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Monday morning, a young woman called into the Elvis Duran and the Morning Show
and thanked the host for bettering her life. She was a survivor, and the radio
show had become a ritualistic source of comfort for her. She claimed that Elvis
had “cured her cancer.” In its typical jocular fashion, the cast speculated whether
they could, in fact, cure cancer. The next caller said that she’d listened to
the show on the drive to each of her chemotherapy appointments, and the third
caller said she was headed to an infusion appointment that very moment.
Teary eyed, I realized I could have been their next caller. Since returning to work after the induction and consolidation phases of my treatment regimen for AML (I’m currently in the maintenance phase.), I’ve listened to the program every day during my morning commute. Before diagnosis, I never stopped on 100.3 during my scan of the radio channels. Now, from 7:45am to 7:53am, I’m a captive audience. Why? Because Elvis is curing my cancer, or rather, during those eight minutes, he cures my mind of thinking about cancer.
Teary eyed, I realized I could have been their next caller. Since returning to work after the induction and consolidation phases of my treatment regimen for AML (I’m currently in the maintenance phase.), I’ve listened to the program every day during my morning commute. Before diagnosis, I never stopped on 100.3 during my scan of the radio channels. Now, from 7:45am to 7:53am, I’m a captive audience. Why? Because Elvis is curing my cancer, or rather, during those eight minutes, he cures my mind of thinking about cancer.
For anyone unfamiliar with Elvis Duran’s broadly syndicated
radio show: think Seinfeld humor infused with pop culture references. The cast
can debate, in a hilarious fashion, a topic as mundane as the reusability of
plastic take-out food containers. During one of my morning drives, they
brainstormed ideas for a tattoo for Elvis. The winner: A tramp stamp of a radio
mic with the cord, tied in a Celtic knot, trailing downward. Elvis, Danielle,
Froggy, Greg T, TJ, Skeery, and the others do particular justice to all
relationship-related issues.
These eight minutes of my day are so enjoyable because the
irrelevant topics provide an escape from the relevant anxieties that buzz in
the back of my mind, but also because a side effect of cancer is a greater
appreciation for the little, or mundane things. Laughter may not be as
effective at killing tumor cells as Daunorubicin, but it is the best medicine
for reducing stress. The morning of SupidCancer’s OMG2012/East summit (great
event, btw), I listened to Elvis on my way to the conference. The cast’s
discussion on why certain cultures excel at ping pong prevented me from
stressing about the traffic jam in which I sat and from dwelling on the fact that
if I weren’t a survivor, I wouldn’t need the fantastic support system that
StupidCancer provides.
I didn’t call into the show Monday morning, but I did write
an email to Elvis himself- my first fan mail ever. I’m not the type who’s
impressed by celebrities. If I passed Tom Cruise on the sidewalk, I wouldn’t
even pause (Bad example, but you get my point.). I told Elvis that I’m obsessed
with him. Now, if he passes me on the sidewalk, he’ll probably cross to the
other side of the street. What I meant by “obsessed” is that I’m fixated on
getting past my fears and on with my life, and I’m appreciative of the eight
minutes a day he gives me when I never think about cancer. And the pick-up he
provides extends beyond when I turn off the radio.
What’s your Eight Minutes of Elvis?
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