Greetings from San Francisco!!

Your pal WunderGlo is at it again: on the road and up for another adventure.

On the agenda for this weekend: hiking among the Redwoods at the Armstrong National Forest during the day, celebrating my Stanford Law School bestie Morgan's birthday in San Francisco Saturday night, and getting just enough rest to drive back to L.A. to celebrate Easter Sunday with my family.

I'm feeling a little sore from yesterday's adventures, but that was to be expected. I neglected to tell you that before I played full court basketball last night, I golfed 18 holes during the day. Shoulders, core, and legs are all feeling it, but I'm glad they are. Sore muscles today means strong muscles tomorrow!

Happy weekend, dear readers. Live it up!

Back On The Court

Tonight, I dealt another blow to "the cancer" and its attempts at limiting my life. I laced up my new Nikes, put on my O'Melveny jersey, and joined my basketball team for a game. This was my first game since September of 2010, a mere five days before I rushed my swollen belly to Good Samaritan's emergency room. It was a big deal for me.

I always knew that coming back to basketball would mean a lot to me, but my expectations of awesomeness couldn't compare to the feeling of actually playing in the game tonight. It wasn't all fireworks -- I played very cautiously, remaining parked on the perimeter and very conscious of the fact that there is a portacath in my chest and an incision down my core that needed to avoid abuse from opposing players. But despite my more hesitant way of playing, it felt incredible to be back out there -- running up and down the court, passing the ball to my teammates, and yes, sinking a couple of shots. I scored only five points tonight, but each of the two shots I made were memorable in their own way. The first came in the first half, after I had narrowly missed a few perimeter shots and was starting to get a little impatient for my first points in 2011. I got the ball near the free throw line, lined up, let the ball go, and watched it bank-swish its way into the hoop. The fact that my first field goal was a bank shot was slightly embarrassing (for those of you who are basketball savvy, you know what I'm talking about), but my second shot made up for that. It came during the second half, and it was a silky smooth three pointer. It felt good leaving my hands, and when I saw the ball swirl around the net, I felt such a release. This was the moment I had been waiting for since the moment I got my diagnosis -- the day that I would be well enough and fit enough to get back on the court and sink a long range jumper. I almost got a little teary after I made that shot but I held myself together. I had a game to play, after all. But, man, it was so beautiful. 

Two months ago, I was shuffling down the halls of the Washington Hospital Center with sutures lining a huge incision wound along my belly. A week and a half ago, I was chemo-weary and vomiting on my bedroom floor. A few hours ago, I was playing full court basketball, looking every bit as healthy and strong as everyone else on the court. I've got to admit it, dear readers: I'm proud of myself. And I'm so happy to be living my hoop dreams again.

Timshel

There's a new song on my cancer-killing playlist, and it's a slow and thoughtful one by my boys, Mumford & Sons. I've always loved this song, but during the concert on Monday night when they sang "Timshel," I was especially moved. The song begins with the following lyrics:

 

Cold is the water
It freezes your already cold mind
Already cold, cold mind
And death is at your doorstep
And it will steal your innocence
But it will not steal your substance

It's not hard to understand how these lyrics speak to me so clearly and so powerfully. Over the past several months, I've fought a deadly disease. It's sole aim was to deprive me of my life. When Dr. Ramos first saw the cancer that had spread throughout my body, he was devastated. Had the chemo not killed the substantial amount of cancer that it did, Dr. Sugarbaker probably would not have been able to successfully remove all the visible cancer cells in my body. I think it's safe to say that death was at my doorstep. And it certainly did steal my innocence. My ignorant, carefree way of living -- a way of living that never gave a thought to illness or mortality -- was abruptly ended. But never, ever, did "the cancer" steal my substance -- my character, my will to survive, and the love that animates my every action. In fact, it amplified my substance.

 

The part of "Timshel" that I love the most is the next stanza:

 

But you are not alone in this
And you are not alone in this
As brothers we will stand and we'll hold your hand
Hold your hand

Despite my diagnosis, and throughout my battle with this disease, I have never felt alone. My family, my friends, my doctors, and all of you have been with me every step of the way. I can honestly say that I've never been afraid for one moment -- not before my first surgery, not afterwards when I learned that I had achieved Stage IV status, not when I started chemo, not when I was wheeled into surgery with Sugarbaker, and not now. It sounds hard to believe, but it's absolutely true. And it's not because I'm the most courageous person in the world or the most delusional person in the world. It's because I know that, no matter what happens, as brothers we will stand and you'll hold my hand. I'm blessed with the unflinching love and support of family, friends -- heck, an entire law firm -- and all of that positive energy I get from my loved ones sustains me. Your energy gives me energy. And I know one thing better than anything: when I've got a belly full of energy, nothing can stop me.

 

So no matter what you're going through -- if you're battling cancer or any other disease, or supporting people who are, or even if you are just rocking out at life and there's not a cloud in sight -- just know one thing: we're all in this together. You are not alone in this. This thought has been the most empowering and comforting to me, and one that has buoyed my heart and soul in the face of many challenging moments. As members of the human race, we can be there for each other and we should be...although you, dear readers, are the last people I need to remind about this. You have brought the lyrics of "Timshel" to life for me, and I'm eternally grateful.

A Challenge (and My Plan) For the Future

I spent the first part of my day on the bike path along the beach in Santa Barbara, and spent the evening at Dodger Stadium with great friends. I am soaking up the fun and beauty of each day I live, and feeling grateful and peaceful all the time. My life is awesome and I'm feeling incredibly well. 

What happens when WunderGlo rejoins the real world, though? The world of deadlines and obligations and very little time to go to Santa Barbara on a weeknight for a great concert? It has not escaped me that this lovely life of mine will have to transition to a more practical, work-filled one in a few months. Just as the Dodgers have been challenged this season (I'm hoping they'll turn things around pretty soon), I'll be challenged, too.

It'll be interesting, and it may be tough to keep a balance between this healthy, relaxing life of mine and that of a corporate attorney. It would seem pretty easy to just ditch all I've learned and jump right back into the hustle and bustle, the stress and upheaval of a busy life. But I won't. I know better now.

I've already got some ideas on living a healthy and mindful life while still rockin' out at work and in all my other endeavors. And I'm putting together my plan.

First of all, my diet won't be an issue. L.A. is a vegan's dream, and Downtown L.A., where I live and work, is no exception. I've got my workday lunch spots all figured out, I've got healthy snacks just ready to be stocked in my office, and I'll chug a green juice every morning on my way to the office.

Exercise is the second most important thing I need in my current and future life to ensure, well, a longer life to live. Now that I'm cleared to hit the gym, I've been developing an idea about what my workout regimen will be. Weights, basketball, swimming, spinning, yoga, and kickboxing will all figure in prominently. I plan to devote at least one hour to my physical fitness on weekdays, and at least four hours to exercise on the weekends. These periods of time dedicated to fitness will be non-negotiable. No happy hours or late nights at work until I've taken care of my body in this way.

I will continue on with acupuncture, will make time for meditation, and won't forget to get outdoors and spend time with friends and family. I won't lose sight of the relationships that carried me through this cancer-killing journey, and I'll nurture them. And I'll make time to go on vacation every year, something that I utterly failed to do during my first three years at O'Melveny.

Most of all, I'll recognize the gift that each day really is, and won't let what would normally stress me out even come close. Problems have solutions, setbacks are temporary, and no matter what the scenario - life goes on.

And as long as I remain true to these principles of wellness, my life will go on, too.

Picture Perfect in Santa Barbara

After getting a little workout in (4 miles on the bike and some basketball), I grabbed my hubby and my concert tickets, and was on my way to Santa Barbara. We rolled in to our charming B&B, White Jasmine Inn, at about 4:30, and spent the early evening walking around Santa Barbara and soaking in the gorgeous weather. After a delicious sushi dinner followed by an awesome piece of vegan carob cake with almond mint frosting, our bellies were full and we were off to the event of the night: one of our favorite bands was set to play at the Santa Barbara Bowl.

Tonight, we saw Mumford & Sons, the same group we saw in concert after my very first round of chemo way back in October of 2010.

Much has changed since the last time I saw this brilliant British band. I feel like I've grown and changed so much since that first Mumford concert. I've seen so many new places and forged relationships with so many new people. And most triumphantly, I'm now free of the large amount of cancer that sat in my gut during that first concert.

Much has remained the same, too. Mumford & Sons still sound as great as ever, their songs still touch my heart and bring tears to my eyes, and I'm still as determined as ever to beat this disease and live each day of my life to the fullest.

I'll never forget the concert tonight -- the way the beautiful night lights lit up the Bowl, the houses below, and the ships on the Pacific Ocean. The band played beautifully tonight, hitting every note and singing every word with intensity and joy. And with a heart filled with gratitude and happiness -- at the beauty of the moment and the beauty of all the moments that led me to tonight's concert -- I sang along to my favorite songs at the top of my lungs, closing my eyes, letting the tears slowly stream down my cheeks, and turning my face toward the sky.

Best Monday ever? It's quite possible.