Tough Guy

I wrote this essay while listening to Ed Askew's "Tough Guys."

It hasn’t been ten months of pure misery, but my body has been under pressure for nearly that long. Since September 2025, I have been under the spell of cancer, especially the chemotherapy needed to kill the cancer cells in my body. Sitting here now and thinking back brings traces of vertigo: all the tension, the thoughts centered on Kaiser Hospital, and the persistent feeling of taking two steps forward and one step back. I have been home for two months, and things are finally moving forward. I’ll have a CT scan on August 1st, and I’ll also test myself on the staircase outside the entrance to our home.

The fear of what could happen is present, but overall, I fear moving backward rather than forward. I worked hard to get where I am now, and I don’t want to end up in the hospital for another extended stay. When you are young, you don’t want to be fenced in by school or home life, and the same goes for being old, when you are at the mercy of the medical world—not necessarily a bad thing—or unable to enjoy life to the fullest. Being very young and very old are not that far apart.

Some years ago, I caught sight of myself in a mirror under harsh sunlight, and the reflection was that of an older man. When I moved my head, I became young again. For a moment, I felt as if I had looked into the future, although perhaps age itself is an illusion. I remember seeing a photograph of Marcel Duchamp made up to look like an old man. What struck me was that when Duchamp actually became old, he looked exactly as he had in that photograph.

I spend a great deal of time watching my hair grow back. As my body lost everything, it is now returning to its glory years. The trick is to stay on the horse as it bucks and tries to throw you from the saddle. So far, I have remained on the damn beast, but there is always doubt about what is coming around the corner. Whenever I get a notice or a phone call from the hospital or my medical team, it feels like tiptoeing through broken eggshells.

I imagine my first walk since finishing cancer treatment will take me down my street and then on to the Los Angeles River in Atwater Village. Or perhaps I’ll walk to the Silver Lake Library. When outside, I’ll use my walking cane to steady myself in the bright, sunny real world. I have been living indoors for ten months, and I’m sure it will be a shock to my system to be in a room full of people, such as a crowded market. The last time I was at Whole Foods, I said goodbye to all my favorite frozen foods and bakery goods. I knew then that I would be away for a while, but I didn’t know why—just a feeling I had. I went to each department and said thank you and goodbye. But I will return.