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

died from non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. Doesn’t matter how rich or famous you are, cancer is an equal opportunity shit sandwich.
    First stop, my manager Lee’s office. The receptionist smiles, asks, “How’s it going, Robert?” I resist the urge to launch into the events of the past twenty-four hours. Nothing gained by making other people uncomfortable, so I mutter, “Fine, great,” and try to smile. Thankfully, Lee appears right away and steers me down the hall into his office. He closes the door. I’ve already given him the headlines on the phone. I fill him in on the details. He listens quietly, making a tent with his fin-gers. We’ve been through a lot of crap together, but this latest pile towers over everything else.
    “Obviously, I can’t do the show, Lee. I know how hard you’ve worked for this. I’m really sorry.”
    He blinks with a mixture of surprise and sadness. “Robert, the show doesn’t matter. This is about your health. It’s about getting well. I don’t care about the show.”
    I know this is show business, the loneliest and most vicious business in the world, but Lee’s reaction touches me. He is a genuinely kind and supportive person. A mensch.
    “What happens now?” I ask him.
    He shrugs. “A holding pattern. The network will have to put on something else. I mean, the show is called Schimmel. It’s all about you. They can’t retool it.”
    “What if they try to replace me with somebody else?”
    “Like who? There’s nobody else like you.”
    “I don’t know. You know how they think. They’ll go with Erik Estrada.”
    Lee smiles, shakes his head, then blows out a sigh that could pass as a moan. “What a difference a day makes. Yesterday, June 4th, you had the world by the balls. HBO special, CD deal, sitcom on the air. The hat trick. Twenty-fours later, June 5th, the bomb drops. Boom.”
    “Yeah. The Schimmel Touch,” I say. “The Midas Touch in reverse. Everything I touch turns to shit.”
    Lee stands up, shakes his head, not disagreeing. He allows a small, ironic smile.
    “I’m sorry, Lee,” I say again. “I know this is a kick in the nuts.”
    “Robert, your job now is to get better, period,” Lee says.
    “We’ll have other chances. You’re a fighter. It’s gonna be all right.”
    We hug. A long, silent embrace. More than manager and client who are fond of each other. More than two close friends who’ve shared the same foxhole and fought the show business wars shoulder to shoulder. More like two brothers.
    And then, as we cling to each other, Lee murmurs in a soft, low voice, “Just take care of yourself, Robert.”

    Now for the hard part.
    Breaking up with Melissa.
    I’ve figured out what I’m going to say. Practiced it. Got it down.
    I’m gonna tell her I’m gay.
    Ah, she’ll never buy it. Plus I think she’ll want to try to cure me. I need to slow down. Think this through. And with my life currently whizzing by me at the speed of light, I desperately need to keep everything from careening out of control and crashing. But for some reason this conversation is one I can’t plan. Every time I try to write my “goodbye, Melissa” speech in my mind, my brain locks. Refuses to allow the words to form. Won’t let me go there.
    I believe in signs. Symbols. Should’ve seen the signs at all three of my weddings with Vicki. The signs weren’t exactly subtle. I’m talking about huge neon yellow caution signs flashing right in my eyes, blinding me. Somehow I didn’t notice them.
    Wedding number one. A justice of the peace presides, a nervous woman in a powder blue suit. She speed-reads our vows through thick half-glasses, her face tight, her lips barely moving. She finishes, breaking some kind of land speed record for completing the marriage vows.
    “Congratulations,” she says, packing up her purse. “You can kiss each other, whatever.”
    “Would you mind signing the marriage license?” I ask her.
    “Can’t,” she says. “I’m late. I was supposed