August 22, 2002|
Happy Birthday Art!
‘Happy six months old Art!’ That’s what you all should be saying to me. Technically, I’m 24 years old and my birthday is February 28. Truthfully though I was reborn six months ago when I was injected with my brother Billy’s stem cells.
To celebrate the occasion I didn’t receive a cake, a card, or even a present. Instead, I had an all day affair at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center. At 8:35am, I was injected with radioactive insulin for my PET Scan. So much for staying radioactive-free on my birthday. At 3:45pm, I polished off the last drips of my Crystal Lite & Contrast mixture for my CT Scan. At 3:55pm, I was injected with the IV Contrast. So much for staying Contrast-free on my birthday.
Truthfully I was scared and am scared. The scans, ah, they’re cake. It’s waiting for the results that make the heart pound, the adrenaline flow and the mind race. The wheezing in my lungs, what could that be? And how about the pain along my spine, could the cancer have returned? Why has it taken me a month to get over a silly head cold? Why haven’t I gained any weight? Will I ever be healthy? Will I make it to see my next real birthday? The questions had been circling like sharks for the past two weeks. Tuesday. Is it possible to wait that long?
An Involuntary Reaction
The accordion player could have been a corpse for all I know. At first glance I thought it really was a skeleton wearing a seer-suckered suit, bifocals and mesh ball cap. A cheesy teethy grin lingered on his face. The light breeze from the bay could have been bristling his fingers against the keys. The stiff crosswind from the ocean, only 200 yards away from the makeshift stage where he sat, could have been the propelling force needed for the expanding and contracting motion of his arms. The two other members of the band didn’t look dead, but they didn’t look so hot either. They must have all been octogenarians. It was a peculiar sight to see that sunny Sunday afternoon.
When the trio launched into their first song, a smile crept upon my face. It was an involuntary reaction. Filled with worry, a frown doting my face, I had been battling the sharks. But the music, it almost made me giggle. The pace was slightly faster than a crawl, for arthritic hands can only move so fast. The guitarist strummed softly. The accordionist twinkled in and out. The drummer sang. ‘When Irish eyes are smiling…’ I couldn’t help but smile.
I was fastened to my bench. I wasn’t afraid of losing it-there were only seven people in the crowd- but I was enchanted. I must have looked strange- a twenty-something boy, sitting alone on a bench, grinning from ear-to-ear.
A few songs later the group played ‘Happy Birthday’ for an older gentleman seated near me who looked like Abe Simpson, bolo and all. The gentleman bounced up, grabbed a girl and did a lil’ jitterbug to everyone’s delight. ‘Good ol’ boy is 97 today!’ the drummer announced. I couldn’t help but smile.
The band took a break. It’s not easy to play five straight songs with arthritic hands. I went to the arcade and played skeeball and pop-a-shot basketball. I gave the tickets I had won to a cute four-year-old girl. By the look on her face, you would have thought I gave her gold. I couldn’t help but smile.
The band was back on, joined by another old coot playing a trombone. They were really jamming now. A crowd of twenty had formed. The 97 year old rose again and boogied. A father waltzed with his little girl. The rest of the audience cheered in delight. I couldn’t help but smile.
It was a little sad for me to leave Ventura Harbor that day. I still had to drive up to Santa Barbara that afternoon. I opened the door to my rental car, a PT Cruiser with wood paneling. I couldn’t help but smile. I rolled down the windows, cranked the CD player and drove along the California coast at 70 MPH. The sun was shining, the ocean was glimmering and the mountains were looming in the distance. For the afternoon the sharks had gone away. And I couldn’t help but smile.