For what seems like months, it feels like I’ve been holding my breath. Not voluntarily, mind you. Totally against my will, I’ve felt an anxiety like nothing I’ve known before. Every action seemed both monumental and inconsequential. I had to be here and there, do this and that, and attend to details. Yet, really, I wanted to run and hide and not come out.
In late 2008, my sister Joli was diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer. A type of lung cancer that doesn’t come from smoking. It had already spread throughout her body.
Treatment started immediately and—for a while at least—it worked well. The stats gave her around a year, plus or minus (mostly minus, honestly) depending on which stats you looked at. She beat that with the help of all sorts of treatments. Radiation. Chemo. Experimental pills. But, eventually, the treatments stopped being effective. The most horrible thing about watching a cancer like this kill your sister is that you can’t give up hope, yet hope is something that you can’t drum up in large doses. Evidence and facts work against that. But still you hope. And pulled between the two, eventually you can’t even breathe.
You can pretend to breathe, and you do. But you don’t. A bit of oxygen manages to leak into your system somehow. Enough to keep you going.
After being in Dallas the last week of January, watching my sister in the hospital, my even that last little bit of oxygen leaking in stopped. The cancer was eating her blood. She couldn’t maintain platelet counts. She was living because of transfusions. I watched the doctors do a bone marrow aspiration on Joli to determine if the cancer had gotten there.
It was.
They sent her home while I was still in Dallas. With oxygen. Transfusions continued. No further treatment other than pain management, however, was an option. It was just a matter of time. On Febuary 6th, I got the word that they had started morphine. I was driving to LA to go to TED. I sped up. I raced down the 5 to get to LAX and fly to Dallas to see her one last time. I could sneak in one more visit. But, even though I was blowing speed limits out of the water—I’ve never driven so fast for so long—I wasn’t fast enough. While still in the Central Valley of California, I got the call that she had died.
I checked myself into a hotel. And just… I don’t know. Stopped.
The next morning, I had to decide what to do. Fly to Dallas or go to Long Beach. My sister had donated her body to medicine, so there wasn’t going to be a funeral. No cremation. No macabre viewing. I was happy with her choice, but it meant that I had to live with the fact that I wouldn’t see her again, no matter what. The family was scattered, gathering later in the week. So, I just headed to Long Beach. I decided I had to keep living. I had to do the things that made me myself. I had to do that because I know that’s what I’d want her to do if the situation were reversed.
My week at TED was manic/depressive. It sucked to work so hard, yet I found that keeping so busy was great medicine. I cried when people talked about how cancer was affecting their lives. I helped lead a standing ovation for cancer researcher William Li, even though it certainly isn’t the place for a staff member to help instigate such a thing. I was a wet mess behind the camera when June mentioned that a member of staff had lost their sister to cancer from the stage. I had a hard time shooting the rest of that session.
The undeniable blessing of being at TED last week, however, was that I was surrounded by proof that life was meaningful. People doing great things. People looking for hope where there shouldn’t be any. People fighting to figure out how to keep the human race vibrant and rich over the years to come. And I was surrounded by the support of all of my friends on the TED staff. No matter what was going on, how busy they were, there was always a time for a hug and a moment from all of them when it was needed most.
I executed probably my best live stage work ever last week at TED. My mind, however, was never far from Joli. Nor her family. Her children. Her mother. Her husband. I dedicate all of the work I did there to Joli. I know that she would have loved to be there. To see the things I saw.
As soon as the event was over, I was on the first jet I could catch to Dallas—where I am now. Because of the nasty weather this last week across the east and south—along with the NBA all-star game in Dallas—it was almost impossible to get a flight that night, but I did even though it took paying cash for a one-way first class ticket. An extravagance but worth every penny. I made it. I’m here. I didn’t have to wait another day to be here. I was able to meet my family while they were still gathered here.
I miss Joli, I know that her life was a good one. She did lots of good things. She saw a big chunk of the world. She had a lot of fun, even during the times when things were stacked against her. And she has, as part of her legacy, four great children—my nieces and nephews—that will take that spirit forward.
I hate the fact she’s gone. But, in the process of accepting that fact, I’ve started breathing again. And breathing is good. I’ll use that breath to do my own life’s work. To travel. To see things. And, every time I see something gorgeous or amazing in the world—every time I go somewhere new—I’ll probably stop and think, “Wouldn’t Joli have loved to see this!” And yeah, she would have.