To everyone else it’s just another night. A friend is DJing, of course I’ll be there. My community of friends that I regularly see will be there. Drinks. Good music. Happiness. Just another night? For them. For me it’s the first time I’ve come to this particular place since chemo.

The last time I was here (Cha Cha Lounge, a bar in my neighborhood that my friend occasionally DJ’s at) was at the height of chemo. It was my first real outing, the first time most people saw me bald, saw me sick. I remember feeling eager to get out, eager to be with friends, but scared. It wasn’t, and couldn’t be, just another night. There I was, the moment a friend saw me, cancery H. Alan Scott.

“How are you feeling?”

“You look great!”

“Let me buy that club soda for you.”

“Being bald suits you.” This person is no longer a friend.

It was a fun night, but lonely. No longer was I funny H. Alan, I was funny H. Alan with cancer. I wasn’t just handsome, I was handsome with cancer. Even though I received so much attention, it felt like I was the only person in the room.

Now I’m back in the same bar, with hair this time, no longer sickly looking. My friends have all seen me since chemo, they know I’m fine. I feel OK, not in remission yet, but things are under control. So with all this, why can’t I be here without feeling sad?

Triggers. This is a trigger. An emotional trigger to an event in my past that I associate with a traumatic experience. Cancer landed on me like a ton of bricks a few weeks after turning 30. I had no time to prepare. By the time I got to this bar during chemo, I barely had time to process the cancer I had let alone managing a simple thing like an evening out to hear my friend DJ at a local bar with friends.

I have the shadow of cancer behind me wherever I go now. It’s very Sixth Sense, like I see dead people (if this were actually true, why hasn’t Bea Arthur visited me?). I’m afraid of what I’ll encounter next (unless it’s Bea Arthur), what will trigger off my anxiety, my fears? I’m afraid of my own life, uncertain what will happen next.

But here I am, in this bar, my friend DJing, other friends around me, drinking a club soda. Today is today, tomorrow is tomorrow, all I can do is take this one day at a time, triggers and all.

There’s this woman that was rescued alive from the rubble of the Bangladesh building that collapsed 17 days ago. I repeat, she was rescued alive after 17 days! Like, what could she have possibly done to stay alive in the basement of this building for 17 days? What sort of determination it must have took to not just have given up, gone to sleep, let yourself die?

It reminds me of the extended trips to visit family. Not literally, I mean, I choose to do it, choose to be there, but principally I can relate. Let me explain.

I’m 30 years old. In the 1950′s I would have been married and had kids by this point in my life. But it’s 2013, my relationship with my parents is pretty much as it was when I was 18, except now I need to find my own health insurance.

MOM: Do you need a little extra help this month?
ME: Well, if you’re offering.

MOM: Remember to do your taxes.
ME: What could they do if I just skipped then for one little year?

MOM: Family vacation is in August this year.
ME: Let me see if I can get time off from work. Oh, that’s right, I don’t have a job. I’m there. You’re paying for my flight, right?

Don’t let this diminish the responsible adult that I am. I read the newspaper, I’ve gotten into making my bed daily, I do the adult things. It’s just that the relationship between a parent and a child has drastically changed over the years.

So in planning trips home (which, calling it “home” in of itself shows the lack of separation between adolescence and adulthood), if I have a lot of time, which I always do, then I’ll plan a two week trip. It seems like a good idea at the time. I rationalize it as my parents getting the opportunity to spend quality time with me instead of what it really is, mooching off them so that I don’t have to spend money in my normal “adult” life.

First few days are fine. You can find me on the couch, watching cable on-demand, enjoying home-cooked meals and re-connecting with friends who now have spouses and kids (and never once questioning, “Should I be doing this,” because you’re too busy judging them for doing it).

But then a week goes by. You recognize that your mother seems bored with her life as it is. You start contemplating the benefits of her having an affair (but not leaving Dad, just a little tickle tickle on the side). You begin to text everybody you know that isn’t in your hometown. You need a PBR and a dive bar, stat.

By the end of your visit you’ve lost it. Those two weeks at home begin to feel like you’ve been locked in a basement of a building that’s collapsed around you, and the only way out is the return Delta airlines ticket you have (that your parents bought). You completely know why you left the nest and understand the drive to get back to your perpetually broke life in whatever urban mecca you’re calling home at the time.

But then at the airport you look into your mothers teary eyes and realize what a self-centered schmuck you are, not only for having the audacity to compare your privileged existence to that of a woman trapped in the rubble of a collapsed building, but also that you’ve got it pretty great and should be grateful. Also, nobody likes your mustache.

I always wanted to be kidnapped. Not like literally kidnapped, but like, fun kidnapped, you know? Of course as a kid I didn’t understand the severity of a kidnapping (I know now, thank you… sort of). I just saw it as a means of getting my own made-for-TV movie and possibly a book deal.

It would happen at the mall. I’d be at the mall with my mother, in the husky section of Sears (where I spent 13% of my childhood). For a moment I’d slip away to look for a cool pair of Keds when he’d approach me, my future kidnapper. Being the gregarious kid I was, I’d gladly chat it up with him. He could have easily been a scout sent by Steven Spielberg to find the next big kid star, spots me, BOOM, fame. Then, just as he’s got me hooked with “You’re the next Elijah Wood,” he’d pick me up and rush me to his van.

Now, have you spotted how ridiculously impossible this is yet? I mean, come on, I was shopping in the husky section, do you really think he would have been able to pick me up that easily? PLEASE!

We’d get back to his place. Turns out he’s not mean at all. He recognizes I’m more of a reader, so he lets me do that while he writes ransom notes. After a while it becomes clear that I have a way with words and he lets me write my own ransom notes.

Eventually the ransom notes gain popularity because they’re so poetic, generating attention from celebrities. Tom Cruise films a commercial calling for my release, Madonna dedicates an entire album to me.

The pressure is on. So far millions of dollars is committed to information leading to my rescue. I get wind of this because I’ve been following the news closely (how could I not, I’m an international celebrity case now, my face is everywhere). I realize that I could use that money, not some poor schmuck who just happens to notice me one day. So I fool my kidnapper into opening a bank account with me (I can’t do it myself, I’m a kid, remember?). I tell him that we’re going to create a fake identity that will then turn me in. That “person” (us) will get those millions deposited into the joint bank account we’ve set up, I’ll go home to my family, and by the time he’s released from prison I’ll split the money with him.

The thing is, I’d never do that. The moment I turned 18 I’d take the money out and put it in my own account. Once he got out he’d be all like, “Where’s my half?” and I’d just laugh and laugh. Who’s going to believe him, he’s a kidnapper!

Of course my story would get made into an exclusive tell-all book co-written with Kurt Loder, which would lead to a made-for-TV movie starring myself in my debut role, leading to an Emmy win.

I’d then move into the exact same loft Tom Hanks moved into in Big, sleep on a trampoline and eat Pop-Tarts for every meal.

Like I said, I didn’t fully understand the seriousness of a kidnapping. But I fully grasped the fame and wealth it could bring. Especially if it meant I’d never have to shop in the husky section ever again.

H. Alan Scott (@HAlanScott) has cancer and can’t stop thinking about it. It’s like cancer is a house guest that won’t get the hint to leave. Enter Cancer (@wonderfulbryan). “Cancer House Guest” is a short written by and starring H. Alan Scott and Bryan Wilson, directed by Ned Ehrbar (@nedrick). Follow Scott’s #Chemocation on Twitter.

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scott@halanscott.com
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#Chemocation LIVE

Thursday, March 28^th, 2013
NerdMelt Showroom at Meltdown Comics
(7522 Sunset Blvd., LA, CA)

Los Angeles, March 4^th – What do an unexpected houseguest, a singing tumor and an awkward trip to the sperm bank have in common? They are all part of comedian and writer H. Alan Scott’s show #Chemocation LIVE!

It’s a story of his battle with cancer at the age of 30 – a story that, until now, has only been seen on computer screens from Huffington Post to Twitter. Now it’s LIVE people! Don’t worry though. Scott is fine – even a little bit healthy. But now that he’s back from his #Chemocation, he is oh so very REAL and he’s got the singing tumor to prove it. If you’d rather laugh than cry about the BS life throws your way sometimes, you’ll wanna be at this show.

On this one-night-only engagement, H. Alan Scott will be joined by writing partner and one-man cancer support system, Bryan Wilson, as they confront, cajole, combat, cuss out, and learn to live with life being a little more cancery.

Thursday, March 28^th at 7:30PM
NerdMelt Showroom at Meltdown Comics (7522 Sunset Blvd., LA, CA)
Tickets: $8 online/$10 at the door
Tickets Link: http://bit.ly/hascl328
High Res of Photo with Text: http://bit.ly/hascl328wtext
High Res of Photo w/out Text: http://bit.ly/hascl328notext

Suggested Social Media Language
Life gave H. Alan Scott (@HAlanScott) cancer, he made it a #Chemocation. See his story live at Meltdown Comics (@MeltdownComics) on March 28^th. Tix http://bit.ly/hascl328

H. Alan Scott is a writer and comedian based in New York City and Los Angeles. Featured on Huffington Post, xoJane.com, Sirius XM Radio, Earwolf, Splitsider, here! TV, Chicago Tribune, Towleroad, and Time Out New York‘s “Joke of the Week.” He has performed at the Hollywood Improv, the Laugh Factory, Carolines on Broadway, and Chicago’s Lakeshore Theater. He is the co-creator (along with Bryan Wilson) and host of SRSLY LOL, an alternative variety show in New York City and Los Angeles. Oprah said his name.

When people comment on my bald head, assuming that I’ve shaved it, I correct them. As soon as they hear the word “chemo” they have an incredible “deer caught in headlights” moment. It’s a similar look to when a kid is told that instead of a tooth fairy, it’s really just your Dad sneaking into your room in the middle of the night. I, personally, was very glad when I learned that my Dad was actually the tooth fairy. For years I thought the tooth fairy was a middle aged hairy man who wore ill fitting white briefs.

MIND DUMP – December 5th, 2012

- Don’t do meth. Like seriously folks. Or else you’ll end up looking like a Johnny Depp character.

- The last Chinese President’s wife had a guy killed while the new one covered up his son’s death. Prime examples of leaders with strong family family values!

- Reagan and Obama would agree on raising taxes for the richest Americans, this guys shows us how (though he really should change his shirt if anybody is to take him seriously).

- This and this are still making my day (and will continue to do so for many days to come!).

- Brad Pitt on the New York Times, “All the news that’s fit to… fit to…. why am I here?”

- Fox News is scaling back Karl Rove’s air time. I would love to see what he’s stress eating.

- I’ll drink to that. Oh wait, I can’t afford it.

- Senate Democrats love Bob Dole and his pen, while most Republicans think he’s a gimp and was not afraid to say it to his face.

- Netflix is going to stream Disney movies. Finally, I don’t have to feel ashamed of buying the DVD’s in person!

- I’m beginning to like Mitt Romney. I’ll love him if he releases a sex tape titled “Sexy Times at Costco with Ann.”

- Oh, and before you Instagram that sandwich you’re eating, watch this…

I just wanted to reach for the sandwich I got before I boarded my United Airlines flight.  I reached, but the sandwich wouldn’t budge.  I’m keeping a close eye on the coffee sitting on my tray.  It’s in my grip, I pulled harder, knocking the coffee and spilling it on my lap.

Normally this would be an annoying accident.   Right now, in this moment in my life, this “accident” makes me panic, I start to shake, feel embarrassed, a single tear may or may not have surfaced.  Why such a response?  Because ever since finding out the course of chemotherapy that’s required to cure my cancer, everything from a spilled cup of coffee to a lackluster Wi-Fi signal ignites an emotional breakdown.

My course of chemotherapy is called BEP (bleomycin, etopside, platinum).  I will have at least two cycles, with the possibility of more.  Side effects include…

• Hair loss
• Neuropathy (a tingly feeling in my fingers and toes)
• A constant ringing in my ear
• Nausea
• Chronic fatigue
• Pulmonary toxicity
• Loss of white blood cell and their creation, resulting in a suppressed immune system
• Infertility
• Depression/Anxiety
• Weight loss
• Great material for a memoir

****************

Sitting in the Beverly Hills office of my Oncologist, I’m surrounded by middle-aged women with pulled faces and very expensive wigs.  I’m easily 30 years younger then anybody in the room.  On their cell phones, they talk as if they aren’t being pumped full of poison.  Yelling at their husbands, bitching about their ungrateful kid, for a moment I’m convinced I’m sitting in the middle of a “Real Housewives of Chemotherapy” taping.

My doctor tells me the bad news.  Well, he did it when he wasn’t name-dropping celebrities he’s treated and comedians he likes, waiting for my professional opinion of them.  “Richard Pryor?  Carlin?  Adam Carrola?”  I tried to list two iconic Oncologists and a shitty one to match the three comedians he just referenced, but my mind drew a blank.

After getting my prescription for medical marijuana (thank you California), three Filipino nurses entered.  Their statements, for they never gave me a chance to respond and make it a conversation, went like this….

Filipino Nurse 1, “You have such nice veins!  Doesn’t he have nice veins?  You like your veins?”

Filipino Nurse 2, “Very nice veins.  You work out.  You’re strong!”

Filipino Nurse 3, “Very strong.  Beautiful hair.  I wish I had your hair.  So thick!  So much hair!”

Filipino Nurse 2, “Amazing hair.  Amazing veins.  You’re going to be great at this!”

Filipino Nurse 3, “Just great!”

Filipino Nurse 1, “Beautiful veins.”

I didn’t know getting cancer entered me into a competition to be “great” at.

I sat there, half pissed at their praise of hair that I shortly won’t have and half exhausted from being poked for the 100^th time to draw even more blood.

Then it was over.  They all left.  That’s it?  A douche but well regarded Beverly Hills doctor tells you bad news (but of which will potentially save your life), while name dropping and introducing a chorus of Filipino nurses to admire your hair and veins? Is this really how it’s supposed to be?  Just go about my life as if it’s totally normal for the next month until my chemo starts?

It’s not normal.  I don’t feel normal.  I’m scared, but not worried.  I know this is for the best, but I don’t want to do it.  It never will feel normal.  I don’t want it to ever feel normal.  I want it to be over.

So I spilled some coffee.  I wrapped my black jacket around my waist to conceal the stain.  That’s normal!  Or at least that’s the only kind of normal that I can deal with right now.  Eventually I won’t be able to wrap a black jacket around it and move on.  It, what’s about to happen to me, will just be real.

Til then, let’s be clear on one thing, I do have great hair.

“So I knew this kid in high school who got cancer.  He died within the year.  He was so great!”

“My Uncle had prostate cancer.  He died.”

“Did you know that an estimated 360 people will die from testicular cancer in 2012?”

These are all statements I’ve heard from people since I’ve slowly began to return to normal life.  I’ve always found getting the worst possible news from the people that I love most so much more reassuring that affirmations of love and support.

It’s amazing how certain words have totally different meaning now.  Like “Death” of course, but also “Cancer,” “Patient,” “Tumor,” and the phrase “Hang in there!”  I’m a fairly rational and levelheaded guy, but hearing “Hang in there!” ignites a defensive reaction that even I’m surprised by.  It goes something like, “Oh, funny guy making a slight reference to my one testicle! Reeeeaaaaallllll FUNNY!”

Cancer is an uncomfortable topic for anyone, probably more uncomfortable for people that don’t have it.  When you’re diagnosed, you’re thrust into a community you never chose to be apart of, but are nonetheless always going to be apart of.  Reading countless survivor stories is nice, but they do nothing for me!  In fact they just set up expectations that cannot be met.  My cancer is nothing like your cancer, or worse, why am I so upset by my little testicular cancer when you’re dealing with ______(Insert More Serious Cancer Here_______?

My cancer was caught early, but I still need to go through chemotherapy.  Nothing says “sick” like losing all your hair!  I used to see people with no hair on the subway, and I’d feel sorry for them.  Now I know different.  They are people dealing with something they have no control over.  Their bodies, like mine, are trying to kill them, and the only control they have is the decisions they make and their attitudes.  I choose to be smart and happy.

I don’t know how I’m going to handle chemo.  I’m prepared to feel very sick, and to be in a lot of discomfort.  But I’m also prepared to know that I’m doing everything I can to kill this cancer inside me.

And please, avoid using the “D” word or feeling sorry for me.  That being said, if looking at my bald head inspires you to….

• Buy me lunch
• Have sex with me
• Give me rides
• Offer an all expense paid trip to a country of my choosing

…. well, then maybe we can talk about a subtle form of pity.

They play Adele at my urologist.  Every time I’ve been there she’s on.  Clearly the office manager is going through some things.

I don’t think she realizes that Adele at the urologist office is the last thing these men need.  Most of them already feel inadequate, they don’t need Adele yelling about how he did her wrong to make them feel more inadequate.  I’m sure they’re thinking, “Listen, I’m trying, but it’s a medical condition!”

I decided to pull a “Norma Rae” for my brothers and confront one of the nurses.  I waited for the moment when my pants were down, it’s no longer awkward for me, in fact I’m doing all that I can to make it awkward for them.

“My pants are down, I’m vulnerable, and my masculinity is incredible low right now.  So why in the world are you playing Adele?”

She laughed and then proceeded to tell me about a break up one of the nurses went through, very nasty.

“Well, you tell this nurse that I have cancer, and that I may need a procedure that will render it impossible for me to ejaculate.  No orgasm.  No rolling in the deep.   None of the guys here need Adele reminding us how bad it can get.  We know!”

Haven’t heard Adele in days!