Cancer on Five Dollars a Day* *(chemo not included): How Humor Got Me through the Toughest Journey of My Life (22 page)

So I’m sitting in a chair in Dr. Mehldau’s office, at Mayo, waiting for the results.

I’ve just undergone a battery of tests and I’m still in my hospital gown. I scan the room. There’s my mom, sitting across from me, her mouth clamped tight into a razor-thin line. There’s my dad at the window, hands clasped behind his back, staring at I don’t know what and neither does he.

We wait in silence. The air is thick, clogged with tension and nerves. It’s been six months since I first got the news. Doesn’t feel like it. Feels more like six years.

“Where is he?” my dad asks, his patience shot. “What, did he get a better offer?”

My mom touches him lightly on the forearm. “Otto, he’s a busy man. He’ll be here.”

My dad shrugs. Unclasps his hands. Pats down his pants pockets as if he’s lost his money clip.

Six months.

That’s how long I’ve known cancer. And Dr. Mehldau.

Feels as if I’ve known him forever. Feels like he’s part of my family. Maybe because from day one he’s taken me in like a long-lost brother. At his urging, I’ve never hesitated to call him anytime, day or night, when I’ve felt panicked or alone. He’s my teacher, my cancer mentor, my Yoda, my Dr. Phil. He pushes when I need a shove, puts an arm around me when I need encouragement. I love him.

It must be really difficult for doctors to become personally involved with their patients. I don’t see how they do it. There’s too much risk. So many patients don’t make it. I don’t know how they deal with the constant loss. Let’s face it, doctors are just regular people. They’re not miracle workers. They’re not special human beings who’ve been touched by God.

That’s something I’ve never understood. Why do most people put doctors on such a pedestal? People do that with certain professions. Like pilots.
Wow. He’s a pilot. You gotta be a special kind of person to be a pilot.

Yeah. A person who passes a flying test.

I might actually go too far the other way when I think of doctors. I think they’re completely normal, shmoes like the rest of us. Which is why I worry. I worry that my guy is at a party getting shit-faced and all of a sudden his beeper goes off, he goes to the phone and hears, “You gotta get down here right away. We’re doing Schimmel’s kidney transplant right now.” Even if he’s had four glasses of wine, I don’t think he’ll ever say, “Yeah, you know what? I ain’t gonna make it.”

Nope. He starts shooting back cups of black coffee, and half in the bag or not, he’s at the hospital scrubbing up, about to open me up for the kidney transplant.

I find it amusing that people put so much trust in doctors. They’ll do anything they say. If their doctor says, “Okay, now we’re gonna stick this thing up your ass,” most people say, “Whatever you think,” no questions asked.

I’m gonna ask a few questions. I’m gonna ask other people and find out if they’ve ever had that particular procedure done.

He wanted to stick what up your ass? He was probably drunk.
I’m thinking about this and smiling while Dr. Mehldau slips into the room undetected. He grins back. “What’s so funny?”

“I was just thinking about you and I started to laugh.”

“Not that many people find their oncologists amusing,” he says.

“I see humor in a lot of weird shit,” I say.

“I’ve noticed,” he says. He suddenly claps his hands, which scares the crap out of both of us. “Okay. I’ve got good news and bad news. First the good news. Your tests came back clean. As of today, you are officially in remission.”

For a moment, I feel nothing, then I feel numb. I start to speak, can’t. Then I finally manage: “You mean, I’m . . .
cured
?”

“I don’t like to use that word,” Dr. Mehldau says. “I prefer
remission.
Remission means that you are asymptomatic and that there’s no sign of cancer at this time. You can expect two to three years cancer-free. Some doctors might push that out to three to five years.”

“And then?” my mom asks.

“We take it year by year,” Dr. Mehldau says.

“Day by day,” my dad says, lowering the bar. “Like life.”

“Your dad’s right,” Dr. Mehldau says. “That’s how we really have to look at it. Day to day.”

“Cancer-free,” I say, trying it on.

“Doesn’t mean that you’re cured,” Dr. Mehldau says.

“Don’t worry,” my mom says, dabbing a clump of Kleenex at her makeup that’s pooled up because of her tears. “He’s cured.”

“Remission,” I say. “I’m trying to cry but you’ve been beating the shit out of me for six months and I got no crying left.”

“You’re not out of the woods,” Dr. Mehldau says. “You will still have to undergo blood tests, PET scans, and CAT scans every couple of months for a year. Then every four months or so, then six months, and so on. It’s nothing out of the ordinary. Just part of the deal. You’ll have to adjust to that.”

“Beats the alternative,” I say.

“By a mile,” Dr. Mehldau says.

“Yeah,” I say. Then the dam bursts and we’re all crying—my mom and I quietly, my dad coughing like a thunderclap to cover his sobs. I even catch Dr. Mehldau wiping at his nose. Suddenly I remember to ask him: “What’s the bad news?”

Dr. Mehldau lights up. “See that nurse out there? I’m not screwing her.”

I hop off the table and throw my arms around Dr. Mehldau and hug him. He hugs me back and then I give him a long wet kiss on the cheek. I don’t give a shit that my hospital gown is riding up my ass. For all I care, he can grab both my butt cheeks and knead them like he’s making a
challah.

I sit in the green room at the Monte Carlo in Las Vegas. I’m about to perform onstage for the first time since I’ve been diagnosed. I’m surprisingly relaxed. My parents and Lee, my manager, sit squished on the couch with me, a crazy family portrait. Adam, the Monte Carlo’s PR guy, sits opposite us in an armchair. He’s fidgety as hell. I’ve known Adam for years.

“What are you gonna open with?” Adam asks.

I catch Lee’s eye. “The cancer,” I say. “I’m gonna talk about that.”

Lee nods. “You have to be true to yourself.”

Adam’s mouth twitches. “The cancer? I don’t know.”

“Well, that’s what I’m gonna do,” I say. I’m not combative. I’m just stating a fact.

Adam says, “Robert, the audience doesn’t want to hear about your cancer. It’s not funny.”

“You’re right. Cancer’s not funny. But how I dealt with it is.”

“Those slides? I don’t know.” Adam gets up, pours himself some coffee. He shakes his head. “I can’t believe you’re even here. You should’ve canceled.”

“Adam,” I say patiently. “I have to get back onstage. I have to prove to myself that I can still do it.”

Suddenly I stop.

“You know what?” I say. “That’s not true. I know I can still make people laugh. But this is no longer about that. It’s not even about me. I’m speaking for a lot of other people now. I
have
to talk about the cancer.”

“It just makes me uncomfortable, Robert.”

“Look at me.”

Adam keeps his eyes down, avoiding mine. He distracts himself by stirring two packets of artificial sweetener into his coffee.

I pull myself to my feet. I tip the scales now at a sleek 128 pounds. I still have no hair. Not a strand anywhere on my body. Still no eyebrows or eyelashes. Not even ear fuzz. My cheeks are sunken. My skin is the color of chalk.

“What am I gonna do,” I say quietly, facing him, “tell jokes about bad airplane food?”

Adam says nothing. He rips open another packet of the sweetener and stirs it into the coffee.

“The audience knows what’s going on,” I say. “They’ve heard me on Stern. Or if they haven’t and I walk out looking like this, they’re going to say, ‘What happened to that guy?’ I can’t ignore my fucking
life
.”

Adam. Still stirring his coffee. Thinking. He’s a good guy. Suddenly the expression on his face shifts and I can tell that he knows that I’m asking him to fight with me.

“Don’t have much choice, do I?” he says.

The door opens and the stage manager motions to me. “This is it,” I say.

My parents climb to their feet. My dad circles his arms around me.

“Keep moving,” he whispers.

My mother cups my face in her hands. “I love you,” she says and kisses me.

Lee pats me on the back. “I really admire you, Robert,” he says.

I smile and start toward the door.

“Robert,” Adam says, insistent, stopping me.

“Yeah?”

“Knock ’em dead.” Adam offers up his fist. I fist him back. Two fifty-year-old white guys playing ghetto.

“Speaking of death,” I say, pointing at his coffee. “That shit’ll kill you.”

To the echo of
ROBERTTTT SCHIMMELLL
booming through the sound system, I step onto the stage. My phantom body tiptoes to the center illuminated by the spotlight’s orange glow. My black suit hangs off me, ridiculously oversized, as if I’ve pulled something out of Schwarzenegger’s closet. I wave at the crowd and then, as one, they are on their feet, howling, clapping, stomping, and tears stream down my face. This is a first. I’ve never had a standing ovation
before
I’ve spoken a word. I blow a kiss back at them and I tell them my story, the story of the last seven months of my life, of how Dr. Mehldau told me I had non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma, and how I went through chemotherapy and licked the Big C. I tell them jokes about the dick wig salesman, and sitting next to Bill and wanting to bang Nadine the chemo nurse (all of whom are in the audience). At the end of my set, I click through a dozen slides, showing me in the hospital at my absolute weakest point. I look gaunt and withered but I’m laughing. I pepper the slides with jokes. The audience howls, laughing louder here than at any of my earlier sex jokes. Finally, I tell them that all of this, all of
them,
has been my inspiration and that this game ain’t over, not by a long shot. It is only just beginning.

They are on their feet again, applauding, whistling, and some of them are crying. I wait for them to sit back down and I tell them how wonderful they’ve been and how incredible I feel, thanks to them. And then I hit them with the topper.

“There’s somebody I want you to meet,” I say. “The guy who got me through this.”

I point to the third row and introduce Dr. Mehldau. The audience applauds, then as I urge them on, they roar. Dr. Mehldau reluctantly stands up and offers the crowd a tentative finger waggle. Before he can sit back down, I ask him to join me onstage. He doesn’t want to, but with the audience now cheering wildly, refusing to take no for an answer, he sidesteps out of his row and comes onstage. We hug and the audience claps again.

I explain how with cancer, you’re never cured. I explain about how my life will now consist of a nonstop regimen of tests. But mainly I talk about how cancer has changed my life.

“I’m thankful to be alive. You have no idea,” I say. “Tonight I feel privileged to have been able to give you a small gift, the gift of laughter.” I then lay a hand on Dr. Mehldau’s shoulder. “Dr. Mehldau has given me the greatest gift of all. He’s given me the gift of time.”

The audience applauds.

“He’s given me more time on earth, more time with my family, more time with my loved ones, and he’s taught me how to appreciate every moment I have. Precious time.”

More applause. Then I face Dr. Mehldau. “Dr. Mehldau, there’s no way I can ever repay you, but here is a small token of thanks for giving me this gift of time.”

I drop my hand from his shoulder, reach into my pocket, and pull out a watch, still in its case.

“Thank you, Dr. Mehldau,” I say, presenting him with the watch.

Wild applause.

Now he’s actually crying. Finally, he pulls himself together and says, “It’s beautiful. I don’t know how to thank you.”

“By coming up onstage tonight, you just did. I just hope that once in a while, when you look at your watch, you’ll think of me. That way you won’t forget me. Because I know I will never forget you.”

The audience goes nuts.

So that’s it. How my life changed for the better because of cancer. Somehow the eight chemo sessions taught me these simple, yet profound life lessons: