A note to my kids

Ironically, I can't figure out how to embed Steve Job's 2005 Stanford Commencement Address.

But Conner, McKenna and Madison, I'd like you to read/watch this. Everyone can too if they want.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2011/10/05/steve-jobs-stanford-commencement-address_n_997301.html

Am I going to have to eat herbs?

Steve Jobs died today. Cancer doesn't care who you are. I, as well as everybody in design, owe him a big favor because he showed the world that design matters. If used correctly, design can be more than just an aesthetic pleasure. It can change everything and anything.

I've gotten lucky the last two times Icame ro New York. About a month ago, I happened on a good deal for a hotel in the downtown area of Manhatten. The cab driver pulls up to the hotel and across the steeet was some kind of busy construction project. I go up to the lobby and holy cow, thar's Ground Zero. The hotel overlooked Groumd Zero. My room overlooked Ground Zero. I could barely sleep.

A month later, today, I weasled my way into another downtown hotel deal. This was on Wall Street. I'm in the middle of the Occupy Wall Street protests. I went down to take a look at it. I gotta say, there is an aweful lot of earth tones down there. A lot of wool, too. It smelled of a college dorm and looked like a college lecture just got out. There are a couple hundred youngsters and lots of police people. The people are yelling stuff. The police aren't. I decided to chime in and I yelled too. I screamed, "My underwear is riding up my ass!" And, "Let's hear it for 100% Cotton!" Only some people cheered me on but I think they were French tourists.

I don't care what anybody says. These protests aren't about the inequalities in our economic system. No, this protest is wholly and solely the result of the Grateful Dead. You see, if the Grateful Dead were still touring, all these young people who look like the haven't showered in a few weeks would be spending their time enjoying the confusing riffs of the Dead. They'd be doing the white guy dance, chewing on some mushrooms and then talking about the waning influence of the middle class in our economic and political lives. I usually picture a teepee, too. I never understood the attraction but my friend Sarah somehow enjoyed the Bands sounds. There's no Grateful Dead now. Where are you Gerry Garcia?

I see Dr O'Connor tommorrow. My run with this treatment is about up. My gut hurts. I'm itching more. I have lump on my boob. I don't have a plan B. I wanted to go to Houston but now I'm not so sure if I even can get into the trial. I'm getting tired. Unlike most cancer heads, I've never really had a remission period. It's hard to wake up, notice that you feel like crap and realize that oh yeah, I have cancer. I'm doing that everyday. A rough count puts me and cancer reintroducing ourselves to each other for about a thousand mornings now.

Every time someone with cancer dies, I do something I'm not very proud of. I count the years they struggled with it and compare myslf with that hoping to go as long. Steve Jobs went almost eight years with his monster but he went to Switzerland and ate nothing bit herbs for a while. I'm only butting up to year four. It would be incredible if I went as long as Steve Jobs. I hope I don't have to eat herbs, though.

One other thing, being down here allowed me to see the grave of my hero, Alexamder Hamilton. He was the father of our economy. He made sure our dollar was worth something. He forsaw the intricacies of interstate commerce. He led a bayonett charge in the last major battle of the war. He wrote most if not all of President George Washington's speeches and with him, helped forge a brand new society. Thomas Jefferson and Hamilton fought over what type of country this should be. Jefferson wanted a country of gentlemen farmers with a weak and non-existent federal government. Jefferson won, for awhile. After the Civil War, the country slowly but surely tilted all the way toward Hamilton. He is most likely the only Founding Father who foresaw what we are today. He was an orphan who ran a trading company at nine years old. At thirteen, he was turned down by Princeton because he told the dean he wanted to finish college in three years. Only being thirteen years old, the Dean thought he was crazy. Almost as admirable in my mind is how he was human. He was very vain. His son died in college after he was challenged to a duel, a fight over his father. You would think he would stay away from duels but he didn't and died as well, at the hands of Aaron Birr (even after he shot his bullet into a tree). Yes, he was vain and he did cheat on his wife one time. But I compare that with his rival, Jefferson, who owned slaves and betrayed Washington. I'll take Big Al. It was cool seeing his gravesite. Sad, too. I was so inspired to be so close to his actual body. But then I heard about Steve Jobs. I hate, hate, hate death.

My dad is probably like a lot of dads in othat he has always given me great advice on life. But unlike many dads, that advice always came at strange times.

In the summer, I would work for my dad's comstruction company as a laborer. Do any of you know what that is? The laborer is the guy on a construction team who hasn't quite learned how to drive a tractor or move a dump truck. So he has to do all the dirty work. And on a construction site, the dirty work is filthy dirty. If a hole needs digging, the laborer digs it. If something needs smashing, a laborer smashes it. If a sewer needs cleaning out, hold your nose and grab your shovel. A good laborer needs to be strong, tireless, steeled nerves and bicepts, oblivious to the mud, crap, feces and screams from the foreman. Ad willing to do absolutely anything and do it quickly or else you"re fired. I was nothing like that. I was more like Woody Allen grade a hole. Or maybe even a little Felix Ungar. Yeah, probably more Felix Ungar. It was all just too dirty, too heavy, too hot, too disorganized. I was too whimpy, whiney, clutzy and soft. Getting sludge out of a sewer hole holds no fascination for me, especially when the forman of the job is a drunk guy with a Scottish accent, calling you all kinds of unbelieveably naughty yet wildly creative names. The c word to Scotty is just the beginning of a sentence. And I am to him, a retard.

It wasn't that I hated construction. Construction hated me.

About two or three times every summer, my dad would trick me. He'd pull up in his truck and yell, "I got another job for you. Get in and grab your shovel." Then we'd drive in complete silence. I was afraid to say anything because I knew I was Felix Ungar out there and knew that he knew.

Most of the time, my dad would start the conversation deftly talking in abstracts. Right away, he'd get all deeper in the discussion. And then he would talk about life and school and what he expcts from me. Stuff like looking people in the eye when you talk to them, the importance of a good firm handshake, how to treat ladies, moms, dads, girlfriends, business partners, etc.

My dad, like many dads I suppose, is a truly wise man. As a kid, he would walk all the way to Wrigley Field from his home in Elmwood Park to see the Cubs play. He got in by striking a deal with the groundskeeper. He could watch the game but then he had to clean up the garbage in the stands afterwards. So he did that. And then he walked back home to Elmwood Park, about twenty to thirty miles each way. My dad was destined for law school and started taking some classes. But then a family tragedy struck, my uncle Jimmy died on a construction site. My grandfather was too devastated to go back to that same construction site to work. So my dad did. And my dad kept doing it. He gave up his dreams to help his dad. He knows a few things.

My dad would go on and on. And by the end of his impasion lecture, we would be facing a mall entrance. He'd take me shopping. For the rest of the day, he'd tell me to get anything. He'd push shirts on me, sweaters (it was the eighties so you can easily visualize the style), socks, underwear, anything. I always thought it was funny watching the sales people react to seeing a kid who has dirt in his teeth, hair and any nether region and smelled like River Forest's finest poop. Eventually I'd sheepishly get only one or two things. I felt bad for spending his money. Even so, it was a great feeling.

Back in the car, during his speeches, he often came back to the same theme: make sure you always have options. It's important in anything you do. Always have options. Always. Always. Because when you don't, you're stuck. And then your life, your career, even your relatiomships are no longer favorable to you. You lose the ability to control that pesky sucker called fate. When you're stuck and have no options, you are at the mercy of others, the elements of the situation, outside influences, all out of your control. When you end up stuck, sometimes you end up unhappy.

All too often, I write about the pain of cancer. I do that because I want to make sure you understand. I know that before I had it, pain would be the biggest mystery to me in my mind. What does it feel like? What feels bad and how does it feel? But now, the pain still sucks but it's just pain. A needle stick is just pain. My feet are just in pain. Pain isn't the worst thing about cancer. The worst thing is that I'm running out of options.

Frist, there's the obvious. My treatment options aren't so vast after this one runs out. They're going to get less effective and have more side effects. I can see an end. Bummer. But tonight, I am not troubled by that.

I want to be a husband to my wife. I want me to do everything husbands do that wives love. But I can't. I wish I could take my wife out to a romantic dinner and then come home and watch porn and do the nasty, wild thing. What? Couples don't watch porn before they get it on? But how then do you all get arosed? Plus, if there is no porn, then it only lasts about eight minutes, all depending on how easily it is to get the rubber suit off.

But the porn be that as it may, I am fresh out of ways to make me seem cool. Like Brad Pitt cool. The Fonz cool. I'm fat now because of the steroids and I can't get myself into shape. I'll last about ten mintes into the twenty minute ab work out. And I know this bothers my wife. She works out so hard and works so hard to take care of herself and then she looks at me sucking the third popsicle of the hour while I jiggle to get comfie on the couch. I can't have nice hair because I barely have hair. I am not who she married. And she quite frankly has to be sick of this. Every day she sees me laying in bed in the middle of the day, taking long hot baths to soothe the nodes. And it must be numbing. Brad Pitt is too cool for cancer. And to her, the marriage deal was in sickness and in health but enough is enough. Nobody wants to get laid by the slovenly, old, fat, tired laborer.

I want to go back to work to show her I am creative and smart and hard-working again. I can't. I am tired and I am out of options on making sure my wife has reasons to be in love with me. She's never said anything about this. I know she would be embarassed by this whole thing. And probably upset. But this blog needs to be honest or it's not going to be my blog. I need to once again sweep her off her feet, while my sting and tingle.

I have become richie cunningham and love every himdrum minute

There is a curse to the drug that I am currently taking--sgn. And that is, one day it will end. Now, naturally, you've read enough of these insipid, whiny posts to think that I am referring the medical end, that the Monster comes back and he'll be driving some Monster truck. But that is incorrect.

My friend Jerome once went on a rant about the 1985 Bears that was quite enjoyable, as Jerome's rants always are. Basically he wanted them to go away. They are always around. They will not get beyond that point in time when they won the Super Bowl. And, unfortunately, everyone is reminded of that every time you see a car commercial. By my math, that Super Bowl is almost three decades ago. Good god. Hasn't anything happened to any of them since? And then Jerome would talk about Chuck Noll. He was the coach of the Steel Curtain Pittsburg Steelers when they dominated the seventies goimg on to win a multiple of Super Bowls, not only one as is the Bears' case. For all everyone knows, the guy is still alive. But maybe not. He's not one of those tired ex-jocks on ESPN saying the same crap. He doesn't do car commerxials. He's nowhere to be found but he must be somewhere. I clearly get Jerome's point. It's classier to not live so much back there.

I always thought it class that made Chuck Noll not care to be faous or relevant. But now I completely understand. He's happy. Or at least that's what I see and that's about all that matters in this case.

The killer thing for sgn isn't the medical ending but the humdrum life ending.

Even at its most boring, I love every single day. I hug every single day. I feel bad when the day goes away. I have had a lot of dreams and ambitions in my life. But I never thought the dream of having peace would be the best one of all. I have "serenity now!!!"

Because of the diligent work of our company CFO, Michael Volkman, I am on long term disability. I get paid just a little less than my actual salary at tdh. So I don't worry about money as much. In high school we always heard about that statistic of like how often a boy thinks about sex and the actual statistic is like every five seconds. Well, yeah, that was correct for me. But then in my thirties, sex turned into thinking about money with the same frequency but without all the animal, midget, wig-wearing, rubber suit bondage nonsense that accompanied my sexual imagination.

So that leaves worrying about very little. And somewhere on all of our worry list, there will be a point where you can more than handle it. The bills. Te wife. The kids. All those things that made you look old are gone. And that's when I became Chuck Noll. Or, for the non sports types, Richie Cunnomgham. Oh sure, my ambition may still bethere but now they're only about having fun.

I wake uo whenever I damn well please on the weekdays. On the weekends, I have to look like I want to be up early so as not to appear as the lazy douchebag I have become. But anyways, it's about ten o'clock. For breakfast, I eat whatever I damn well please. Naturally, that means I hit the sugar and faux sugar products with glee. I slumber for a while waiting for the drugs to kick in. Then I do whatever I damn well please. Today, I stared at my crappy stocks and tried to remember when they actually made me money.

Eventually, my new dreamboat comes home. That would be Maddie. Now, granted, she has more ah, lets just say endearing traits of her momma. She lives in an orderly world. But I forgive that because she loves to laugh. No, really. We love to joke about anythimg. She loves to dance as well. The house doesn't need lights when Maddie is home. She is electricity. But not break-dancing Electric Bugaloo. That would be bad and one of her mother's not so endearinf traits.

Eventually, Maddie goes down for a nap and I go back to doing what I damn well please.

Then starts the procession of Herlehy's, coming home from school. Now, I really can do whatever I want.

The wierd thing about it all, though, is what I want to do is nothing. I find my wife and kids to be enough in my world. Oh, and my dog. This is all good for me. At one time in my life, I would want so much more. And there are so many things I wanted to so. But not now. The other day I thought about going to Ireland and thought that I could stop travelling to be awed and inspired.

I have pain, yes. And it is really bad pain. And it very rarely leaves me. But I have been an asshole so many times to so many people from college to texas grad school to new york to everywhere. I'll bet every single person who reads this has a Michael Herlehy Is An Asshole story. So the pain well, it's a little payback that sometime, somewhere I pissed off the Gods and people and the natural order of things. I fucked up. Whatever it was. I'd give you examples but it's late and I should try to sleep. Then again, maybe I won't. Who knows.

Really boring military metaphors await you. Just not today.

I'm going to start writing again. I needed to get away. And just as important, I needed to figure out how the hell to type on this damn ipad. It's very different. You'll unfortunately see a lot more typos.

I have been taking my last bullet, the sgn drug, for a couple months now. I am almost in complete remission. Still I don't feel like celebrating. My feet and hands sting for most of the day. It's like I slammed my hand open face on concrete. And then did the same for each limb. The sting is pretty sharp and constant. It's less in the morning, though and in the evening after I take this drug.

I have written some stuff to the kids. It's on my other computer. I started it when I was first diagnosed. But the writing became too emotionally difficult. I've burned bridges because things are too emotionally difficult. I'm going to write more later. Thanks for hanging in there.

I need you to shove it back

It was my anniversary today. She is such an unbelievable person. If you want loyalty, don't get a dog, marry a farmer's daughter from Northern Michigan. Make sure she's not a drunk, though.

I'm in a lot of pain right now. It's not jack bower pain. It's an ache. It's pretty much all over. My hands feel like really bad arthritis. My head would feel better if if exploded. My midsection still pings with every breath. I have less energy than that Carol Burnett Show character, Speed. Tim Conway reference. My throat hurts.

The throat is the biggest psychological burden. When you were young, you used to get the flu and your throat would getmswollen. Well, mine are swollen beyond that point and it is all the time. My nodes hurt. I'm getting to the bottom of the tank. I used to wake up and tell myself I gotta rally and that would get me going. Now, there is nothing to rally. I was hoping this drug would bring me back and give me some strength to fight the next year. It is instead sucking everything out of me. And I just want to take my little girl to the park. Cancer is robbing me. It's robbing her. It's robbing her kids and her family of some or many purely happy moments. She'll have the crutch of not having her dad. She'll think that in quiet moments. Robbery. It will take a piece of her forever. She's going to be too young to even remember us going to the park.

It would be nice if, one day, hopefully twenty or thirty years later, one of you would be sitting around and thinking about something stupid we did together. And you decide to find one of my kids and maybe even after a long search, you call them and tell them. Twenty years later. Cancer gets robbed then. That bastard disease gets a little shoved back from one of my friends or family. That makes me feel better right now.

Did you see that?

Can't type long because I'm having trouble seeing up close. At first I thought it was a symptom of getting old but now I know that it has progressed quickly and that means sgn is the cause. It's very hard to see close up so sorry if there are a lot of typos. Will inform you if it gets better. Have to tell my wife. That's going to be a difficult conversation.