Cancer on Five Dollars a Day* *(chemo not included): How Humor Got Me through the Toughest Journey of My Life by Robert Schimmel Page B
Authors: Robert Schimmel
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tell them, “It’s probably because I’m not on.”
I change my relationship to food.
It begins with this card I write: Eat healthy. Appreciate your food and don’t rush through meals .
I buy a couple of books by Dr. Weil. I read them both in two days. His books are full of wisdom and insight and connect with me deeply. Among other things, I’m struck by his suggestion that you should make a ritual out of eating. Seems like we’re always in such a hurry. It’s tremendously unhealthy to sit down at the table, shovel the food into your mouth, and race toward your next activity as if the world’s going to end if you don’t take that phone call right then.
Take your time. Look at your food. Really look at it. And if you’re cooking, enjoy and experience each moment of the process, including picking out the food that you’re going to eat. Examine the tomato that you’re about to slice up and put into your salad. Smell and touch the lettuce you’ll be using. Cooking is very tactile. And, I discover, very sensual. Also, when you slow down, cooking becomes almost a form of meditation.
I create a sort of mantra. I write on an index card: This food is good for me. It’s filled with vitamins and minerals and will nourish me. No more junk food.
I really get into my food. I see everything, especially fruits and vegetables, in a whole new light. I’m awestruck by an orange—the shape, the color, the touch, the smell. I hold it close to my nose, take it in, and, I swear, I imagine the orange grove. I even imagine the seed from which the orange grew. I picture the soil with just a seedling popping through the dirt, then the rains come and the seedling grows into a tree and the fruit swells and ripens. I feel connected to all of that. I don’t feel alone. And I don’t feel separate. I feel part of life.
Ray, a friend of my brother’s who I know casually, calls me up after I’m diagnosed. Ray is a nervous, ferret-faced guy who spent most of high school camped out in the corner of my brother’s room getting high and listening to Canned Heat and Pink Floyd. He speaks in a high-pitched nasally voice that sounds like a dentist’s drill.
“Hey, man, I heard. I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah. Thanks, man,” I say.
“What a ream job,” Ray says. “You know, with the show and all.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sick yet?”
“Oh yeah.”
“What are you doing for the nausea?”
“Basically, throwing up.”
“I hear you, man.”
“My doctor says I can smoke pot.”
Ray brightens. “Really?”
“Yeah. He says pot helps with the nausea.”
“I can get you some pot, man,” Ray says.
“I don’t think so, Ray.”
“I’m talking about some really good pot. Not the crap they sell in Compton, man. I’m talking about some serious West Side, rock star weed.”
“I don’t want it, man. But thanks.”
Ray’s dental whine revs up into ultrahigh speed. “Robert, please. Don’t deprive me of this. I want to do this for you.”
“I don’t really smoke pot.”
“But if it helps with the nausea, why not try it? Why not, man?”
“I don’t know—”
“Robert, I’m begging you. I want to do this for you. I didn’t know what I could do. Now I know. Please. I just want to do this for you. Please let me do this for you. Please .”
I feel as if Ray’s whiny voice is about to drill through my skull. At this point I’ll say anything to shut him up.
“Okay, fine. I’ll try it.”
“Oh, man, thank you so much. This really means a lot to me. I just want to help you, man.”
“Thanks.”
Ray arrives at my house early that evening. I answer the door and Ray bounds in. He throws his arms around me in a wrestler’s clinch, intermittently massaging my back in slow circles as if he’s kneading pizza dough. I’m unsure if and when he will release me. Finally I break his clinch. Ray nods solemnly.
“Robert,” he says. “Man,” and bear hugs me again, nearly breaking a rib.
He pulls away, wipes
I change my relationship to food.
It begins with this card I write: Eat healthy. Appreciate your food and don’t rush through meals .
I buy a couple of books by Dr. Weil. I read them both in two days. His books are full of wisdom and insight and connect with me deeply. Among other things, I’m struck by his suggestion that you should make a ritual out of eating. Seems like we’re always in such a hurry. It’s tremendously unhealthy to sit down at the table, shovel the food into your mouth, and race toward your next activity as if the world’s going to end if you don’t take that phone call right then.
Take your time. Look at your food. Really look at it. And if you’re cooking, enjoy and experience each moment of the process, including picking out the food that you’re going to eat. Examine the tomato that you’re about to slice up and put into your salad. Smell and touch the lettuce you’ll be using. Cooking is very tactile. And, I discover, very sensual. Also, when you slow down, cooking becomes almost a form of meditation.
I create a sort of mantra. I write on an index card: This food is good for me. It’s filled with vitamins and minerals and will nourish me. No more junk food.
I really get into my food. I see everything, especially fruits and vegetables, in a whole new light. I’m awestruck by an orange—the shape, the color, the touch, the smell. I hold it close to my nose, take it in, and, I swear, I imagine the orange grove. I even imagine the seed from which the orange grew. I picture the soil with just a seedling popping through the dirt, then the rains come and the seedling grows into a tree and the fruit swells and ripens. I feel connected to all of that. I don’t feel alone. And I don’t feel separate. I feel part of life.
Ray, a friend of my brother’s who I know casually, calls me up after I’m diagnosed. Ray is a nervous, ferret-faced guy who spent most of high school camped out in the corner of my brother’s room getting high and listening to Canned Heat and Pink Floyd. He speaks in a high-pitched nasally voice that sounds like a dentist’s drill.
“Hey, man, I heard. I’m really sorry.”
“Yeah. Thanks, man,” I say.
“What a ream job,” Ray says. “You know, with the show and all.”
“Yeah.”
“Are you sick yet?”
“Oh yeah.”
“What are you doing for the nausea?”
“Basically, throwing up.”
“I hear you, man.”
“My doctor says I can smoke pot.”
Ray brightens. “Really?”
“Yeah. He says pot helps with the nausea.”
“I can get you some pot, man,” Ray says.
“I don’t think so, Ray.”
“I’m talking about some really good pot. Not the crap they sell in Compton, man. I’m talking about some serious West Side, rock star weed.”
“I don’t want it, man. But thanks.”
Ray’s dental whine revs up into ultrahigh speed. “Robert, please. Don’t deprive me of this. I want to do this for you.”
“I don’t really smoke pot.”
“But if it helps with the nausea, why not try it? Why not, man?”
“I don’t know—”
“Robert, I’m begging you. I want to do this for you. I didn’t know what I could do. Now I know. Please. I just want to do this for you. Please let me do this for you. Please .”
I feel as if Ray’s whiny voice is about to drill through my skull. At this point I’ll say anything to shut him up.
“Okay, fine. I’ll try it.”
“Oh, man, thank you so much. This really means a lot to me. I just want to help you, man.”
“Thanks.”
Ray arrives at my house early that evening. I answer the door and Ray bounds in. He throws his arms around me in a wrestler’s clinch, intermittently massaging my back in slow circles as if he’s kneading pizza dough. I’m unsure if and when he will release me. Finally I break his clinch. Ray nods solemnly.
“Robert,” he says. “Man,” and bear hugs me again, nearly breaking a rib.
He pulls away, wipes
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