by Scott
Burton
When my wife, Cheryl, and I first got the
news that my tumor was malignant I don't
recall having a reaction of any kind. No
sense of utter defeat, or that of a life
wasted, or even the determined made-for-TV
movie expression of "Cancer has a new
enemy and its name is Scott Burton." Actually,
in all honesty, I do believe, since my doctors
confidently told me there was a 98% chance
that this was a benign, Giant Cell tumor,
my first thought at being told otherwise
was something akin to "Man, I hit the
lottery (sort of)." It turned out to
be a high grade Osteo Sarcoma that tends
to strike in the age group of 16-25 (I was
30 at the time). The treatment required not
only the removal of the tumor, which was
inside my femur, but part of the bone itself.
It was, of course, replaced with a new one
(it's a loaner).
I have spent the last eight years of my
life as a comic and juggler on the comedy
circuit, in clubs and performing at corporate
events around the country. It is my job to
make people laugh. People of every slice
of life, every demographic group, it's my
job to take them away from whatever is going
on in their lives at the time and make them
feel that everything is still okay (at least
for the length of my show anyhow). Then,
without warning, the tables turned. What's
going to happen now? Who's going to entertain
me?
As a comic, you learn to survey your situation
before you react. You learn that nothing
is outrageous -- especially when looked at
with a different perspective. And, as you're
generally living from job to job with little
or no security, you learn to be prepared
for, and accept, most any situation. Albeit,
cancer is the last thing you expect. Cancer,
for a comic, is that one heckler in the back
of the room who's been drinking and won't
listen to reason, who screws up your timing
and simply won't sit down and shut up.
I learned quickly, through other cancer
patients who's zest for life seemed heightened
with their battles, that looking for humor
in our situation is not simply a diversion
but, rather, vital to our healing. Perhaps
I had a head start due to my profession,
but most every survivor I've encountered
knows that the humor is there. Humor surrounds
us no matter what we are going through. It
abounds in life itself! That is a simple
fact. It is only our situation that clouds
our perception to see the humor. When we
see through the situations, that we all battle
in everyday life, we see that they, too,
are merely a part of living a human life.
We can then see the humor even in the most
dire circumstances.
It comes down to this: it's just my life.
This IS my life, cancer and all. And all
life is worthwhile and embraceable. It's
just that now it's a little different. The
rest of it involves doing what we need to
do when a situation comes that requires action.
That, I suppose, is the essence of living
one day at a time. It's no longer an imaginary
life in which you create goals and envision
your future. This is accepting what is given
to you now and finding your contentment there.
That is not to say we didn't talk about
it with deep seriousness. It has to come
out somehow, sometime. You just have to make
sure it comes out at the right time, say,
with your spouse at home as opposed to in
line at the bank.
"Yes sir, you need to make a deposit?"
"Please hold me, I think I have a
disease!!"
I think what put the news of my cancer
into perspective was knowing deep in my heart
just how many millions of people struggle
with cancer every day. I knew I was certainly
not alone in my battle. Not to mention I'm
joining quite an esteemed group of true survivors
(though I think we'd all be happier if the
group's dues weren't so darned steep). I
found that we all must, and do, go through
tremendous trials in life. Be it cancer or
any other horror disease, perhaps some form
of abuse, mental or physical, or even dysfunctional
families, the trials are countless. We all
have a cross to bear. Who am I to not have
to deal with these genuine pains of human
existence?
Part of it comes down to fears and how
we handle them. Fear is a constantŠfor
all of us. Fear is what sets us off in search
of humor. I remember walking into the darkened
room of my two year old son about a year
ago to see him crying and bouncing urgently
in his crib. He looked up at me and said, "I'm
scared." Thinking I was there to take
away all his fears I said, "What are
you scared of Matthew?" And with a look
of true concern he said, "Rhinos." I
picked him up and held him. I smiled and
thought, "And I think I have problems." Fear,
whether real or imagined, is still fear and
humor gives us the tools to combat it.
My greatest fear was the loss of my humanity.
In knowing what one has to go through and
eventually look like because of chemotherapy,
I simply did not want those around me to
treat me as if I wasn't human anymore. I
was foolishly determined to go through my
chemotherapy without a hitch. Contrary to
what the nurses told me, I thought, if I
tried real hard that I could possibly keep
my hair (Will power? Two-sided tape? I don't
know what I was thinking).
Fear is okay. Fear is natural. But fear
without acceptence hurts. Fear of letting
go. Until we do let go, our lives are bound
by our desire to control and direct it. Once
we do let go and let our life be what it
is (even if it's not exactly what we expect)
we are more prepared and excited for it.
It took only after my second week in chemo
that I realized that I would not only go
bald, but that I would be losing every stitch
of hair on my body, leg hair, nose hair,
eyebrowsŠ It hit me after about three
months that I no longer qualified as a mammal!
That's when I knew that, aside from the very
real pains and danger, there was real and
genuine humor in my circumstance.
I believe I had exercised my sense of humor
from the very beginning, but now I knew that
the humor was not just for my benefit but
for those around me as well. Those who don't
know it's okay to laugh at even the hardships
in life. To put them at ease and help them
see that, although I look considerably different,
I am still the same person I have always
been. My mind still knows the truths I've
always known. My mouth spoke the same words.
My heart bled the same way (Anti-clotting
drugs notwithstanding). I could show them
that whether this is just a trial in life
or I am soon to pass on, I am vital right
now.
Cancer, for survivors, has become another
step towards knowledge. A true knowledge.
Most of us can well acknowledge that we all,
someday, must die (except, perhaps, the board
of directors of the Cryogenics League of
America). Cancer is a crash course in coming
to grips with mortality. It may sound odd,
but not all people are fortunate enough to
have that. And what they don't know is once
you see the profound seriousness in life
can you truly recognize the deep humor and
beauty of it is well.
And once you can laugh with life, your
defense meter goes down and your joy meter
goes up. That's when you realize your life,
regardless of the circumstances or how soon
it must end, is a full one.
Every year, the first Sunday of June is
celebrated as National Cancer Survivor's
day. (Actually, many survivors celebrate
everyday, but on the first Sunday of June
it's official.) I share my story with you
so that you might get involved with the nation's
biggest re-birthday party. You can contact
your local American Cancer Society chapter
as to what programs are available in your
community. National Cancer Survivor's day
is an opportunity to celebrate and recognize
the deep and profound humanity of 10 million
cancer survivors. Celebrate with us and laugh
with us. To laugh is to live. And, while
you're at it, even if you're not a cancer
survivor, take some time to recognize and
celebrate your own life. You can never be
too prepared. __________________________________________________________
For more on how Scott used humor to deal
with his cancer
you can get his book,
"A
Life in the Balance"
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