Read Cancer on Five Dollars a Day* *(chemo not included): How Humor Got Me through the Toughest Journey of My Life for Free Online

in public.”
    “Seriously, what would you do?”
    I rub my left eye, which is now throbbing. “I don’t know.”
    Mehldau pushes on. “You’d hire a trainer and a corner
    man, wouldn’t you? And a nutritionist, and a sparring partner, and you’d do road work every day, and you’d get videotapes of him fighting and you’d study him. You’d do everything you could to prepare so that when you stepped into the ring for the fight of your life, you’d know all his strengths and weaknesses. Would you do all that?” He holds for a beat. “Or would you take a Valium?”
    “No,” I say. “I would do all that.”
    “Well, hang up with me, and go on the Internet and start reading all about non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. And when you’re at Mayo, go to the library and do research. Find ways to help you get through it. Read other people’s stories. Find out how you’re gonna beat it. Become an expert.”
    I murmur, “Knowledge is power, right?”
    “Exactly,” Dr. Mehldau says.
    I feel my breathing slow down. My hands have stopped trembling and my body temperature has returned to normal. I no longer feel as if I’m trapped inside an ice chest. A sense of calm washes over me. I know what I have to do. Dr. Mehldau has not only relaxed me, he has given me a game plan.
    Since my cancer is aggressive, I have to be aggressive, too. In order to fight, I have to know what I’m fighting. I have never been a passive person and I’m not going to start now. I refuse to lay back and let the cancer take over. I’m going after it. That will be my new purpose.
    Talk about life throwing you a curve ball. Yesterday I fantasized that in six months I’d be known as Robert Schimmel, sitcom star. Today I’m fantasizing that in six months I’ll be alive. Amazing how fantasies change. Wasn’t long ago that my fantasies involved me and two women in cheerleader outfits.
    “Robert?” Dr. Mehldau says.
    “Huh?”
    “You there?”
    “Yeah. I was just thinking about what you were saying. I’m taking it in. The news today? Blindsided me a little bit.”
    “I know. Look, I can give you a Valium tonight, but tomorrow morning when you wake up, you’re still gonna have cancer and you won’t have any Valium. And instead of dealing with your disease, you’re avoiding it. You have cancer, Robert. You have to embrace it. That’s how you deal with it. Sounds weird, but it’s true.”
    I don’t say anything. I hold the phone close, cradle the receiver.
    “You okay, Robert?”
    “Yeah. Considering.”
    “I know. Listen, I’m here. You can call me anytime. I mean that.”
    “Thank you. Hey, Dr. Mehldau?”
    “Yes?”
    “Will you be my corner man?”
    I can feel his smile through the phone.

TUESDAY
    9:35 a.m. Leaving Arizona, heading to L.A. aboard Southwest Airlines. The desert below is the color of rust. My mission in L.A. consists of two brutal tasks.
    One: inform my manager that I have cancer and that I have to walk away from my own television show, the career opportunity of a lifetime. No problem. Only waited twentyfive years for this. My manager has stuck with me through the worst bullshit you can imagine. Guy’s a saint. This news should send him screaming right into the street.
    Two: tell Melissa that I’m breaking up with her and that I’m never going to see her again.
    The only good thing about Number Two is that it makes Number One seem like a piece of cake.
    The flight from Phoenix to L.A. takes a little more than an hour, but it feels like a day and a half. The landing is rocky. I barely notice. Funny how things that used to make me crazy suddenly don’t even make a dent. Like turbulence on a plane. So the plane bounces a little because one of the flight attendants is blowing the pilot. Who cares? I stayed up until three in the morning poring over information about non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma on the Web. Tons of stuff to learn. Of course, I was fascinated by those who didn’t make it.
    Jackie Kennedy Onassis, for one,