A Year of Good Living (the Art of Jackassetry)

Yesterday was a big day for me. One of the most profound of my life, in fact. November 6 has been floating out there, deep in the recesses of my mind, for the past year. Like a distant asteroid, whose projected trajectory might just have it crossing paths with earth in the future, it has instilled awe, fear, inspiration, and anxiety in me in equal doses. I haven’t spoken directly of it to anyone. Not a word to C or the kids or a single friend. I haven’t written anything about it until now. I haven’t even prayed about it, at least not specifically. I’ve just quietly kept my eye on it, tracking its approach with growing focus, intensity, and a weird kind of “I will not be denied” determination. Me and November 6, a stare down for the ages. At times I’ve thought of the date as a friend to embrace—other times, I’ve seen it as a foe to vanquish. It proved neither in the end, the weight and significance of it too great and too personal for it to be labeled at all.

Last November 6 was the day I sat in my truck up at the football fields at Franklin Park waiting for Sloan-Kettering to call me with the results of my lung biopsy. If it wasn’t cancer in my lungs, they’d cut the big tumor out of my chest and, God-willing, we’d get on with life. If it was cancer … well, you know … cut to the movie scene where our hero squints hard and gets out the words, “How long do I have, doc?” As you know, it was indeed cancer, and although I don’t think I asked that exact question, he gave me an answer anyway. What followed was a short exchange that is forever branded in my conscious and one which ultimately instilled yesterday with a universe of import:

“We hope to measure it in years and not months,” he said.

“Wait, so you’re telling me I might only have months? I might not be here a year from now?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

I commented that it must be a really difficult part of his job, to call someone on the phone and give that kind of news. He just said, “Yes, it is.” Maybe if he’d sugar-coated it a little bit, the words wouldn’t have stuck. Maybe if he hadn’t ended the call with a kinda “good luck, we’ve done all we can do for you” tone, I would have been able to come up with my own narrative—I am a storyteller, after all. But it was what it was. Anyway, enough of the melodrama. I drove home, told the family, and our journey began.

A few weeks ago, I was lying in bed looking at videos I’d taken on my phone over the past year. Stupid videos. Silly videos. Hilarious videos. Tegan swatting, bludgeoning, stabbing her birthday pinata for a VERY long time while we all chanted “KILL IT!” Playing beer pong with the family the night before I started chemo (the drinking age was temporarily lowered to 18 that night). Outtakes from the one-man C3 movie I shot in isolation (first round of chemo and we get Covid in the house). Celebrating New Year’s Eve with the Lyons. Lying in an ICU bed after surgery, documenting the holes and tubes in my body, coughing blood into a cup, but seemingly having a grand time. Walking the streets of NYC arm-in-arm with C after getting released. Driving home from NY, singing Boz Scaggs’ Lido Shuffle (most definitely high on pain meds). Running around the house with what appears to be a stuffed groundhog in my mouth (no excuse there). Birthdays, weddings, trips to the beach, Atlanta, and the Catskills. Riding my bike while belting out She’s a Beauty by the Tubes (I don’t know why). On a boat up at Deep Creek Lake with my old JMU gang. Racing in the VentureQuest AR, Paddle Boy and I discussing whether he knew how to build a litter to carry me out of the woods if I collapsed (we made it out unscathed … albeit in 97th place).

Dozens and dozens of short videos. Hundreds of pictures. Documenting a year of living. Of good living. More quality time with my wife and kids than I can ever remember. More mileage on foot and bike than I’ve logged in many years. Too many profound, stripped-to-the-bones moments of connectivity with friends to count. Hell, I even squeezed a novel out this year, and I’m rocking a brand-new hairstyle (think tight perm with a mullet starting to form). And of course, most importantly, I’ve been blessed with a stuttering but steady growth in my faith. But more than any measurable, more than anything I can put on paper, when I watch these video clips I’m reminded of the countless moments of joy, laughter, and just good ol’ jackassetry the past year has given me. Sure, there was a lifetime’s worth of fear, anxiety, tears, etc., crammed into that same year, but I sure as hell didn’t turn my phone on for all that—water under the bridge, as they say. And sure, I have six new scars, a bunch of staples and wire inside me, some chunks of lung missing, a hole in one of my vertebra, and probably a little unseen chemo and radiation damage, but honestly, I feel, if not “good,” at least “good enough,” for sure. In fact, although I still have tumors in my lungs, I’d say I probably feel better now than at any point since I took that call a year ago.

Yesterday, November 6, 2021, I got up and went for a quick 2-mile walk. Then I hopped on the mountain bike and logged 8 miles. This put me at 50+ miles for the week (20/30)—none of it fast, but still my best week all year. Afterwards, I took Aedan out to work on his driving skills, then he and I took off on a mini-road trip to Charlottesville to see Briton. We picked her up, did a little shopping, then went to dinner. We acted stupid and laughed a lot. Then Aedan and I drove back home, listening to football on the radio the whole way. Nothing groundbreaking. No amazing accomplishments. But damn fine living on a day—a date—that has meant too much to me to ever really explain to anyone.

This isn’t intended to be a message of triumph. There’s not an iota of gloating spirit in me. I did not “beat” November 6. I have too much respect for the gift of yesterday to go there. Nor is this intended to be a message of celebration. November 6 will not live on as some kind of anniversary to be targeted, planned for, and commemorated in the future. It’s gone now. It was a singular, very personal milepost—one I gave a silent nod to as I passed. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, or the day after that. But I’m cruising down an empty, open road now. Got the windows down, and I’m taking in the scenery … mountains, or maybe the desert … wait, I’m letting this metaphor spiral outta control … I’m actually just lying on the couch watching football …

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, the purpose of this post. It’s not a message of triumph or celebration. If there’s a message here at all, it’s one of simple gratitude. I am so grateful for, so satisfied with, the countless moments of joy I’ve been blessed with this year. You can get a lot of living in in a year, a week, a day, even a minute, when you think about it. Thank you, God. And thanks to everyone out there for the prayers and thoughts and kind words and love, all of which have played a huge role in the joy I’ve experienced the past 365 days.

Until next time, let the jackassetry continue. Peace out …