The Good Fight

Please join me in supporting The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society (LLS) by making a donation (*** bottom of post has instructions) towards my goal of $50K in The Good Fight against cancer. With your help, we'll improve and save lives, and maybe get to name a research project after my Uncle Ronnie! :) If you have a moment, please enjoy the below passage I’ve written to answer my personal “why” question.

Fight The Good Fight

Aunt Susie wasn’t my biological Aunt, but was my mother’s best friend going back to their high school years. They were as close as two could be, and their two sons (Kenny and I) were nearly just as close. She was my favorite “Aunt”, and her son my favorite “cousin”. Next to my mum and sister, Aunt Susie and Kenny were two of the closest other humans to me—she was my second mom, and he was a brother. I certainly couldn’t have imagined a life without them, nor could I have imagined my mother not enjoying the sisterhood she shared with Aunt Susie for two decades. In hindsight, at 11, I had only experienced deaths to be expected—like fish and grandparents.

My first memorable sense of loss was when my Aunt Susie passed after a long battle, up and down, winning and losing, with multiple cancers. It hit us hard because Aunt Susie was so strong of a lady, never showed any weakness or vulnerability, and always seemed positive about her future. The gut check came when I contemplated what my mom must be feeling, and worse, what my best friend must feel like after losing his mother. I knew that I could not fathom their pain, and I wanted nothing more than for us all to find a cure, hop in a DeLorean, and get it back to my Aunt Susie to cure the pain of my mom and best friend.

Unfortunately, after losing other uncles and aunts, grandparents, and witnessing others I love dearly struggle through their family’s versions of Aunt Susie, I had to face the harsh reality that we all lose great people from time to time because of this evil group of diseases we call cancer.

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I was a blessed young man in that my dad has always been the “family is what you make it,” type of guy, proud of his children, and proud of his friends, we had many “Uncles”. Uncle Ronnie wasn’t my biological Uncle, but had been my dad’s best friend going back to when Ronnie was a young adult, and my dad was a business owner that felt like giving good guys a shot. They became thick as thieves, ran all over the country together, closing deals, and having fun like it was what they were built for. Ronnie was an unbelievably hard worker, with a bit of a rebellious side to him. Ronnie eventually flew the coup and became wildly successful on his own. Ronnie was proof and inspiration that drive and hard work can create a bright future for anyone—Ronald Smith started as a homeless orphan without a last name.

My first Ronnie memory was at about 5 years old. We went on a family ski trip, and Ronnie came enthusiastically, regardless of never having been on skis before. He was the life of the trip for me. Ronnie was never one to win affection via showmanship, but just the opposite. Ronnie had that kind of gentle swag which was genuine and captivating. He cared about everyone, showed everyone his best, gave everything his best, and was literally never negative. Ronnie was also funny as hell, and had a way for calling out lack of character in others that made them think about it and pivot, rather than dig-in and become defensive. If we were all like Ronnie, every corner of the earth would be quite a bit brighter.

Ronnie and I became very close through the years. He absolutely became my number one mentor and best friend. He was the grown up that I called when in distress—or what I thought was distress because after a few moments with him, distress was redefined as a minor roadblock, or more likely, a new opportunity. Ronnie was the only person on earth in my adult life which I’ve had a set weekly dinner with. Unfortunately, those weekly dinners changed to phone calls upon my move to California in 2011.

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Ronnie was so selfless; he beat cancer twice without telling a soul until after his recovery. Having come from nothing and no one, I guess he regressed to that sense of self when something with such the gravity of cancer hit him—he didn’t want to burden anyone else with his pain or concern. He had brought so many smiles and so much optimism to others in his life through such an inspirational story, I suppose he didn’t want to alter that legacy, and I am confident he wanted no one’s pity.

On a visit “home” in 2013, Ronnie wasn’t available for dinner. It was odd, and something didn’t feel right. We continued to chat semi-regularly about life, relationships, politics and the rest of the usual stuff, and he maintained his mostly jovial ways—something was missing though. Late fall came and I was set to be home for some holiday visits. Often my first and last stops were to see Ronnie—a way to decompress from all that was expected during my time home. On this particular visit, Ronnie had text me that he needed to chat before I came over. This wasn’t like him, as Ronnie was the least needy person on the planet.

It hit me like a ton of bricks in the chest, an almost suffocating lump hit my throat, and I couldn’t hold back the tears despite my best attempts to stay strong for him. Ronnie had less than 60 days to live; further, he had chosen to tell just three people. He wanted no visits from anyone that didn’t already see him regularly, he wanted no pity, and he wanted no additional heartache. He just wanted to chill. (He really was a bit like Lebowski.) That was the single most important call of my life, both the most difficult, and forever the greatest honor. Here was this perfect soul, at its most vulnerable moment, wanting to just be, and how blessed I was to have this opportunity.

It’s ironic that I choose the word blessed. Ronnie and I were pretty darn secular for most of our time together. We kept it under wraps out in public, because we knew that discrimination of the A-team was still rampant in this country; however, in private we both found counsel in each other’s confidence that our religion was simply to be as humane as possible, and our version of heaven was the sum of all legacies we’d leave behind. It was only after this news that we both started to consider, and hope for, how wrong we might be. I sure would like an eternity which includes Ronnie.

So, then I had a few things to do, 1) hang with Ronnie, 2) convince Ronnie to let me tell a few others who love him dearly, 3) say goodbye.

I can’t do the next week of my life the disservice of attempting to put on paper in detail. To be frank, I don’t even think I could make it through such an endeavor if I tried. I will say that it was the best spent handful days of my life thus far. Never has the universe stood still for me like that, never have I cherished every word spoken, never have I adored each chuckle, and never has each second mattered so much. The mixture of self-awareness, appreciation for life, comedy in darkness, and gracefulness which Ronnie displayed, in what would otherwise be such a dark timeline for others, was inspirational and life changing—that which I will forever reflect on.

We lost Ronald Smith on December 19th, 2013. Not a day passes which I don’t think of him—that will never change. Needless to say, when the news of finality struck, I knew just the pain I witnessed my mom feel when I was 11, and that which I never wanted to feel was now more real than I could have ever imagined.

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I remember being worried that my Dad would be upset that Ronnie chose to have me around at the end, with me calling him vs. the other way around. How silly of me—everyone knew what Ronnie and I had, and no one was upset. In fact, my Father put it best when he said to me, “if you were there with him, then I was there with him, I’m glad my better version got to represent me,” with tears rolling down his cheeks. Then, of course, we embarked on one of the only times my Father and I have ever sat and just bawled together. In the fashion Ronnie would have appreciated, we turned to memories of Ron, jokes of Ron, and tears of laughter. As nice as Ronnie was, and as rare as it was for him to be frustrated with others, he did have a favorite word for those he felt didn’t “get it”—they were simply morons. I think that was the first time we looked to the skies and said in a heartfelt, sad, yet satirical manner, “We need more Ron, moron.”

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There are battles all around us. The conflicts and curveballs of life are impossible to escape at times. Those close to me know that my Dad is now in poor health. Cancer is just one of the many ailments we’re fighting together. He continues to be a riot through it all, and the silver lining is that in his time of need, I have gotten more love, affirmation, and praise from him than any heart can receive. We’ve never been closer, at exactly the right time for such closeness. No one ever wants to lose a parent, and I certainly am not ready to say goodbye to my father, but I find some solace in hoping he and Ronnie will get to be reunited, whether it’s at “the big golf course in the sky,” as my Father would say, or at “some atomic level of energy,” as Ronnie would.

I don’t wish Aunt Susie’s pain, Ronnie’s pain, nor any pain, upon anyone, ever. There must be something we can do, and there is. Since we’re going to be fighting battles anyway, let’s all choose to fight one more for the greater good. While the direct focus is outside of one's self, admittedly, it’s also therapeutic to help others.

There must be hundreds of causes worth our engagement, but when I ask what’s really affected me the most adversely, the clear answer is cancer. I’m guessing the same answer exists for many of you.

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Through organizations like Leukemia & Lymphoma Society (LLS), we can Fight the Good Fight together, and take our turn to punch back at Cancer. Each year LLS raises over 1 million dollars in Los Angeles alone towards emergency patient care and the drug R&D required to extend and save lives (many of them children). To date, over ONE BILLION dollars has been raised by LLS organizations. That generosity has enabled the world to see many survival rates skyrocket, and hope and life to be granted and sustained by so many Leukemia and Lymphoma survivors. Additionally, many of these drug breakthroughs end up beneficial in treating other prevalent cancers (i.e. breast, prostate, ovarian, lung, etc.)—drugs that could have saved Aunt Susie, and may extend my father’s life.

I am incredibly honored to join forces with Leukemia & Lymphoma Society of Los Angeles as a Man of the Year 2017 Candidate in an endeavor to raise awareness for this Good Fight to continue such incredible progress. To be honest, I'm conflicted with the title of this campaign, because the real men and women of every year are those fighting tougher battles than ours--those survivors, and the legacies of those that didn't make it. If I don't know your related stories, I invite you to share with me, if you choose, as I feel the story of each battle won, or legacy left, will serve as synergy and further impetus for this campaign. Please visit the LLS website to learn more about the activities of this organization, including the MWOY annual campaigns.

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From March 27th to June 9th there will be a microsite available for donations***. Additionally, I’ve amassed a great group of friends and colleagues, who will be helping with media blasts, corporate sponsorships, celebrity experiences, and various events. If you’d like to join the team, in any capacity, please let me know. The power of positivity in numbers can never be underestimated and we welcome any contribution—in spirit, effort, or financial. Many of you are with large employers which match donations—let’s please take advantage of this! Please share with friends who would also like to donate!

I certainly understand everyone has a lot on their plate, so I thank you for reading about this journey; further, on behalf of cancer patients, survivors, and their circles everywhere, thank you for your support!

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The world needs more of the Ronnie vibe in it, to say the least. Please join The Good Fight and our amazing bunch of selfless supporters. #TheGoodFight #MoreRon

We miss you Ronnie. In your loving memory,

Michael

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Online donations can be made via: https://www.mwoy.org/pages/calso/los17/dmm

Check/Mail-in donations can be made payable to: The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society (please note “Michael McCarroll” in the memo line). Message me for address.