic is Jacques Perrin, as Salvatore, in one of my all-time favorite movies, Cinema Paradiso. It’d take too long to explain the setup here, but trust me, unless you happen to be a stone-cold killer, you will be moved by the closing scene, a beautiful homage to film, love, and the devastating, yet uplifting, power of nostalgia. And let us not forget the most powerful, heartbreakingly-raw crying scene ever put to film, Will Ferrell’s “Glass Cage of Emotion.” My God, poor Ron Burgandy, The Anchorman. The “bad man from the motorcycle” (Jack Black) punts Ron’s beloved dog, Baxter, off a bridge after Ron hits the dude with a burrito. Yes, that’s right, he PUNTS Ron’s dog off a bridge. Moments later, we find our mustached hero stuck in a phone booth, his “glass cage of emotion,” crying out in utter despair—oh, the humanity.

Why all the musing on crying scenes? Well, because I have to confess, I had one myself recently. Over dozens and dozens (am I over a hundred by now?) doctors’ appointments over the past three years—appointments where, by default, we’re often talking about life and death and so on—I think I’d only cracked (just a bit) in one, way back in early 2021. But a few Mondays ago, I went in for a chemo infusion and a review of a recent scan, and I broke. It was one of those mid-sentence fissures, where one second you’re talking, and then all of the sudden a wave of emotion hits you, and you freeze. The folks you’re talking to (in my case, my lovely wife and a kind gentleman named Dr. Lee), are, understandably, confused. Wait, what’s wrong with him? Did he just swallow a bug or something? Is this a glitch in the Matrix? Then they realize what’s happening, and there’s nothing they can do but stare at you, waiting to see if and when you will pull yourself together. You are now officially on the clock. The silence is brutal for all parties involved. What is the actual protocol for how long a bystander should wait while another person is trying not to cry, anyway? And when it’s time to make a move, what do they do? Say something? Maybe move in with a hug? Damn good questions—woulda made a great Seinfeld episode, now that I think about it. I can picture George and Jerry sitting in the diner booth, mulling all this over … but I digress.

Anyway, I don’t know how long it took me to snap out of it, but I didn’t get away clean. I am perfectly capable of snot-bubble type sobbing, and thankfully it wasn’t that, but I more than hitched a little. Yes, I think I maybe … kinda … cried a wee bit. And I gotta tell you, it was … not a good thing. Don’t take that the wrong way. I’m an emotional guy. I have no problem with crying (although I typically like to do my whimpering in solitude). After all, maybe no one has punted my dog off a bridge (our dogs are kinda big for that), but I have had a few challenges the past three years. What was bad about this scene was not that I got choked up, but that, in that moment, I felt all the mojo drain out of me in a torrent.

Mojo’s a tough word to pin down, but in my mind, it means energy, confidence, positivity, swagger. Mine comes from doing adventure races, getting in a good bike ride, running (as I’ve said before, I may look like a 94-year-old shuffling along without his walker, but I always feel like a Kenyan marathoner), solving problems, having a sense of humor, blah blah blah. God has granted me quite a bit of mojo the past several years. As strange as it sounds, more, I think, than I ever had before I was diagnosed. I don’t know why. I do know very early on, when things were really dire, I remember walking up and down our driveway late one night, asking God that I be given time to be an instrument of His work. In other words, I thought maybe if He somehow got me out of this mess, I might be of use. I imagine God considering my request … “Hmmm, should I just let this jackass crumble in a heap, or should I scoop him up, breathe some mojo into him, and put him to work?” I suppose he went with the latter.

Well, sitting in that infusion room, talking to Dr. Lee, whatever mojo God has granted me just left my body in an instant. Comically pathetic, is the only way I can describe it. I mean damn, several years spent carefully crafting a persona of strength and positivity, and suddenly you realize you’re nothing more than Ron Burgandy in a phone booth … quite a bummer.

What led to this great mojo drain, you ask? Well, as most of you know, I had a great summer. I took two-and-a-half months off chemo and felt better than I have in years. Great family time, great travel, and great workouts. Day in and day out, I flirted with breaking the PR. Just 5 seconds off one day, 8 the next, and so on. I knew I had it. Finally, the day before I went back into chemo, I told myself I may puke on the handlebars, but no matter what happened, I would not stop redlining the engine. I saddled up and destroyed it. Beat the record by 19 seconds!!! Talk about mainlining mojo! (and yes, I am in talks with Jagr Beero about a sequel to The PR movie). Anyway, I started chemo again the next day, and a few weeks later I went in for a regular old baseline scan. I walked out with the cd, went home, and did my analysis. By that, I mean I went in and measured the 15 or so specific lung tumors I track myself. They looked okay. As usual, some grew a bit, others didn’t. Overall, I’d say it was less than a 5% progression, which is well within the margin of error. Stable disease. That’s all we wanted, and we seemed to have it.

Then the actual radiologist report came out the next day, proving once again that I am not a doctor, nor do I play one on TV, nor did I stay at a Holiday Inn Express last night. Let’s just say the report had a few surprises in there—new spots starting up on my spine and a couple other tumors (in the linings of my lungs and where the original big thymoma was under my sternum) that apparently were there back in May (maybe even February?) but weren’t picked up on. Some scans are good, some are bad, some are just blindside punches you don’t see coming. This one was most definitely just a surprise—a one-punch flash knockdown.

But it wasn’t just the scan. Sometimes life comes at you just a little too fast, I suppose. Since I last posted, Christie’s other sister, Cindy, was diagnosed with breast cancer (if you recall, her oldest sister, Connie, is a year or so into treatment for the same), her mom’s health had continued to deteriorate, both of my parents have continued to deal with serious health issues, several other family members, friends, and friends of family have faced serious health issues, and finally, just five days before the start of his senior season, a screw from one of young Graber’s previous surgeries broke, and the screw head began floating around randomly in his knee joint. For those of you who know anything about Graber’s knee, you know what he’s been through and the work he’s put in over the past seven years just to keep playing the game he loves. For those of you who don’t know, but have kids, you know there’s no stress like the kind you feel when one of them is hurting. Anyway, all this stuff (including cancer and floating screws) is indeed, just life. I’m acutely aware of the fact that there’s no one reading this that can’t come up with a list of their own stressors and challenges. As I’ve said, life is beautiful, but it’s damn messy, isn’t it? In the case of my Ron Burgandy moment, I suppose it all just caught up with me. It doesn’t help that on the long, utterly ridiculous list of side effects for the chemo I’m on, you will find Discouragement, Feeling Sad and Empty, Loss of Interest or Pleasure, Mood Changes, Irritability, Confusion, and Insomnia. WTH? Maybe the scan was a single punch I didn’t see coming, but with a lineup like that, how does one NOT enter a glass case of emotion?

Nevertheless, I have beaten the count and am back on my feet (although it took me a bit to locate my mouthpiece). I have met with the radiation oncologist to begin strategizing next moves, I have an MRI on my spine lined up for next week to see exactly what we’re dealing with there, and I’ll be reaching out to the surgeon up in NYC to get his thoughts on things. Most importantly, in response to seeing the mojo leave my body, Dr. Lee emphasized that we are not in panic mode. We are headlong back into chemo, which will hopefully slow things down (I will not come off again until I absolutely have to tap out), and he reminded me that the simplest measurement of how I’m doing is indeed, how I’m doing … and I’ve been doing alright. I told him, in fact, I probably had more energy, etc. this summer than I have in many years, probably going back several years before I was even diagnosed. I told him I would never know I have cancer except for the broken-never-gonna-heal-cancerous-radiated-rib-from-hell and a few lower back issues (not even sure if the back’s cancer related … seems everyone I know has lower back issues!). I had secretly planned to do 3 adventure races in 5 weeks this fall … those plans are out the door until I know about my back, but I feel the mojo tank refilling … don’t count me out for the last one in October.

Before I close, I have to share a few updates to the above, which was written in short fits and starts over the past week … as I said, sometimes life comes at us fast …

C’s mom, MaryAnn, passed away Sunday. There is simply no way I can begin to pin down all I would like to say about that here. I’ll just tell you that she was an absolute, true treasure. She lived a long, rich, amazing life, and if ever the words she “made the world a better place” were true, they’re true in this case. She sure as heck made my world better. C made it down to Atlanta in time and was with her, which was a huge blessing. Godspeed Meme, we will miss you dearly, but we take comfort in knowing that you’re at peace, reunited with the love of your life.

C’s sister, Cindy, is starting her road to recovery right now … she had surgery yesterday, in fact. She will start chemo after she recovers. Cindy, let me just tell you, we got your back. I can’t say I’m happy you’ve joined the team, but I have absolute faith that you will come out the other side of this clean as a whistle. In the meantime, you and the kids have our love, support, and most importantly, prayers.

As for Graber, he now has a screwhead that he wants to make into a necklace pendant. Thirteen days post-surgery, he’s still fighting some swelling and working to get his full range of motion back. First follow-up with the surgeon went well yesterday—hoping he gets cleared soon … you’ve come this far brother, keep the faith, and remember, good things WILL happen.

Thanks once again for all the love and prayers, folks. Until next time, may you find your own well of mojo, and … peace out!