Arnold, the Tumor
My name’s Matt Elwell, and I have it on good advice that I’m going to live.
From April 24th to May 24th of 2019, though, I was pretty sure I was going to die of cancer. This was not just imaginary, hypochondriacal cancer, but a very real, hard, and heavy 11 cm diameter tumor that had grown in the center of my chest. I had spent the previous two months disregarding this slowly-developing mass as scar tissue from a previous surgery. I finally showed it to my doctor and it instantly became clear that it was something—the dreaded something—and we needed to find out what right away. Referrals were provided; tests were ordered; and I descended into my own private month of madness.
Like so many of us, I had to keep working. I’m a corporate trainer, but I’m also an independent contractor. My livelihood depends on my clients believing that I’m going to remain available and capable forever. So I didn’t want to tell anyone. I didn’t want to be perceived as high-maintenance or a variable. Moreover, I didn’t want this to be my story.
I told myself, “I could be worrying about nothing. Don’t bury yourself until a doctor says you’re dead.” It’s a great line, but it couldn’t stand up to the constant fear, the flashes of day dreams of lying on my deathbed or of my funeral, or the panic attacks triggered by absolutely anything. Still, I worked. I would pull myself together long enough to sit through a conference call or lead a training. My improvising background came through for me; I acted like I was fine.
On advice of a good friend, I created a character for my tumor. I chose the name Arnold because of Arnold Schwarzenegger’s line from Kindergarten Cop: “Eeet’s nawt a toomuhhh.” It was a little less terrifying to think of my lump as a lovable fish-out-of-water with a thick, Austrian accent. Much like the character, Detective John Kimble, Arnold did, in fact, turn out to be a great teacher.
Waiting Room Bargains
Over the next month, Arnold and I bounced around the better hospitals of Chicago: from ultrasound to CT scan, from GP to Surgeon to Oncologist. Oncologist. The word still gives me chills; they’re nice people, but you never want to meet one.
Sitting in the various waiting rooms, I would negotiate for my continued existence. I don’t know with whom. Maybe I negotiated with God. Maybe with Arnold. Maybe with a younger version of myself who had had much different plans. “If I only have five years left, I’ll at least…” “If I only have two years left, I’ll at least…” Arnold would sit on top of my belly, unmoved by my bargaining. When I worked myself down to “six months” I realized that I really just wanted to leave some written record behind, even if I didn’t know how much time I would have to finish it. That’s when I hit on the idea of a blog.
I realized there was another reason I had kept working. I love what I do. I use improv in corporate training to equip people with interpersonal skills for work and life. I also get to make people laugh. I wanted that to be my story, and I wanted to be the one to write it. I wanted to write about improv, talent development, and what work should be like. I knew it would be niche stuff, but it’s a niche I have loved and been a part of for over 15 years. I also thought I might be able to help others do better work in that niche, and if there’s any legacy I would ever want, it would be that.
“My name was Matt Elwell. I was a part of something good that helped people and brought them joy. I was here.”
Risk It
On May 24th, my doctor called me to tell me that the biopsy revealed no malignancy. The large mass in my chest is called a “desmoid” and—yes—probably related to the previous surgery. Even though it’s not a metastatic cancer, it’s still a source of concern. Desmoids can grow aggressively without warning and do a lot of damage to your insides unless they can be managed by drugs, radiation, or surgery. Arnold and I have many doctor visits ahead of us, but in a way, I’m still grateful for him.
It is haunting to see something in the mirror that “might kill you, but probably won’t,” every time you get out of the shower. It was the 20th century American photographer, Walker Evans, who said, “Stare, pry, listen, eavesdrop. Die knowing something. You are not here long.” None of us are here long enough, but it’s still so easy to put off that one passion project because it’s just easier not to risk it. Thankfully, Arnold is there for me, sitting just below my heart, reminding me to listen to it.
I started developing this website (and writing the first draft of this post) the day after I found out I would be okay. If you’ve already started your passion project, good for you. If not, risk it. Neither of us are “here long.” So let’s begin.