When San Francisco is Wrong

I woke up this morning, read a book in bed, made breakfast, and ate while listening to some bluegrass (I usually listen to "back porch music" on Sunday evenings - tradition that I've created for myself in the past few years).  Sounds like a pretty good Sunday morning, right?  Well, it's been nice, but it's not the same.

Sunday mornings outside of the South just don't seem right.  I want to listen to bluegrass in the region where bluegrass is authentic.  I want to sit down with the Birmingham News and read about all our corrupt politicians.  I want to sit at the kitchen table and just... be there and stare out the window at the bird feeder and our cat lurking nearby.  I don't really want to go to church, but I want the option.  I want to go to a diner and be surrounded by old people.  On Sunday mornings I also want space - parks, roads, and back yards that the South provides in abundance.

Of course, I could recreate most of these things in California.  However, the memories of these things are too tightly linked to the feeling of being home - whether in Birmingham, Memphis, Newbern, or Durham.  The closest Cracker Barrel is in Arizona.  Ahem - this aint right.

Seattle music

Sent from my iPhoneGotta love this. Walking around Seattle and I see a poster for two classic Seattle bands.

50/50 Film

Last week I went to see the new movie "50/50," which is about a guy in his late-20s who is diagnosed with cancer and is given 50/50 odds of surviving.  I went to see the movie not as a normal moviegoer, but as a cancer survivor.  I didn't know much about the plot before walking into the theater (how old would the main character be?  what type of cancer would he have?  would his experience be similar to mine?).  But, I was excited to see it.  I somehow thought my experience would be reflected in the movie: young, healthy guy gets an unexpected cancer diagnosis and has to put his life on hold while he tends to his health.  It's always easier when I explain my cancer to people through pop culture references.  "You know the type of cancer that Lance Armstrong and Tom Green had?  Yeah, that's what I had, too."  Maybe this movie would strike a chord with me.  Maybe it would bring up some memories that are admittedly hazy.  With that context, I went to the movies.

By the way, I'm almost certain that everyone reading this blog knows my story but just to be sure: I was diagnosed with testicular cancer a couple days after graduating from college, had surgery, was given pretty good odds of survival, went through 9 weeks of chemo, and two years later had two surgeries to remove suspicious nodules in my right and left lungs.  I am now as cancer-free as could be.  I'm not shy about telling my story, but I don't broadcast it, either.  At the risk of disclosing too much in a public forum, here's what resonated most with me from the movie: 

• The way the main character (I think his name was Joe) approached his treatment.  He was stoic.  Businesslike.  Efficient.  Joe didn't smile a whole lot, and when he did, it was more of an "I'm smiling because I think this is the right thing to do and maybe it will boost my mood... it's a gift that I'm going to give myself today."  So, the smiles are there, but they're not smiles where you completely lose yourself.  You still know the situation you're in.  As you go from room to room in the hospital (for bloodwork, CT scans, x-rays, the infusion room where you get chemo, to the examining room, pain clinic, and many waiting rooms in between), I felt very professional.  I was a professional patient.  I'd ask questions, do what was asked of me, and just go through the whole thing as if it were my job.  Now, I do think I had a good attitude.  I always enjoyed talking to the technicians who drew your blood - they were characters.  As my dad often quotes, "A happy heart doeth good like medicine, but a broken spirit dryeth the bone."  I was just... professional.
• Focus on the number.  For a few days after my first surgery, I would coyly look up what my number - my forecasted survival odds - were.  I remember wanting to know, but also being pretty scared at what I'd find out.  A few Google searches revealed that my situation was atypical, and therefore not easily forecasted.  I can't remember exactly, but I think I had about a 90-95% chance of survival.  
• Hospital scenes.  This is the reason I could never be a doctor... I feel too much sympathy for people in the hospital.  Ever since 2002, I have had very strong emotional reactions to seeing anyone in physical pain, especially those in a hospital bed.  Honestly, I was extremely lucky and I did not have to endure as much pain as many others.  But I still feel for those who do.  The hospital scenes in this movie were very true to life.  I especially reacted to the scene when Joe is about to have surgery.  You're sitting in a big waiting room on a hospital bed waiting to be wheeled off to surgery.  The doctor comes by for a nanosecond to say hi.  The anesthesiologist comes by, makes a joke, and then before you know it you're out cold.  It all happens very, very quickly, and you barely have time to say any final words before going into surgery.  I was touched by how, in the movie, Joe's parents were with him before surgery.  Mine were too.
• Hair loss.  It's definitely notable when you can scrub your hair away.  In the movie, Joe preemptively shaved his head.  I waited until my hair started falling out, got my brother to buzz it, then went outside and scrubbed it all off with a towel and water from the hose (see the photo below).  I think all cancer patients share this moment with each other.
• Support.  In the movie, Joe's best friend tries to play it cool.  He's the comic relief.  But at the end of the movie we learn that the friend has secretly been reading a book on how to help a friend through cancer and was underlining passages, taking notes, etc.  Undoubtedly, the people around me also had to deal with my illness.  My parents told me they tried to "bear as much of my burden" as possible, and they did that.  I don't know how many of the people around me dealt with it, but I'm sure it wasn't easy.  As the patient, you can do things - go to chemo, get surgery, get shots, etc.  My job was clear.  As a bystander, you have less control.  I imagine this is tougher to deal with - emotionally - than being the patient.  I was shielded from how others dealt with my illness.
• Dog.  Joe gets a dog in the movie, and the dog is a comfort to him.  My dog Maggie did the same thing for me.

Here is what didn't resonate with me:

• Talking to others while in the infusion room.  (my chemo just involved my sitting in an "infusion room" for hours while getting chemo drugs dripped into me through an IV.  I had no idea what chemo actually was before my first treatment)  When I was getting treatment, I just sat there.  Sometimes I'd listen to music (those albums, in particular the Counting Crows' Hard Candy album, will forever be linked to chemo for me).  Sometimes I'd take a Benadryl and just pass out.  Sometimes I'd try to read but usually end up falling asleep.  One day I brought my sister's cell phone and saw some text messages from her boyfriend at the time, so of course I read those and showed them to the nurses.  Jenny - Fernando was a weird dude.
• Weed.  I definitely didn't have the urge to relieve my nausea by smoking up.  I didn't want to be any more drugged than I already was.

Well, those are my observations from the movie.  I hope this didn't reveal too much, but I felt compelled to write something.  Whenever I tell my story I usually end it by saying something very truthful: I was lucky.  Many others are not.  Keep that in mind, and be thankful for good health.

Here are some photos my mom scanned:

Empathy and Humility

Here is a thought-provoking article by David Brooks on "The Limits of Empathy."

The article brought up a few thoughts.

The first thought was work-related.  I work for a firm that consults in many areas of need: global health, education, philanthropy.  The clients we work with are oftentimes quite passionate about what they do.  They have a code by which they live and that code brought them to their current job.  Consulting for these organizations requires that we have a great deal of empathy for the client.  Because they are mission-driven, we have to speak their language, and to a certain degree feel why their mission is important.  (At the Corporate Executive Board, I could talk to clients with a matter-of-fact tone.  There was more of a "it's just business" attitude that was less personal than with our FSG clients)  But I wonder, is it possible for me to actually walk in my client's shoes?  How much more effective would I (we) be if I were able to be sympathetic, not just empathetic?  What are the tactics I can employ in order to be as empathetic as possible with the client?

Thus far at my job, I find the client work intellectually stimulating.  I also find it inspiring in that I know - factually - that our clients have the potential to make a very large impact, and we help them make that impact.  Yet, I still feel want to feel more of what my clients feel.  Without having had much experience in areas like global health, etc., I need to be deliberate about how I develop this empathy so that it is genuine and durable.  Having this feeling is very important for me, and I'm working on ways to develop it.

One note - I can definitely sympathize with our education clients, though.  Education has always been what I've understood and felt intrinsically, and it is a codified part of my moral code.  Anyway, I wonder what Brooks would say about my desire to empathize more heavily with my other clients.

My second thought relates to the code that Brooks talks about:

Think of anybody you admire. They probably have some talent for fellow-feeling, but it is overshadowed by their sense of obligation to some religious, military, social or philosophic code. They would feel a sense of shame or guilt if they didn’t live up to the code. The code tells them when they deserve public admiration or dishonor. The code helps them evaluate other people’s feelings, not just share them. The code tells them that an adulterer or a drug dealer may feel ecstatic, but the proper response is still contempt.

In our Ethics class last year, we did a similar exercise: think of 5 leaders you admire.  Now, do these individuals have a relative or absolute moral code?  My examples all had absolute moral codes... it wasn't even close.  Moral absolutists might not always be the most politically correct or diplomatic, but they do create change.  In the end, they're respected for their beliefs, however controversial they were at the time (with some obvious exceptions, of course).

The point is that it's important to have a code.  At Fuqua, I learned that it's not only important to have a code, but to actively define it: where it comes from, how it manifests itself, how it has changed.  By defining your code - your identity - you begin to live more consistently and with stronger intent.  Your actions reflect your core values, and you (hopefully) become a stronger version of yourself.  This was one of the most important things that I learned at Fuqua, without a doubt.  As Brooks says...

The code isn’t just a set of rules. It’s a source of identity. It’s pursued with joy. It arouses the strongest emotions and attachments. Empathy is a sideshow. If you want to make the world a better place, help people debate, understand, reform, revere and enact their codes. Accept that codes conflict.

On a somewhat unrelated note, here's an interview in the Wall Street Journal with the Dean of Harvard Business School talking about the need to teach leadership, ethics, and entrepreneurship (all of which I strongly agree with).

View from my window at work

... On the first day of rain that San Francisco has seen in a while.

Uptown, baby

When I was 14 18 I wanted to be these guys.