Oscar - My inspiration
Just typing the title drives tears streaming from my eyes and my chest to heave uncontrollably. I can't explain why Oscar affected me so much, but I'm going to try...
I had been driving for a few weeks and was starting my week anew, after a couple of days off. My first stop of the day was a new one for me and I was both hesitant and anxious, at the same time. The rider's name was Oscar and his pick-up was at the Mayo Clinic in North Scottsdale. I had an idea of what this stop might be, but was not prepared for what happened next.
Pulling up to the entrance, a slight Mexican man introduced himself and climbed into the back seat. At first impression, he appeared to be no different than most men of his nationality that I often see working outdoors around the city. Oscar is 5' 6" and (I'd later discover) 155 lbs. He had a good head of hair and didn't show any outward indications of being a patient, so as I pulled away, my heart began to settle, thinking that Oscar was simply a visitor to the clinic.
Oscar and I immediately had an inexplicable connection, not too different from my best friend (Jaime) that made us very comfortable with each other. As I drove him to a motel a good 22 miles (and 35 minutes) away, his story began to unfold in the back seat. To quote Steven Wright, "It's a small world...but I wouldn't want to paint it." You see, Oscar was born and raised in El Paso, Texas, only 45 miles from where I attended high school (in Las Cruces, NM). He graduated from El Paso High School a year before me and had a happy, fulfilling life. He had been married for a long time, before a very rocky divorce that sent him into a depression, fueled daily by the biggest legal depressant, alcohol. His family and friends inspired him to find new life, which he did...in the gym. Over the course of a few years, Oscar spent every day in the gym, working out his pain. His dedication to it yielded amazing results and as of October of 2016, he was a 5' 6" mountain of muscle weighing in at 175 lbs, with about 8% body fat. From the back of the car, Oscar showed me a photo of himself at the gym and I can say that in all my years of training, I've never come close to the size he was. At his peak, it was easy to see his arms were close to 18" in circumference. His shoulders were nearly the size of cantalopes.
But this wasn't the man in my back seat, and in a moment my initial fear was realized. In September of 2016, Oscar noticed his strength was declining. He couldn't lift what he had been able to and revisited his supplement regime to restore that strength. By October, he knew something wasn't right, but he didn't see his doctor about it. Oscar, in 46 years of his life, never had a primary care physician. He had never had a need for one. He had been quite healthy all of his life. And now, in the best shape of his life, something was wrong.
In January, Oscar couldn't ignore it any longer. He had dropped 20 lbs of lean muscle mass and had become the withering man in the seat behind me. It was then that his new doctor in El Paso informed him that he had Stage 4 liver cancer... and that there was nothing they could do for him, there.
Over the years, I've been able to compartmentalize my feelings quite effectively. I have the capacity to discuss serious things of this nature with people without emoting, without accessing my own feelings. Instead, I provide support through logical, objective discussion... demonstrating strength of support through controlled reactions. So, Oscar and I talked about his tests and treatments at the Mayo, how he had survived the last two weeks, alone in a cheap motel, and how he had found a local church to keep his faith. It looked like things were on an upturn for Oscar and he expressed it with almost blind optimism. His nephew was arriving that night to provide logistical support, along with his wife the next day, to provide him strength. But as I offered him any/every measure of my support which I could muster, I felt it welling in me... like a dam barely holding its floodwaters.
So much about Oscar and his story has elements to it that we could all infer, even not having been in the car. But none of you can possibly understand the depth of pain I feel for him. It's inexplicable, even to me... While I've had family history with cancer, none of them have had this affect on me. Somehow, some way, I found Oscar... another Aspen tree in my forest.
As I departed the parking lot, the dam broke...and I bawled uncontrollably for 20 minutes. And when I called my best friend in the world to tell her the story in between sobs, my final words were... these people matter. These people who pass through the backseat of my car sometimes as briefly as a summer squall...matter. These people and their stories remind me...remind us of the humanity that is out there that we've lost touch with.
I call Oscar my inspiration because it was he who inspired and motivated me to capture these stories. ...to remind myself and others who might stumble across this...that these people matter. ...to not ignore the forest that is falling around us.
I had been driving for a few weeks and was starting my week anew, after a couple of days off. My first stop of the day was a new one for me and I was both hesitant and anxious, at the same time. The rider's name was Oscar and his pick-up was at the Mayo Clinic in North Scottsdale. I had an idea of what this stop might be, but was not prepared for what happened next.
Pulling up to the entrance, a slight Mexican man introduced himself and climbed into the back seat. At first impression, he appeared to be no different than most men of his nationality that I often see working outdoors around the city. Oscar is 5' 6" and (I'd later discover) 155 lbs. He had a good head of hair and didn't show any outward indications of being a patient, so as I pulled away, my heart began to settle, thinking that Oscar was simply a visitor to the clinic.
Oscar and I immediately had an inexplicable connection, not too different from my best friend (Jaime) that made us very comfortable with each other. As I drove him to a motel a good 22 miles (and 35 minutes) away, his story began to unfold in the back seat. To quote Steven Wright, "It's a small world...but I wouldn't want to paint it." You see, Oscar was born and raised in El Paso, Texas, only 45 miles from where I attended high school (in Las Cruces, NM). He graduated from El Paso High School a year before me and had a happy, fulfilling life. He had been married for a long time, before a very rocky divorce that sent him into a depression, fueled daily by the biggest legal depressant, alcohol. His family and friends inspired him to find new life, which he did...in the gym. Over the course of a few years, Oscar spent every day in the gym, working out his pain. His dedication to it yielded amazing results and as of October of 2016, he was a 5' 6" mountain of muscle weighing in at 175 lbs, with about 8% body fat. From the back of the car, Oscar showed me a photo of himself at the gym and I can say that in all my years of training, I've never come close to the size he was. At his peak, it was easy to see his arms were close to 18" in circumference. His shoulders were nearly the size of cantalopes.
But this wasn't the man in my back seat, and in a moment my initial fear was realized. In September of 2016, Oscar noticed his strength was declining. He couldn't lift what he had been able to and revisited his supplement regime to restore that strength. By October, he knew something wasn't right, but he didn't see his doctor about it. Oscar, in 46 years of his life, never had a primary care physician. He had never had a need for one. He had been quite healthy all of his life. And now, in the best shape of his life, something was wrong.
In January, Oscar couldn't ignore it any longer. He had dropped 20 lbs of lean muscle mass and had become the withering man in the seat behind me. It was then that his new doctor in El Paso informed him that he had Stage 4 liver cancer... and that there was nothing they could do for him, there.
Over the years, I've been able to compartmentalize my feelings quite effectively. I have the capacity to discuss serious things of this nature with people without emoting, without accessing my own feelings. Instead, I provide support through logical, objective discussion... demonstrating strength of support through controlled reactions. So, Oscar and I talked about his tests and treatments at the Mayo, how he had survived the last two weeks, alone in a cheap motel, and how he had found a local church to keep his faith. It looked like things were on an upturn for Oscar and he expressed it with almost blind optimism. His nephew was arriving that night to provide logistical support, along with his wife the next day, to provide him strength. But as I offered him any/every measure of my support which I could muster, I felt it welling in me... like a dam barely holding its floodwaters.
So much about Oscar and his story has elements to it that we could all infer, even not having been in the car. But none of you can possibly understand the depth of pain I feel for him. It's inexplicable, even to me... While I've had family history with cancer, none of them have had this affect on me. Somehow, some way, I found Oscar... another Aspen tree in my forest.
As I departed the parking lot, the dam broke...and I bawled uncontrollably for 20 minutes. And when I called my best friend in the world to tell her the story in between sobs, my final words were... these people matter. These people who pass through the backseat of my car sometimes as briefly as a summer squall...matter. These people and their stories remind me...remind us of the humanity that is out there that we've lost touch with.
I call Oscar my inspiration because it was he who inspired and motivated me to capture these stories. ...to remind myself and others who might stumble across this...that these people matter. ...to not ignore the forest that is falling around us.
An incredible story
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