21

Mike

MY COMMITMENT TO FIND a way to be helpful without judging others for poor food choices was sorely tested when a friend of mine came down with colon cancer. Not that my relationship with Mike had ever been particularly easy. He could be, to be perfectly frank, a bit of a pain. When we went out to eat, he always—knowing full well that I was a vegetarian and had written books on the subject—asked me whether I felt more like a steak or a hamburger. He always made a point of telling me during the meal how fabulous his meat or ice cream tasted, and made a display of offering to share it with me, all the while acting as if his doing so were motivated entirely by affection and generous concern for my well-being.

It wasn't only at restaurants that this kind of thing went on. Mike and I were running partners. When he outpaced me in the long-distance runs we sometimes took together, he announced triumphantly that his prowess was entirely due to the bacon he had eaten that morning. He did this, I am sure, even on those days when his breakfast had been granola.

But I was not about to let him get my goat. I just smiled and inwardly vowed that next time I would win. Not that I ever did. He had been a champion cross-country runner in high school, and was naturally gifted. I, on the other hand—well, let's just say I tried hard.

Still, I worried about him. Perhaps because physical things had always come easily to Mike, he seemed to take his health for granted. Aside from our runs, he didn't exercise much and, as time passed, he gained quite a bit of weight. He became less and less interested in running and eventually stopped altogether.

I chided him that it was obvious that he was terrified of losing to me and that the reason he no longer wanted to go for runs was that he simply wanted to avoid the inevitable experience of watching me cross the finish line ahead of him. His reply wasn't particularly subtle: “My ass, Mr. Bean-sprouts-for-breakfast. You couldn't beat me if I had to hop on one leg.” Of course, he was wrong. I've never once eaten bean sprouts for breakfast.

Once I spoke to him about ahimsa, the practice of nonviolence, the practice of living with compassion for all creatures.

“That sounds great,” he answered. “I'm into ahimsa—ahimsa for myself. I'm not going to do violence to myself by denying myself a nice thick slice of roast beef. Want to join me?”

“No, thanks,” I answered, softly. I didn't say any more. I didn't feel like arguing with him. I didn't want to create any more separation. I thought he was creating quite enough all by himself.

“No problem,” he responded. “But don't forget that plants have consciousness, too.” He pointed to my salad. “You're murdering those poor lettuce leaves.”

On another occasion, I told him that I was concerned about his health. “I don't want to see you get sick.” I mentioned that people who ate the way he did often developed chronic diseases like cancer.

“Maybe,” he answered. “If it's in the cards, that's what's going to happen.” He sounded resigned.

After Mike gained even more weight and stopped exercising entirely, his wife became concerned. “He's becoming increasingly irritable and short-tempered. What's worse, he doesn't talk to me anymore about what he's feeling, and spends all his free time on his computer.”

We were seeing each other less and less, until one day Mike called and said he needed to talk to me. He had been to the doctor and had gotten some bad news. Could I come over?

Yes, I said, I'd be right over.

When I arrived, the atmosphere in their house was heavy and dark. His wife spoke first, and told me Mike had been diagnosed with a very serious form of colon cancer—Dukes’ D. I knew what this meant. The cancer had already spread quite widely through the body.

The prognosis with Dukes’ D is terrible. The five-year survival rate is about 5 percent, at best maybe 20 percent if liver metastases can be surgically removed.

They were scared. I listened, and my heart felt sick. Oh Mike, I thought, Oh Mike! Why didn't you listen? Didn't I tell you? Outwardly, I tried to listen and be supportive, but inside I was angry and hurt—angry at Mike for not taking better care of himself, angry at God for letting this happen, and angry at myself for not having been able to prevent it.

I listened as attentively as I could, and asked a few questions. They talked about his treatment options, and about the financial pressures they were dealing with. Not a word about diet. I stayed for dinner. Mike had a burger, fries, and a pint of ice cream. He seemed despondent.

For once, he didn't crack a single disparaging joke about my health-conscious ways, although for perhaps the first time I actually was wishing he would. I wanted him to be his old, stupid, teasing self. He may have been a jerk, but we were buddies, pals, compadres, friends. Oh, Mike.

I was hurting and I wanted to be in denial. I didn't want to face what was happening. I wanted the old Mike back, even if he was a jerk.

In the weeks that followed, Mike underwent surgery and then chemotherapy. He was having a terribly hard time with nausea, abdominal pain, vomiting, diarrhea, and a host of other kinds of distress, but he pinned his hopes for a cure on the drugs. He made it clear that he didn't want to discuss alternative or complementary treatments.

It was hard for me not to be critical. When Mike complained about how helpless he felt, I tried to be understanding and to help him make intelligent and grounded choices, but inside I was thinking: “Why didn't you think about that before? What do you expect when you eat the way you have?” He said he was at last cleaning up his diet, but I wasn't convinced. As far as I could tell, he was still eating the same junk he had always eaten.

Mike's last days weren't pleasant or comfortable. But there was one thing that happened that stands out for me, as I look back on it now. I don't want to make too much of this, but to me it feels important.

One of the last times I saw him, Mike said to me: “Thank you for not pushing your trip on me. I hate vegetables, that's all there is to it.”

“I appreciate your saying that. But honestly, Mike, I feel bad that I wasn't more assertive. Maybe it would have done some good.”

“No, it wouldn't have. I was completely set in my ways. I wouldn't have listened.”

He paused and reached for my hand. “I felt your love, John. I always felt your love. Do you know what that's meant?”

“No.”

“More than you'll ever know, carrot brain.”

I can't remember the rest of the conversation. I was weeping too hard.