Marshall Ramsey

Hope is word that gets thrown around a bunch these days. But I think we live in a time when really need more of it. H.O.P.E. stands for the four pillars of my life that help me get through my biggest struggles. Each letter stands for something that reduces stress and propels me through life.

H stands for Humor. It shouldn’t shock you that I think that laughing at the things that drives you crazy is good medicine.

Immediately after my melanoma diagnosis, I nearly went crazy. When your own skin tries to kill you, it can and will stress you out. I think my parents realized that (they are both cancer survivors) and that may have had something to do with our family vacation that year. My sisters and their families joined my parents and my family in Destin, Florida. Of course, there is something inherently wrong with taking a skin cancer survivor to the beach, but I digress. While they were out on the beach, I was in watching Dr. Phil. I’m like a fork in microwave — I spark in the sun. So I avoid the direct sun during the middle part of the day.

About six that night, I decided to go for a swim. I took my shirt off and ran toward the surf. When I got there, there was a mom and two little girls swimming in the ocean. The mom noticed my six-inch scar on my back and stared right at it. It was big, red and ugly. Now, I’m not used to women staring at me (it doesn’t happen often) so I felt self-conscious. Actually, I felt annoyed.

I had a choice. I could be ticked off or I could make a joke. I made a joke and have been telling the joke for 14 years.

She noticed that I had noticed and felt embarrassed. I pointed at the scar and said, “Oh, this.” She nodded sheepishly. I then said, “It was a shark attack and it happened right where your girls are playing.”

She scooped up her girls and ran out of the water. My wife was over on the beach shaking her head.

That joke was an epiphany for me. I use the same techniques I use when I draw cartoons and apply them to my life. You will hear me making jokes. Sometimes they are inappropriate. But at the end of the day, they are my survival mechanism. H stand for Humor. Lord knows we could use a lot more of it in this world today.

 O — Opportunity to serve.

I didn’t tell anyone about my melanoma for about a year. In fact, I didn’t even miss a cartoon. I’d work for three hours and sleep for six. I was determined to keep everything inside and push forward like nothing had happened. But as I mentioned in the H part, I was falling apart inside. So one day, I wrote a column about my experience and how to detect a melanoma. Suddenly, my e-mail box filled with responses from people who said they were getting checked because they read my column.

The fourth doctor I went to found my melanoma. I was searching for a purpose for why I lived when so many didn’t.

It was at that moment, I found it. I was going to take the fight to the disease that had tried to kill me.

The Clarion-Ledger community room was full of cancer survivors. I had been named the Honorary Chairman for the American Cancer Society’s Hinds County Relay for life. As I stood there sipping my water, a fellow cancer survivor came up to me and said, “Thank God you just had skin cancer.” It was that moment I realized that most people didn’t realize how deadly melanoma really is. And with melanoma, early detection (and awareness is the key.)

Soon afterwards, my friend and coworker Keith Warren and I started Run from the Sun. It was an afternoon 5K race built around a free skin screening. I got busy getting on the radio and on the speaking circuit talking about sun safety.

I was given a blessing — the gift of life. I was doing everything I could to pay it forward.

Soon my fear began to fade like my scar.

One day I was driving down the interstate and tuned into a local sports radio program. I heard a caller talk about how he had heard my story and went to get checked. The doctor found a melanoma that had started to spread. But he had been treated and was cancer free. He told how he had a chance to see his son grow up because of my story.

I pulled over and cried.

I don’t know why I am here. Too many good people who had the same disease aren’t. But serving others is helping me find the reason. And although it’s not about me, I’m benefiting from it.

O is the opportunity to serve. It’s about paying your gifts forward.

The meaning of H.O.P.E
H — Humor
O — Opportunity to Serve
P — Physical Well-Being
Today:
E- Education

When I was diagnosed with a Melanoma In-Situ, I thought in-situ meant, “Buy coffin.” It’s Latin for “In place.” I had a melanoma that was still in the radial phase (growing outward, not downward) and was 100% curable. But I freaked out anyway because I didn’t know that. Imagine how less stress I would have had if I had known what the terminology meant.

Of course, we have the internet. You can find any kind of knowledge that you want on the internet. Some is helpful, some isn’t. So let me say that you have to educate yourself from reliable sources. I relied on my doctor, melanoma.org and several good books on the topic. I ate the topic up like my life depended on it. Come to think of it, it DID depend on it.

My point is this: You have to be able to carry on a good conversation with your healthcare provider. Doctor’s are not Gods. They are brilliant people with more and more piled on their plate every single day. Same goes for mechanics, accountants, plumbers, etc. Whatever problem you have, you have to take charge. And educating yourself is the first step.

It also reduces your stress.

When I got the call for my malignant melanoma (a much more serious diagnosis than a melanoma in-situ), I was able to ask important questions that allowed me to quickly ascertain my situation. I knew my melanoma had been caught fairly early and my odds for 10-year survival were good. I knew the doctor was following the proper procedure and I understood what I was up against. Sure, I was worried. But not as worried as when I thought I was going to die from something 100% curable.

It’s easy to go through life like a water bug skimming over the surface. But it’s also an expensive and stressful way when things go awry. We have too much information at our fingertips now to remain in the dark. When things get bad, get busy learning. Knowledge is truly power. And acting on that knowledge will, as it did in my case, save your skin.

I don’t write speeches. But I have written what I basically said to Northwest Rankin’s graduating seniors last Thursday night.  It was a huge honor to get to address them and I wish them a blessed future.

Bullet and Banjo. Frenemies.

He was a used dog.  Not a rescue dog, mind you – you lose that title after your second family. No, Banjo was high-mileage used a dog.   He started his life in Nashville but was soon relocated to a family in Atlanta. His first family wasn’t fond of him digging trenches in their wood floors when he was left home alone.  His second family was loving but had another male Border Terrier named Bullet.  I don’t care who you are, things aren’t going to turn out well if you live with someone named Bullet.  So we got the call from the breeder we had gotten our other dog from.

“I have a free dog for you.”

I heard, “I can double your vet bills.”

But we drove to Atlanta anyway. There the little brown dog Banjo walked across room and into our hearts.

(Yes, it is a proved fact that my wife did indeed come through Alabama with a Banjo on her knee.)

When Banjo was 10, our third son was born. Banjo would get up every two hours in the middle of the night with him. We thought, “How sweet, he has empathy.”

No, Banjo had diabetes.

I didn’t want to show my sons that dogs were disposable. And honestly, he was a big part of our family.  So guess who got to give Banjo insulin shots twice a day?

Yup, me. Mr. I hate needles.

When he was 14, my family was out of town on vacation. I was stuck at home with Banjo because I couldn’t’ get off work.  One night, I came home and found him half-dead on the kitchen floor. In tears, I rushed him to the emergency vet.

At 3:30 in the morning, they called me to say, “You might want to come say goodbye to Banjo. He won’t make it until dawn.”

All 6’2” of me lay on the table blubbering next to a silly dog. I raised his little black ear and said, “Buddy, if you beat this, I’ll write the check.”

And before I could get the last word out of my mouth one of his eyes popped open.

Three days later, he walked out that vet clinic. And I wrote the biggest check I’ve ever written.

I tell you this story because Banjo proved something to me: If you have it in here (the heart), you can do anything you want to do.  Banjo’s spirit lives in me to this day.

When I was eight years old, I knew what I wanted to do when I grew up. My family would sit around the dinner table (remember when we did THAT?) and would talk about the day’s events.  I used to love the crazy cartoons on the editorial pages.  Those drawings lit a dream inside of here.  But I had to fail miserably before that dream could come true.

In 1991, I graduated from the University of Tennessee with a wheelbarrow of honors and awards. I knew I was going to move to New York and take on the world. Instead, I moved back home and got a job as a night janitor at Pope High School in Marietta Georgia.  It was my fifth year in high school.

I thought it was the worst moment of my life.

So what did I do? I threw the World’s biggest pity party.  And you know who enjoys a pity party? Only the person who is throwing it. But mine was so epic that I even had snacks.

I was miserable. And sought company. I walked around school with a Xerox of my diploma on my trash barrel and a cloud over my head.

And I did that for six months.

One weekend, I went to church. I highly recommend it (I go at least twice a year whether I need to or not.)  As the priest started his sermon, he started talking about the parable of the talents.  You know that story – a master leaves town and entrusts his talents (currency) to his three servants. One gets 10. One gets 5 and one gets one. The two servants worked hard and multiplied their talents. But the one who received one buried his.  He was afraid he’d lose it.

At that moment, I realized I was the servant who had buried his talent.

I was afraid. I was wasting my talent.

So the next day, I got busy. I drew the teacher’s husband’s caricatures. I did T-shirts for the Cross Country team (I cleaned the coach’s room).  I drew on the walls and cleaned it off (I was a janitor after all.) I had a new attitude. And doors began to open.

One teacher said to me, “You have a great attitude (something I hadn’t heard in a while) – I had a friend who works at the local paper. How would you like an interview?”

“Ha. Of course not. I’d rather clean this textbook out of the toilet.”

Three months later, I was pushing a mouse, not a mop.

Another custodian came up to me one day and asked me a question that would change my life.  Her name was Maggie and I thought the world of her. Her husband was a pilot for Eastern Airlines and had lost his job due to a pilot’s strike. Maggie, who had never had to work, swallowed her pride and worked at the school to keep her family together.  One day she came up to me and asked, “How would you like to go out with my daughter?”

I thought, “Your standards are pretty low for your daughter. It’s not like I’m going to be a doctor.”

Well, I met that daughter and she had the prettiest blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

I tell you this story because if I had not had the worst moment of my life, I wouldn’t have had the four best moments. I got to see those blue eyes walk down the aisle. And I got to see my three boys born with those same beautiful eyes.

The worst moments turn into your best moments.

The worst moments can have silver linings. But you have to look for them. They get you through the toughest of times.  I’ve had other “worst moments.” And when they happen, I know that blessings aren’t far behind.  I’ve been fired and I’ve been made part-time.  Each “terrible” moment did something very important:  It pushed me out of my comfort zone.  There is no more dangerous place than you comfort zone. IT’s that place where you don’t even try. It’s where you bury your talents.

You will stumble. You will trip.  You will faceplant.  But remember, it’s not what happens to you. It’s how you respond to it.  And how you respond to it is determined by what’s in here.

I think about Banjo a lot. He’s not longer with us, but his spirit lives on. I hope you’ve caught a little of it tonight.  You’re about to go out into the world and do amazing things. You will try new things. You will fail. You will succeed. You will chase your dreams.

As I close, just let me say this. I believe in you. And like your parents, I am proud of you.  I dare you to do great things. And I know you will. Have the spirit of Banjo.

Bless you and Godspeed on your amazing journey.