Monday, October 10, 2011
Pablove Across America 2011 Day 2 Evening Dedication: William Patterson Ridley
Before William Patterson Ridley lost his battle with Acute T Cell Leukemia in August he obtained his Life Scout Achievement in the Boy Scouts of America program. He loved reading, playing outside, playing football, camping, shooting, robotics, and participating in the 4-H program. William loved animals, and they loved him. William was 13 years old.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
Pablove Across America 2011 Day 2 Survivor's Dedication: Hollyn Peterson
At age 11 Hollyn is a three-time cancer survivor! Hollyn spoke at our Wilms Tumor Symposium last November and she is a great part of the Pablove family. We dedicate today's recovery ride day to Hollyn!
Pablove Across America 2011 Day 1 Evening Dedication: Meghan Henry
Meghan Henry of Chicago was originally diagnosed with Wilms Tumor at age 16. After relapsing twice and undergoing a double stem cell transplant Meghan passed at at age 21 this past May. While Meghan fought cancer she continued going to nursing school and living her life fully. She spent two spring breaks on Habitat for Humanity trips, studied abroad in Greece for 4 weeks, and was the president of the student nurses association on her campus. We honor her tonight.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Pablove Across America 2011 Day 1 Morning Dedication: Hannah Thomas
As we kick off Pablove Across America 2011 from Milwaukee to New Orleans we honor a special 7-year-old named Hannah Thomas. Hannah was diagnosed with Wilms Tumor in 2009 and has since twice relapsed. After a stem cell transplant scans showed that Hannah's cancer has returned and is now deemed terminal. There are no remaining options for treatment...Hannah is exactly why we ride Pablove Across America.
Monday, September 26, 2011
Monday, September 12, 2011
Something's Wrong With The World Today
The phone rang this morning. I looked down at the caller ID. It was a client calling. Not an uncommon thing: my clients call me all the time. I go through two Blackberry batteries a day talking to them and develop close relationships with them as we journey through the back alleys of rock and roll.
As I hit the green button on the face of my phone, I thought I was stepping into a lighthearted call where we'd talk about some business stuff, some personal stuff, and how much I enjoyed meeting his wife and kids for the first time last week. I was wrong. My friend had just gotten news that sometime Sunday, the left side of his nephew's body had become immobile. The boy's family rushed him to the nearest hospital—thankfully, a very good one at an Ivy League university.
My friend's voice faded in and out as he gasped for air. It's not easy to tell a guy who has lost his son to cancer that in the middle of last night, your nephew was diagnosed with diffuse pontine glioma—an inoperable brain tumor. The weight of it all kind of comes into full effect when you're telling the Pablove Foundation guy that you've just become a member of the kids' cancer club—a club you fully endorse and support but had hoped you never had to join.
My friend paused. I sat there, staring at the wall, gasping for my own lungful of air. As the pure LA air oxygenated my brain, I could not comprehend what I was hearing. I reached for a pen and my notebook. I asked him to repeat the details. Part of me still has this naive and novel notion that nobody near me will ever confront pediatric cancer. Like, Jo Ann and I filled the quota for all our friends or something. This morning was one more sad reminder that my quota notion is bunk.
Let me tell you something else: my memory is not what it used to be. I've been through a war with my little boy, and I will never be the same. The good news is I've learned I don't need my brain that much. My heart is a far better guide in this world. My hear is getting me to all the right places, with all the people who matter most.
As I wrote down the details of my friend's nephew, one thing was clear: I know this story well. You know that. Pablo was in the midst of life as a 4.9-year-old when that Wilm's Tumor bump appeared out of nowhere in his abdomen. There was no opt-in box on the website of life that morning. There was no notice in the mail telling Jo Ann and I that our son would be killed by a disease exactly 13 months and 10 days after a CT machine confirmed the presence of cancer in his body. It just doesn't work like that.
Note: in movies and TV shows, you can always see the enemy, be it a man with a gun, an arch enemy of the nation, a menacing airborne toxic event. In real life, it's not always that simple. In my life, cancer has taken two people I love—my son and my big brother—and I never got to stand eye-to-eye with the thing. There was no Clint Eastwood moment for me. Ennio Morricone did not score the scene where good triumphed over evil. No, in real life, the bad guy sometimes wins while the cinematographer and the composer are asleep. I didn't tell my friend that. It's too soon to get into all that s**t.
As I geared up to round up our A Team of pediatric cancer docs to give my friend's family the most authoritative second opinion possible, my optimism was on the wane. All I could think was that there's something wrong with the world today. I'm just that tired from fighting. Still, I know exactly what to do about when I feel this way: pick up the phone and be of service to others. Plenty of people must've felt this way when Pablo was sick. And I intend to keep helping people as long as I live. Good thing Pablove Across America starts on October 8. It's an 18-day rolling service circus where the lives of a few dozen riders will be focused on just that: helping others.
As I hit the green button on the face of my phone, I thought I was stepping into a lighthearted call where we'd talk about some business stuff, some personal stuff, and how much I enjoyed meeting his wife and kids for the first time last week. I was wrong. My friend had just gotten news that sometime Sunday, the left side of his nephew's body had become immobile. The boy's family rushed him to the nearest hospital—thankfully, a very good one at an Ivy League university.
My friend's voice faded in and out as he gasped for air. It's not easy to tell a guy who has lost his son to cancer that in the middle of last night, your nephew was diagnosed with diffuse pontine glioma—an inoperable brain tumor. The weight of it all kind of comes into full effect when you're telling the Pablove Foundation guy that you've just become a member of the kids' cancer club—a club you fully endorse and support but had hoped you never had to join.
My friend paused. I sat there, staring at the wall, gasping for my own lungful of air. As the pure LA air oxygenated my brain, I could not comprehend what I was hearing. I reached for a pen and my notebook. I asked him to repeat the details. Part of me still has this naive and novel notion that nobody near me will ever confront pediatric cancer. Like, Jo Ann and I filled the quota for all our friends or something. This morning was one more sad reminder that my quota notion is bunk.
Let me tell you something else: my memory is not what it used to be. I've been through a war with my little boy, and I will never be the same. The good news is I've learned I don't need my brain that much. My heart is a far better guide in this world. My hear is getting me to all the right places, with all the people who matter most.
As I wrote down the details of my friend's nephew, one thing was clear: I know this story well. You know that. Pablo was in the midst of life as a 4.9-year-old when that Wilm's Tumor bump appeared out of nowhere in his abdomen. There was no opt-in box on the website of life that morning. There was no notice in the mail telling Jo Ann and I that our son would be killed by a disease exactly 13 months and 10 days after a CT machine confirmed the presence of cancer in his body. It just doesn't work like that.
Note: in movies and TV shows, you can always see the enemy, be it a man with a gun, an arch enemy of the nation, a menacing airborne toxic event. In real life, it's not always that simple. In my life, cancer has taken two people I love—my son and my big brother—and I never got to stand eye-to-eye with the thing. There was no Clint Eastwood moment for me. Ennio Morricone did not score the scene where good triumphed over evil. No, in real life, the bad guy sometimes wins while the cinematographer and the composer are asleep. I didn't tell my friend that. It's too soon to get into all that s**t.
As I geared up to round up our A Team of pediatric cancer docs to give my friend's family the most authoritative second opinion possible, my optimism was on the wane. All I could think was that there's something wrong with the world today. I'm just that tired from fighting. Still, I know exactly what to do about when I feel this way: pick up the phone and be of service to others. Plenty of people must've felt this way when Pablo was sick. And I intend to keep helping people as long as I live. Good thing Pablove Across America starts on October 8. It's an 18-day rolling service circus where the lives of a few dozen riders will be focused on just that: helping others.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Monday, June 27, 2011
Pablo At -2 Years
Two years ago today, Pablo lay in our bed, in our arms, hearing our words of love as we soothed him in his final hours and minutes. Since that moment, life for me has been an emotional and psychological wilderness. Most of the time, I am lost amid dense growth, not knowing which direction will lead me to, well, I wouldn't know where I'm supposed to be headed....
People ask me all sorts of questions about how I feel. I never know what to say. I feel small and shrink away as my mouth says words until the questioner in front of me looks satisfied. The fact is, I have no idea where I'd want to go if I did know the direction out of my trees. Going home, being alone—those things are epically raw and gnarly. I am grateful when I'm doing the work of The Pablove Foundation and Dangerbird, and when I'm on my bike. At those moments, I feel like I'm exactly where I need to be.
Sometimes I wonder: What was the first word I said to my son? Does he see me now, every mistake I make, every gain I make, reeling with unending sadness, faking smiles, passing time until it's my time to hear the words of people who love me and who are letting me know it's OK to go? I do believe that I will never know....until I know.
What I know is that I love Pablo. He gave my life purpose. Being his papa brought harmony to my life. All I had to do to find the rhythm that underpinned it all was to follow Pablo through the streets and playgrounds of LA, New Orleans, Milwaukee, Chicago and NYC. It was that simple. I had no idea how to be a father. He always showed me how it was supposed to be.
I miss Pablo. I will carry his spirit for the rest of my life. For as long as my lungs keep breathing. When I am done, I can assure you I will be happy to be with Pablo, in that place beyond here.... Whatever it's called.
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
Our friend Carlo Santiago, RIP
At 5:30am Monday, our friend Carlo Santiago took his final breath in a room at CHLA. He was 10 years old, and had just passed the six year anniversary of his cancer treatment.
Carlo was my friend - our friend - and I will miss him in ways words can't convey.
I will miss this little boy that I met along the path of life, of cancer life. In a world filled with obstacles, medical rejection and strife, Carlo thought only of music, jokes, words and conversation. I never saw him cave inward or resort to darkness, even though nobody would have faulted him for it.
Carlo made me smile. He blew my mind with his sharp wit, his unending vocabulary and his appetite for music. When I went up to see him the night before I left for France, he was zoning in and out - the push of the pain and the pull of the powerful medication pumping straight into his spine. When I arrived, he heard my voice and rallied: his eyes opened, he spoke a sentence in whatever voice he could gather, and he pulled his severely cracked lips into a smile.
With that wry smile on his face, Carlo spelled the name of the pain medication that was easing him through. He was wearing his Pablove tee shirt that night.
Carlo will never leave me. He cut deep into me in a way that would take others decades.
I am grateful to have met this little boy and his amazing parents, Toni and Sam.
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