For most people, hearing a doctor say the words, “You have cancer” feels like the ultimate gut-check. It can send you spiraling into the catacombs of the darkest part of your brain. What did I do to deserve this? How did this happen? Who’s going to watch my kids when I have chemo? Should I stop eating banana splits for lunch? Questions are abundant and nonstop as you attempt to figure out how you will navigate your life going forward. Change is imminent and whether you like it or not, you are forced to confront one of life’s ultimate challenges.
For me, hearing those words, wasn’t a bomb going off in my face. Instead, I felt relief.
In the five months leading up to the official diagnosis, I wasn’t myself. Lethargic, uninspired, and craving solitude became my norm. If you know anything about me, these are not in the top 100 words people would use to describe me. Try as I might, I couldn’t figure out what to do with myself and it was snaking its way into anxiety and depression that I hadn’t felt in years. I did all of my normal self-care practices but nothing was pulling me out of the depths of my own insecurity…
That’s why I wasn’t shocked when I found out it was cancer. Knowing that it was physical meant that I could do something about it. With Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, even at stage 3, my prognosis is a 95% cure rate. This was wonderful news because instead of being in this bizarre state of limbo, I finally knew the foe I was up against. Let’s. Fucking. Go.
Today I had my 3rd round of chemotherapy. I’m scheduled for twelve treatments over six months to exorcize these invasive, replicating, unwanted cells. At this time, I’m forced to take a break from my usual life of traveling, partying, and cruising through the world like a whirling Dervish.
Most of my days are spent writing, meditating, reading, playing tennis, slacklining, and doing comedy shows at night. Sprinkle in a bunch of concerts and outings with friends and honestly I can’t help feeling like I retired at 37. To many people, this forced vacation sounds like a dream. Even with the cancer looming in the foreground, I’m living an enviable life.
Here’s where it gets scary. At some point, my body will be cured of cancer. Yay! But wait. With that, this fantasy existence also comes to an end. Right now if I wake up and don’t feel like doing anything, that’s perfectly acceptable. I’m not being lazy; I’m healing! But once I’m back to 100%, there are no more excuses. I have to make decisions that move my life forward.
I’d be lying if I told you dying hadn’t crossed my mind. Of course it has. It’s cancer, baby! The mere thought of me paying the check for this lifetime was appetizing because it meant I wouldn’t have to try anymore. Dead people can’t fail. I relished in the imagery of my friends, peers, and fans saying, “He was so funny. What could he have created if only that stupid illness never showed up?” The “what if” was so appealing to me. And here’s why:
The younger me pounced on ideas. If an inkling of a notion of a concept entered my psyche, I would put forth all of my efforts to actualize it. I wasn’t afraid of failure and because of that I thrived. I truly didn’t care what people thought of me. I always knew I would find my tribe. But with that, came a plethora of naivete. I was running as fast as I could with no clear goal other than to move fast and try not to slam into a wall. It worked in my favor because the stakes were low. I had a regular job that would pay my bills when comedy couldn’t. That’s no longer the case.
Becoming a professional automatically means that comedy is my business. It’s my life-raft that I’m slowly building out to be a luxury yacht. I can’t rely on other forms of income because right now, I don’t have a steady stream that isn’t directly related to me being an artist. Getting cancer was a sign that I need to slow down. But now that I’m getting better, my nuts are being slowly pushed closer to the fire. I can already smell the twisted, burning hairs.
I could write another book. I could bring back my podcast or come up with another premise entirely. I could try and sell one of my pilots. I could sit back and hope that I land one of these voiceover auditions and my life in cartoons will finally begin. I could produce a live show. I could try to floss with gummy worms. COULD. COULD. COULD. The indecision that comes with all of these possibilities can feel both exciting and crippling. Whatever I do, I want it to work. I want this cancer to accelerate my career as opposed to hindering it.
And that’s why it’s so terrifying. People believe in me and that has led me to believe in myself. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Whatever. Soon I won’t have an excuse for why I’m not doing anything with my time. Many survivors say that getting to remission gave them a renewed lease on their life. Finally, they are living for themselves and checking off that bucket list one by one. Skydiving, visiting Morocco, eating a scorpion. Fuck it. I’m alive!
For me, this prognosis is a ticking clock. As I inch closer toward my goal of eradicating cancer, the true fear sets in. How do I set myself up for longevity in a career filled with cautionary tales? How do I not get lost in the shuffle when everyone is screaming on top of their own soapbox? How do I not feel like I’m losing time when everyone else is advancing?
I’m writing this rhetorically, but also hoping that it opens a magic chamber, revealing the answer within. I can’t continue to make the same mistakes. I can’t blindly accomplish tasks with the anticipation that everything will work out simply because I’ve worked hard and have been kind. I need a project that will not only sustain me, but elevate everything I’ve built in the past 14 years. I need to use this cancer to push me further into success. If I don’t learn from it, what good did it do?
Cancer isn’t scary. Figuring out my life after it’s gone? Yikes. Only time will tell how I navigate those rivers. I know I have it in me. I deserve the life that I dream about. With every swollen lymph node returning to normal, it passes along the same message: Keep working on your boat.