Seize the Day (2 page)

It never made sense to me that you go to the doctor for a checkup feeling fine. Then he tells you that you have cancer or some hideous disease and starts firing chemicals into your bloodstream like you shoot up a turkey you're about to fry on Thanksgiving. Almost immediately you feel like shit and before long you start looking like shit. You lose your hair, you lose your energy…you lose who you are. And eventually you lose your will to live.

For some, for most, that's the route they chose and I wouldn't dare begrudge them that.

Me, I would rather live whatever time I have left instead of having my insides burned out and become so drained that I cannot live, only exist…until I die.

Maybe it's me, but that doesn't seem like fun. Haven't had much fun since I went to the hospital for my annual checkup, feeling good and looking forward to a date that night with a nice lady I had met. Next thing I know, they tell me I have some form of cancer I can't pronounce, much/less spell. “Sarcoma” something or other. Attacks the blood cells, organs, bones…you name it. When they said it was fatal I lost interest in any more specifics.

I will be forty-six in four months…if I make it that long. I have a twenty-three-year-old daughter and a zest for life that is as strong as a weightlifter on steroids. Staying laid up in a hospital, withdrawn and diminished after chemotherapy or radiation does not qualify as living to me.

When I finally was up to eating, I ended up at the National Harbor, where I could see the Potomac River run from Maryland into Washington, D.C. It was an interesting spot with good sandwiches and nice desserts, which fulfilled my sweet teeth. Yes, I enjoy cakes and pies too much to limit my attraction to “sweet tooth.” That's why I said “sweet
teeth
.”

Anyway, I sat alone, at a high-top table near the bar—a dying man with a plate of food and his thoughts. Ever since learning I would die, I was able to slow down my thinking. Everything was on express.

People walked right by me, some spoke to me or smiled at me. None of them realized they were in contact with a dead man. That's how I saw myself—walking dead. I was like a zombie, a creature moving about the earth but already departed. I just didn't look like one…yet.

I saw everything differently, too. Like, it did not matter if my favorite football team, the Washington Redskins, won another Super Bowl. I didn't care much anymore about my wardrobe or purchasing that Mercedes CLS550 I had been eyeing or even if my 401(k) flattened out. It all seemed so meaningless to me after the diagnosis.

Still, I was not sure what I was inspired to do or how to live out my life, other than to
not
let doctors turn me into a bed-ridden slob before my time. I didn't ask anyone else's opinion on it. I just went with it.

My daughter, Maya…I couldn't tell her. It was hard for me to even say her name without getting choked up. That's how daughters are to their dads; we live to their heartbeat.

My father told her. “She deserves to know,” he reasoned. “Maybe not everything going on with you. But this? She deserves to know this.”

Maya did not call me about it. She showed up at my house one Saturday afternoon, right before I was about to get in a round of golf, in an attempt to free my mind of the burden. The garage door went up and there she was, pain and sadness all over her soft, lovely face. I knew my daughter and that look made me cry, without her saying a word.

“Daddy,” she said, hugging me so tightly. Every time we embraced I smelled baby powder, like I did when she was an infant. It was my imagination or just how badly I wanted my little girl to remain my little girl.

“I'm OK, Maya,” I said. “It's going to be all right.”

She sobbed and sobbed and I held her as tightly as I could without making her uncomfortable. It broke my heart. My job as her father was to protect her. It crushed me that I was the cause of her anguish.

“You didn't have to come here, sweetheart,” I managed to get out when I finally composed myself. “See, this is why I didn't want to tell you right away. You are all upset over something you can't control. It's out of both our hands right now.”

Maya wiped her face and looked up at me with those eyes that were the replica of mine: brown and piercing.

“Daddy, we can't control it, but you've got to let the doctors try,” she said. “I spoke to an oncologist from Johns Hopkins on my way here. He said nothing good will come out of doing nothing.”

I had to break it down for her so–as, Isaiah Washington said in the movie
Love Jones
—“It will forever be broke.”

“Let's go inside,” I said. I wiped away her tears and kissed both sides of her precious face. She turned me into mush. We were both a mess.

I called my friend, Thornell, and told him I had to renege on golf. I hadn't told him the news, either. That would be another tough call. But nothing compared to that talk with Maya.

“Sweetheart, about two months before I went to the doctor, I spoke to an old high school classmate at Ballou. His name was Kevin Hill. Yes, your godfather. Great guy, as you know. Do you know how we met? We played basketball against each other in junior high and became friends when we ended up at Ballou High School together. When Kevin got sick with multiple sclerosis, it slowly but surely ravaged his nervous system over the years until he was unable to do anything but lie in bed to die.

“I visited him at Washington Hospital Center. We reminisced and I was able to make him laugh and take his mind away from his plight, at least for a few moments. But the whole time I was looking at him and feeling so sorry for him, there was so much more for him to do in life. I thought I didn't convey that, but he sensed it. And he wrote a letter to me that means more to me now than ever.”

I pulled out the folded sheet of paper with the letterhead that read: “Kevin Hill…Remember Me.”

And then I read it to Maya: “Calvin, don't feel sorry for me. The things I did in my life, I enjoyed them. I could have done more, but I learned and accepted that God's plan was different. But all this time laying around in bed, I have had a lot of time to think. And I have a lot of regrets. I regret not traveling and not mending my relationship with my sister and not learning Spanish and so many other things. You know what I should have done, but makes no sense to do now? Cut off all my hair. I saw how some bald guys looked so cool with a shaved head. Even Samuel Jackson looked cool with a bald head in
Shaft
. I should have done that a long time ago. Now, if I do it, no one will see it.

“Anyway, my point is: Don't live with regrets. Live your life.
Carpe diem.
You know what that means? It means: seize the day. Seize it. Take it. Own it. Make it yours and get the most out of it.

“Nothing is promised. Yeah, you've heard this before. We all have. But we go about a day as if it's no big deal to make the most of it because we can do it the next day. Or the next. That's not the right approach. I'm forty-four. I got this disease from bad luck. If I knew it was coming, I would have done a lot of things I planned to do later. You and I have done a lot together and been as close as two friends could be, so I can say this to you without you getting offended: Get off your ass and live your life.”

Maya got it then. The fear and hope left her. Reality settled in. She knew, at that point, I was done. No amount of radiation, chemo, Tylenol or anything else could help me. My days had been finalized. It had to be about what I did with those remaining days that mattered.

“Daddy, what can I do to help you?” she asked.

“Love me, baby,” I said. “Your love means everything to me. And pray for me. Pray that I'm able to make my last days here meaningful and fun and that I live them as if I'm alive, not waiting for death.”

My daughter cried. “I can do that, Daddy,” she said softly while hugging me.

We corralled our emotions after a while and I walked her to her car. “I feel so much better,” I told her, and it was the truth. I didn't realize how much of a burden it was not having had that conversation with her. I finally was prepared to live my final days, to “seize” them as my friend Kevin said I should.

Problem was, I didn't know how or where to begin. I actually did not have lofty dreams of travel or glory. I didn't have a “Bucket List.” I was an ordinary man with few extraordinary ambitions. I didn't like to travel much because I didn't like to fly and riding too long in a vehicle made me carsick.

I ate when necessary, but did not have exotic tastes. I had a group of friends, but I spent the most time with Kevin. I had but one vice: golf.

My first thought was just to play golf every day…until I collapsed on a lush fairway. Kevin would have appreciated that. He and I were so close that we had become like brothers. For sure, we had a connection that was rare among people: I carried his kidney in my body.

When one of mine was damaged in a bad car crash and I needed a new one to avoid a life of dialysis, I was amazed by two things: Kevin was willing, without hesitation, to go through tests to see if we were compatible; and that he
was
a match. I had no siblings and my father's kidneys were not healthy enough to share.

If Kevin had any reservations about doing it, I never saw them. If there was any fear, he never revealed it. And he never expressed any ambivalence about donating an organ to his friend.

For all I had done with and for him in the thirty years we knew each other, there was nothing I could do to repay Kevin for his deed for me. And as I read his letter as I had each day, something occurred to me the way an idea comes to a prolific author: As a way of honoring Kevin, I will live out some of the things
he
never got to do based on what he wrote me in that letter.

That was the least I could do, considering the kidney transplant saved my life. Doing things he wanted to do would extend my life and give it more purpose. And I decided I would throw in some of my own unfulfilled ambitions, too.

E
ver since my diagnosis, my sleep had been interrupted almost every night by weird dreams about death and Kevin and people chasing me and other things I couldn't remember. But I woke up terrified.

At the same time, I could not hold a thought when I was awake. It was hard to concentrate. My mind flared off to someplace I was not, someplace I wanted to go or someplace I feared. It was a strange existence.

It was a relief to wake up this particular morning feeling refreshed and somewhat inspired. I dreamed about Kathy Drew, my first love. We broke up when she took a job in San Francisco, leaving me behind in D.C. We were twenty-five then. I understood her decision; we didn't have a life-long commitment and the opportunity was too good to refuse.

But I didn't realize I would love her all my life. The distance made our relationship fizzle, but the fire always burned within me. I dated and even loved some good women since Kathy. But she always was the pinnacle. Strange thing was, I couldn't figure out why…until my life changed with death pending.

Knowing you're going to die did something to my thinking. We're all trained to know our time will come at some point. But my case was different because I knew death was near, even though I felt fine. I didn't have any headaches or stomach discomfort. I had some X-rays that show a growth in my stomach that shouldn't be there. And the docs said it would kill me.

And because I knew my time was near, my senses seemed sharper. I saw things clearer. So I could see Kathy for who she was to me: a love that was not on the surface, a love that was not driven by sex or a need for companionship or youthful exuberance. It was simply real love that was almost tangible and unconditional, even at that young age. Now I know: True love was not that complicated.

It irked me that it took this long for this realization. I had twenty years to try to make something out of what we had. Instead, I played the tough, so-called manly role, the “There are many fish in the sea role.”

The dumb role.

Look at me now: understanding I could have had the love of my life when I have little life left.

“Why do you think it's too late?” Thornell said. He was one of my closest friends and golf buddy. When I told him I was going to die, he held it together, held me together. He was predictably stunned and looked me up and down and wondered, like I did, if the doctors knew what the hell they were talking about. He talked about getting second and third opinions. But by the time I told him, I had already made those rounds.

“It's too late because I don't have any time to really have something with Kathy,” I told Thornell.

“That's the reason you should contact her,” Thornell said. “Do the things that make you feel good.”

It made sense to me. Shit, whom was I trying to fool? Anything would have felt like a good reason. I wanted to contact her, to hear her voice. The problem was, I didn't know where to begin in trying to locate her. We hadn't spoken in seven years. But Thornell had an answer for that, too.