Not Our Life To Live…

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Not Our Life To Live…

Since I last wrote a blog, I lost a dear friend to cancer.  Todd was way too young to succumb, but way too compromised from two earlier bouts with the beast some 20 years prior.  From the time they found the tumor to the time of his passing, he got to say a quiet goodbye to his children and to his wife.  He then drifted to sleep, and drifted into God’s arms.  I know he’s in Heaven…he’d beyond earned his place while still here on earth.

My friend Subash was one of the only persons in our crew that made it down to the funeral in Texas.  It was pretty quick, and many of us with children and mortgages and school payments were unable (and include unwilling) to make the sacrifice it would have taken.  Subash doesn’t have kids and he makes fatty bank, so he represented most, if not all of us.

I have to say that I felt terribly guilty for not making it to the funeral.  I was hoping that Subash wouldn’t think me a bad friend for not making the trip.  My fears were assuaged when he called me on Friday night from the car while on his way to the memorial service.

“Dude, they want me to give a eulogy tomorrow.  Do you have any Todd stories?”

So as the half-hour conversation unfolded, I started to remember stories that I’d actually forgotten…like the time I was riding shotgun when my friend Len got his accelerator on his Mustang 5.0 caught in the floor mat, and how he basically turned the car off, pulled up the emergency brake, and went careening off the road at 45 MPH.  Todd was behind us, and when the dust cleared, we looked back, and there he was, sitting on his hood…and laughing mercilessly at us.

“I thought you bastards were dead!  HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

Or the time that Todd and I were racing downtown on I-64, only to have me get pulled over for tinted windows.  And apparently, I forgot to take care of a pesky speeding ticket.  And it was my 19th birthday.  Guess who bailed me out?

Or the time that Subash went away to college and freaked out over being away from home and family and friends for the first time.  Guess who drove up to Davenport, Iowa to get him not four hours after he dropped out of school?

Todd was just that guy…the guy who could laugh at anything, and who would be there for you at a moment’s notice.

But as Subash and I got further into the conversation, I came to a realization that I had not remembered: during the entire time I went through cancer, Todd was one of the only people who didn’t call or stop by to check on me.  And to be honest, it doesn’t bother me in the least.

When I said that Todd went through cancer, I don’t think you quite get the grip on how bad it was.  Picture going through massive chemotherapy and radiation, and then hearing, “The only way to save you is a bone marrow transplant,” which I’ve heard are uproariously painful.  The regimen was more than most people go through in a lifetime.

Then a year later, imagine hearing this: “The transplant didn’t work.  The cancer has come back.  We have to do it again.”

I was there the night when he found out.  Todd was a beaten man.  He just kept saying, “I don’t want to fight anymore.  I can’t do it.  I’m not strong enough.”

But he was strong enough…barely strong enough, but strong enough, and by the time all was said and done, he’d beaten Leukemia again.  The kid was a walking, broken, unadulterated miracle.

And he’s seen hell.  He knew how it sounded, looked, and smelled.  He also knew that he’d had enough nightmares to not want to see it again.

I know what I went through, and it was my own version of hell.  But I cannot imagine what he went through.  It was hell…squared…on meth.  I understand why he didn’t want to see me.  Mine was not his life to live.

We talk about that with our boys all the time.  Ben will be sitting on our bed, watching a Bugs Bunny cartoon.  A really funny part will come up, and he’ll yell, “Sam!  Come see this!!!”  The problem is that Sam is in his room playing on his Nintendo 3DS XL that he received from Santa.  He could give a flying squirrel about Daffy yelling “SHOOT THE DUCK!  SHOOT THE DUCK!” while Elmer Fudd takes aim.

And then, Ben gets really sad, because he feels that Sam has missed something.  He will even say, “I feel poor for him that he missed that.”

My response for the last six or so weeks has been the same thing: “Ben, his is not your life to live.  And yours is not his.”

I’m not sure where I pulled that out of the first time.  It was a situation similar to the one I just mentioned, and at first, not even my wife understood what the hell I was saying.  What I mean by it is this: we live our life to the best of our ability.  We take in the things we choose to take, and we pass on the rest.  It doesn’t necessarily mean that we don’t care about the things we pass on, but that there are priorities and defenses that we choose to live by.  And they are our choices, and while it is easier said than done, none of us have a right to judge them.

And I am just as guilty as anyone for judging.  A few months ago, Brooke Burke-Charvet from “Dancing With The Stars” came out and said she had thyroid cancer.  She was absolutely not prepared for the outpouring of support, and she tried to downplay it.  “It’s not a big deal, thanks so much for the outpouring, but everything is going to be fine.”

I immediately said to myself, “That woman is doing herself no favor whatsoever in not taking this as seriously as survivors know it is.  The surgery and recovery is going to hit her like a truck.”

And then, two days after the surgery, she tweeted a picture of herself…and she looked like hell.  I mean, she seriously looked like she had been hit by a truck.  And my first thought was not a good one.  “I knew it!”

And I immediately regretted those feelings.  I looked at my wife when I showed her the picture, and I simply said, “I…am an asshole.”

In a previous blog, I have flat out said that whatever you have to do, for you, while you are going through this is the right thing to do.  And here I was passively putting this girl down because she didn’t treat it like I would have treated it.

My entire insight into life changed that evening.  I realized that hers was not my life to live, as Sam’s is not Ben’s life to live, as mine was not Todd’s life to live ten years ago.

So what does it all mean?

It means simply this: when a doctor tells you “You have cancer,” or you tell your loved ones, “I have cancer,” everything changes, and a new normal comes into being.  And however you have to handle that is the right way for you to do it.  If you are comfortable jumping in with both feet and saying, “Okay, here’s how we’re going to beat this,” then fantastic.  If you are just too afraid to face it at the present time, then don’t face it.  It’s okay.  Seriously.

We all have our unknown reasons for doing things.  What if a friend gets cancer, and all the buddies rally around but one.  And then the buddies ostracize that one for being a coward.  Well, what if that one watched two grandparents, a teacher, or even a childhood friend die of cancer, and just finds it too painful to be around?

His is not their life to live.

I will miss Todd very, very much, and I’m thankful for the fact that for times here and there, he was a huge part of my life…the life that’s mine to live.

 

By | 2017-05-24T01:38:16+00:00 January 14th, 2013|Blog|3 Comments

About the Author:

Dan Duffy has been working in film, television, and radio for almost 20 years. Graduating from the Foundation Film program at the Vancouver Film School in 2000, he has been making documentaries, commercials, and short films since for companies big and small around the world. Prior to this, Dan spent five years as an assistant producer, sports director, production manager, and on-air talent for the nationally syndicated “Steve and DC Radio Show.” He has won numerous awards in his career, including a Telly Award Winner, a seven-time Telly Award Finalist Winner, and an AIR (Achievement in Radio) award, with two other nominations. In 2003, Dan was diagnosed with stage three testicular cancer. Through massive amounts of chemotherapy and multiple surgeries, Dan was declared cancer free seven months after his diagnosis.

3 Comments

  1. Yokasta January 14, 2013 at 5:19 pm

    Brought tears to my eyes.

  2. Liz Ault January 15, 2013 at 9:27 pm

    Quote: If you are just too afraid to face it at the present time, then don’t face it. It’s okay. Seriously.

    Dan, so well written, thanks for your thoughts. There are times in our lives when we don’t get the time to “face it” afraid or not. I lost my cousin Thanksgiving weekend. He taught architecture at University in London. Mid November was on holiday with his family in Europe and took sick. Returned to London, and during diagnosis discovered his body was riddled with cancer. He didn’t get an opportunity to fight, barely time for two of his 3 brothers to travel from the west coast of the US to England. My other cousin, Tom, stayed in California with their soon to be 92 year old mother, who just lost her youngest son. Ed and his family John and his family were able to fly from the west coast and be with their brother, Mark, as he breathed his last. He was 52. Lived life like there was no tomorrow. He was buried in England. Cancer sucks.

  3. […] example from the “I’m done” side is my friend, Todd. He had battled cancer when he was in his early 20’s and beat it. When he was diagnosed again […]

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