This past weekend, I met Scott Slater at the OMG! Summit. I asked him to write a reflection of his experience there, as we are at different places in this whole cancer survivor gig.
Scott is a musician/producer living in Brooklyn, NY. He was putting the finishing touches on his first CD, Chained by Dreams, with singer/songwriter Michelle Hotaling when he was diagnosed with testicular cancer in 2006. After surgery, five and a half weeks of radiation and an all-clear prognosis, Scott continued his work with music. In 2009 Scott and Michelle released a 2nd CD called Sweet Clarity, and followed it up this year with a free, download-only Fleetwood Mac/Stevie Nicks tribute album called Crystal Revisions. Scott is also a mobile app developer for Time Inc. and runs a part-time energy business in which he helps people get free electricity and natural gas in their homes and small businesses.
In his keynote address, Matthew Zachary, the group’s founder and CEO, asked if there were any people present who had attended the first summit back in 2008. There was one lonely “woohoo” from the audience. (That’s right, THIS guy.) This was my fifth OMG conference. Five out of five.
(Ed. note: Scott’s the guy on the right.)
And yet, I was completely unprepared for how profoundly this year’s summit would impact me.
I’m still trying to sort that out, but I’m going to give you my best attempt.
I was so looking forward to the event. I’ve met some wonderful people at all of the many Stupid Cancer events over the years. But the people I met at last year’s summit are people who are going to with me for life, so I was certainly looking forward to seeing them again. I was also eager to get out of New York City for an extended weekend. Vegas is not my favorite place in the world, but that said I was excited for the insanity, the forced opulence and the over-the-top-ness of it all.
Friday night was a kickoff event at Moon, a rooftop club at the Palms Hotel and Casino. It was a chance to re-connect with some old friends and meet some new ones.
It was also a chance to get Jesse “Urbalist” Hershkowitz’s song “Stupid Cancer” stuck in my head
and NEVER GET IT OUT. Seriously, his brand of life-affirming, positive hip-hop is something you need to check out.
(And getting a shout-out by name in one of the verses of that song has NOTHING to do with me liking it so much. I swear.)
But even then, the weekend felt… emotional.
I had a thought that Matt ended up echoing in the keynote:
“It’s great to see so many people here … but it also SUCKS to see so many people here.”
This thought continued at breakfast the next morning. As I sat in the big banquet hall, I looked around the room at the smiling faces, old timers like me and the newcomers realizing they were in a room full of people who GET it.
But through it all, an unexpected wave of anger come over me. What kind of world, what kind of universe, derails the lives of so many beautiful, beautiful people? How many people in this room had dreams they’ll never get to realize? Medical debts they’ll never overcome? How many people in this room are going to die soon due to cancer? How many people in this room are going to die soon and they ALREADY KNOW IT?
The rest of the day brought many similar profound, heartbreaking, infuriating moments.
The young woman in the audience at the Self-Image Workshop with Stage 4 metastatic breast cancer who felt crushing guilt for the selflessness of her caretaker husband. The young man who, due to his fight with cancer, was now bald, overweight, physically compromised, in debt, and living with his parents. (“Dating is going to be fantastic — I’m a real catch,” he joked.) The woman whose significant other had just left her two months prior because of her fight with cancer — all of this as if fighting cancer itself wasn’t difficult enough. Cancer at any age is devastating, but I think these stories exemplify the unique struggle that befalls the adolescent or young adult cancer survivor.
Also on Saturday was a panel on Spirituality. I thought the panelists did a fine job of expressing spirituality in a non-denominational way but I became very interested when they decided, with 15 minutes left in the session, to open up the floor to questions or comments. The first few people who lined up to speak offered the kind of thoughts I would expect: How God has a Plan for them, how the cancer experience has all been part of a journey, how God never gives us more than we can handle, and so on. One mother came up to talk about how her son had lost his 13-year battle with cancer at a young age, and how he was at peace and with God now. I certainly don’t want to disparage anyone their beliefs — I think that when you hold a firm-rooted belief if your life, that for all intents and purposes, it exists as truth in your life.
I also knew that the sentiments I was hearing weren’t my truths.
But then a young woman whom we’ll call Chemobabe stepped up to the mic. She recounted the story of losing her brother to cancer years ago, receiving her own diagnosis shortly thereafter, and the ensuing struggles with which readers of this blog are no doubt familiar. And she was angry about it. And I could feel it in myself as well as see it in the nods of agreement around me:
Anger was the elephant in the room.
Here we all were at a panel on spirituality, in one way or another maybe hoping to leave somehow enlightened, whether it was by being reminded of a loving God, or the power of serenity, or the concept of surrender.
Well, I felt enlightened: I was angry.
I knew the panel was running out of time, but I felt the need to go up myself.
“What are you going to say?” asked my friend Alexandrea.
“I have no idea,” I replied.
I do remember it pretty well though. I stated that I am not a religious person at all but that I consider myself very spiritual. I can confidently say that I believe in God, but it’s not like any God I ever met in any church or synagogue.
And I came up with something that feels like truth to me: I’m not here to discover God’s plan for me; I’m here to tell God what my plan is. (Because if there IS a God, THAT is his plan for me.) My cancer wasn’t some sort of gift. It wasn’t given to me so I could learn some sort of lesson, it’s not some sort of journey I’m supposed to take, it wasn’t given to me as some sort of growth experience. It was something that happened to me. That’s all it was. But through it I have received many gifts, I have learned many lessons, I have journeyed far, and I have grown. All I know is right now, I’m alive. And while I’m alive I want to live with as much fucking color and as much vibrancy as I can muster.
There’s an old episode of “3rd Rock From the Sun” in which Wayne Knight’s character is bragging about being a cop and says, “In my line of work, it’s a good day if you come home alive.”
To which Joseph Gordon-Levitt’s character responds, “Isn’t that pretty much a good day no matter what your profession?”
Speaking of Joseph Gordon-Levitt, Saturday ended with a midnight screening of 50/50, the fantastic cancer dramedy by Will Reiser and Seth Rogen, starring Mr. Gordon-Levitt.
I had never seen it. I always wanted to, but it was one of those movies that came and went before I could get my act together. I sure as hell didn’t want to Netflix it and watch it alone on my laptop, so I was thrilled that I’d have the opportunity at OMG. The screening was in the Pearl Theater at the Palms. A group of five of us, Chemobabe included, commandeered a table and prepared to watch. Three of our group had seen it before.
Right from the get-go I realized I could not stop shaking. It was cold in the room but that had nothing to do with it.
And not too long after that, I realized I couldn’t stop crying.
Looking around the table I realized I was in good company. The pile of tissues at our table continued to grow until it became what one in our group referred to as Mount Tissue-monjaro.
There were so many scenes that hit so close to home (the detached and impersonal doctor, the abandoning significant other, the coldness of the hospital rooms and equipment, the sickness due to treatment, the sudden disappearance and loss of hospital compatriots), but there was one scene in particular in which Gordon-Levitt’s character, after an eternity of seemingly taking things in stride, has a complete meltdown in his friend’s car in a well-acted scene that I literally almost couldn’t bear to watch.
Thank goodness for bars in Vegas being open 24/7, and thank goodness for tequila. (And thank goodness for amazing people to share said tequila with.)
The day after Mt. Tissue-monjaro. We cleaned up alright.
And so it was that the weekend triggered, in a sense, the humble beginnings of my own Car Meltdown moment. I’ve taken lots of things in stride. I’ve experienced the hospitals, the loss, the abandonment, the aloof doctors. But I never really experienced the meltdown. After this weekend, I can feel it coming — maybe not to the extent of the scene in the movie, but I can tell that, even more than five years out from the end of my treatment, I have a lot of issues that I have yet to deal with despite feeling that I was “done” and that I had begun to move on.
My birthday was Monday, the day after the conference. I was talking to my best friend from high school. He was on the 89th floor of the World Trade Center on 9/11. Obviously, he survived though he can now recall probably a dozen separate instances in which he very nearly died. He has seen, heard, and experienced some truly terrible things. He finally went into therapy a couple of years ago and had this to share from his therapist:
When someone goes through a traumatic experience, the mind essentially separates the memories of what happened from the reality that it was YOU that was having the experience. It’s a survival mechanism: When you look back you tend to see it almost as if it happened to someone else. However, by the same token, mental health is restored, hopefully, when those links begin to reconnect. This begins to happen in most people between 5 and 10 years afterwards. I’m now five and a half years out — I am pretty sure this is the process that was sparked by OMG 2012.
I’m not relating all of this to scare anyone going through, or recently out of treatment. I think you already get the sense that this is a long, long process.
I’m relating all of this so that you remember to always be open to the process and to surrender to it while always keeping your mind open and accepting the well-intentioned care of your loved ones.
If you feel anger, feel it.
If you feel aloof, be it.
If you feel like crying, do it.
And if you start to feel those scarred strands of memories reconnecting somewhere down the line, let them.
No one gave you this experience so you could learn and grow. But don’t be afraid to learn and grow from it anyway.