“Everyone will become conscious. There are two ways. You either walk nobly down the path with your eyes open and take your lumps. Or fate will drag you down like a squealing pig. Either way, you’ll become conscious.”
– Marion Woodman, Canadian Jungian analyst
It felt like any other spring day in San Francisco. There was natural air conditioning – not unusual for a city surrounded by water on three sides – that created a freshness to my outlook.
I was kinda liking my new era in 2018 shuttling between the Bay and Baja, still advising the Airbnb founders part-time while getting MEA off-the-ground with beta cohorts almost every other week. It felt like we were onto something with this new-fangled midlife wisdom school as the number one suggestion we heard from our beta compadres on the beach was, “You ought to create an alumni program.” And, I was putting the final touches on my book launch plan as “Wisdom@Work: The Making of a Modern Elder” was scheduled to come out in September.
So, when I walked the 15 minutes from my home to my doctor’s office at UCSF Mission Bay, I sported a big smile on my face. But, that smile turned upside down when my doctor told me that my annual physical blood tests revealed a spiking PSA just above 4.0. Not worrisome, but worth doing some investigation to see if I had prostate cancer. Over the next few weeks, they set me up with an ultrasound, MRI, and a biopsy. And, other than the discomfort associated with that damn biopsy tissue collector up my butt (that sounded and felt like I was having my prostate stapled), I felt pretty good about life. While prostate cancer is the second leading cause of cancer death in U.S. men, my blood tests suggested my risk for it spreading were low and I’d heard that 80% of men age 80+ have prostate cancer. But, it still felt a little weird to be dealing with this at 57.
I flew to New York for my book launch events and, especially due to all of the media curiosity about Airbnb and my role as the “modern elder” to the founders, I got caught up in the hoopla. I’d nearly forgotten that my urologist was going to call me at a media lunch the day before I was to give a TED talk at TED headquarters in New York. He asked me if I was alone, so I shuffled my way out to the Soho curb where I sat and learned that the biopsy confirmed that I had early stage cancer in a good portion of my prostate. He assured me that I shouldn’t worry too much as we’d “watch and wait” to see if it grew much. But, it didn’t take the wind out of my sails as my good friend and colleague Debra (who was helping me with so many things at that time including my book tour) scooped me up from the curb and ushered me back to the media.
The next year and a half was a bit of a blur. MEA launched to the public (no more beta) a little over a month later with a New York Times writer embedded in the first Baja workshop group. I cut back on my drinking, modified my diet, bought oodles of supplements recommended by two different functional medicine doctors, did regular acupuncture, and was working out like a Energizer bunny. The book and MEA were gaining a lot of attention, Airbnb was prepping for an IPO, and I felt healthier than I’d felt in years.
And, then the pandemic rocked us just as MEA finished delivering its 50th workshop and our momentum was kicking into gear. I was stuck in paradise with my partner Oren, our dog Jamie, and our cat TyTy. It felt otherworldly living on an idyllic beach in rural Mexico on a campus with a few stranded Americans who were in our last workshop cohort, reading the news of global devastation each day. My cancer was the last thing on my mind.
After about a month, the campus emptied out and for the next six months, MEA was empty and we were paying 75% of the wages of all the Baja staff to assure they were economically stable in this terrible time. We began wondering how the hell we were going to operate in an environment when travel felt risky or impossible (especially across borders), our community of midlifers and elders were at particular risk, and our workshops promoted physical and emotional intimacy at a time when social distancing was the new standard.
I’ll freely admit that while I was taking long “awe walks” with Jamie, working out quite a bit, and intermittent fasting, alcohol became my best friend during this period as it felt like a reliable roommate who comforted me as I wondered how MEA would survive. I lost touch with my doctors during this time (I mentally justified this thinking that they must be busy with more important things) and stopped getting regular blood tests to track my stage-1 cancer.
And, then, three years ago, we discovered my cancer had moved to stage-2. I’ll talk more about that tomorrow.
-Chip