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I Am a Homeless in Love (Optimistic Cancer Buffalo). A book about a homeless man that sleeps in the bank because of love issues.
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Like, really really well. Like, standing ovation well. As we were going back in to watch the third session I noticed Adrien Brody wrapping up conversation. I gave him a gentle tap, an introduction and a nice compliment. He did the same and then enveloped me in his arms so deeply and so sincerely that I thought I was going to melt. Ariel stood behind me, half-chuckling at knowing how melty I was and half coming out of the pride stupor from just having seen my talk.

Fortunately, she was around to hang out with me for a big chunk of it. We had a lovely dinner before I Ubered to my absolutely fucking miserable red-eye back to New York. Even for a well person this is quite the turnaround, for me it seemed impossible. On the way to the airport, I was in a ball of pain and wailing like a seven-year-old on her way to the dentist.

Fortunately, my cousin had an oxycodone in her purse and the airline employees were understanding enough to give me the entire back row. Back row equals first class, baby.

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Austin was amazing and everything I needed it to be, but by then I knew I was really sick, and found myself pacing at night, thinking that I was dying, that my family would find my body in bed. In the end, the visit was wonderful, warm and fuzzy, really beautiful but also sad. There were times I was sobbing and doubled over in pain, but I was surrounded by my family and they helped me and rubbed my feet, they cried with me —my uncle kept handing me a guitar and asking me to play. Death brings out a lot of beauty.

When we arrived to check in for our return flight, we realized that the flight attendant from the way there had called ahead and already reserved us extra seats and pre-boarding privileges. There are some really, really fucking good people in this world.

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What I realized in Austin is that I was in a very, very horrible situation but for what it was, I was in a really excellent position: I got to be part of that togetherness, I got to grieve my own death with my family, which is such a rare thing to do. The day after I got back from Austin I went for a check-in with my oncology team to discover that, surprise surprise, my hemoglobin had dropped down so low that I needed an immediate transfusion. Unfortunately, because treatment the following Monday would require for my hemoglobin to be at 9. I opted to stay in the city Sunday night with my friend in the West Village, since Monday would be an early treatment day.

Sunday was, again, another practically sleepless, horrible night.

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I woke up in the morning and puked my guts up with my friend Terry, another incredible, feeling, compassionate human in my life. I got to Dr. I missed the time frame and that effectively ended the clinical trial.

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I was taken in an ambulance to NYU Langone because of the internal bleeding and waited. After yet another excruciating day in the ER, which involved extensive testing and scans, I started to receive bad news after bad news. First the G. Then Dr. Kehoe dropped in. She informed me that, after comparing my scans that I had from September 29th and the ones taken October 30 th , the day before, surgery was no longer viable because it was highly possible I could die on the table.

The results indicated that my tumor had grown significantly. And so my options changed again, quickly: hospice or hospice. Melissa came and talked to us, and finally said the words — THE words: that it was time to see the people I want to see and say the things I want to say. I took a dose Sunday night, and then after fully understanding what the goals of hospice are— only palliative measures, nothing curative — I opted out of the targeted therapy.

Now, with all of the painkillers in order and my meds all sorted, I feel great. I have spent the past few days saying some tearful and some laughter-filled goodbyes to and with people I love very dearly. Today, I was moved into a private room and was allowed to have my dog brought into the hospital for thirty minutes, which broke my heart, and made my face stink from his poopy mouth. Cancer, who the winner was.

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Take that, cancer. I beat you, you ugly motherfucker. I made it to the end with a smile on my face and a song in my heart. This morning, I can feel the tendrils of indian summer folding back the edges of summer proper. I usually feel a tinge of sadness at this time of year — a little bit of post-birthday blues along with my seasonal affective disorder whispering in my ear that t-shirt weather will soon be gone. But today, the blues are at bay and the inner voice is quiet. My dear friend, April, visited this summer. Imagine I have three roads ahead of me. On this road, I get sick and die.

On this road, I am able to live somewhat of a normal life, despite the fact that I am tethered to consistent medical intervention. On this road, I live disease-free for many years. Sure, there are some logistics to figure out: what I want the end of my life to look like, where I want my ashes to be distributed, who gets my guitar and the rights to my screenplays.

Those other two roads are life , no matter how long. And so the thing that gets me out of bed each morning, that keeps me investing in relationships, that urges me to continue working toward my career goals, is that on those two roads exists a future. So I need to live in the now in a way that bends that potential future toward the same fulfillment and self-actualization that all of us seek. After my last treatment cycle, I was launched into a week that I can only describe as pure bliss.

First off, I felt physically great. I had stayed on the mix of over-the-counter and prescription drugs that had been administered in the hospital to keep my side effects at bay. I got to spend a good chunk of afternoon with one of my most favorite humans, Lucy, who lives in L. She was in town directing a shoot, and she managed to block off enough time for us to get in a bellyful of pierogies at Veselka, a bountiful trip to one of my fave vintage shops, and a proper face-to-face, laughter-infused catch up. Then, one of my closest homies from Busan, Gino, arrived on the eve of my 43 rd birthday.

Just for context, Gino is one of the first friends I made in Busan, part of the framily that I spent holidays with. I crashed on his couch for six weeks when I was first diagnosed in , and so he has been on my melanoma journey with me from day one.

He was also the person who drove me to the airport on that hellish day in when I needed to leave the life I had built to come home and square off with stage 4 cancer. G and I spent my birthday playing Neil Young songs, kayaking, doing a five-mile bike ride, eating pizza and playing poker with my family. The next day, we cruised into the city, and I introduced Gino to soup dumplings and the rock-and-roll rich history of lower Manhattan.

As I sat in the middle of a group of the people I love most in this world, I was able to see that aforementioned future, and to realize just how bright it is. I had my first set of scans on my IL-2 trial this week. I was fortunate to have my best friend, Jaimee, visiting when I received the scan results. Despite being aware of the weight of the news we were awaiting, we managed to fill that room with balls to the wall laughter. Melissa finally arrived and laid everything out. My chest is still clear. As you may recall, my last scans had shown two new tumors in my abdomen in addition to the four we already knew about that progression was why I had to switch treatments in the first place.

However, one of the tumors disappeared completely. This, coupled with the fact that I am asymptomatic ie.

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Sometimes, when someone undergoes a cancer treatment that is designed to activate the immune system, all of the T-Cells the ones that fight cancer rush into the tumors to do their job, causing the tumors to swell, which makes them appear larger on the scans. Basically, right now, my disease is stable, and likely responding to the treatment.

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This is good news. As I continue to stay grounded, to relish each moment, I have come to learn that the act of putting one foot in front of the other means that I am moving forward. This is my third attempt in three weeks at writing a new blog post — hopefully not another false start. I made the mistake of asking the nurses to ask her to turn down her TV one night she was the only of the four of us who refused to use headphones.

She subsequently directed her anger, not at me, but at my other roommate, whose medicine made her gassy. Her epic belches and loud, perpetual flatulence were all met with a string of expletives from behind curtain number four. By my last night in the hospital, I was shacked up with three women with varying levels of dementia.