"COACH"

I have known many people that have suffered from cancer and some that have died from it. Many of you following this blog have gone through the same thing with loved ones and close friends.

One of my closest friends, and we go back to our grammar school days, has been fighting cancer for at least a dozen years. He has been put through hell with numerous chemotherapy treatments, radiation and surgeries over those years. I can't tell you how many times I thought I would lose him. I can tell you why I haven't lost him...because he's a fighter, he's the guy who bends over, grabs a root and growls. He's the friend that told me to do just that when I found out I had throat cancer in 2007. He's a growler and I'm a growler and I have to believe that it works because we're both still here. Trust me, if growling can work for us it can work for anyone who will permit themselves to believe that they can overcome. For the most part I have refrained from using people's full names. In this instance I feel I must make an exception because many of you that follow this blog know this person very well, or certainly remember him from your high school days. He needs all our support now!

 "Coach" Bud Reich is still fighting his battle...now against renal cancer. He will have a cancerous kidney removed on May 2nd , and I'm sure that will be followed by more treatments. He needs all our prayers and support for a speedy and successful recovery.

For those of you that don't know Bud Reich, I would like to give you a brief introduction... We graduated from Duarte High School together and Bud went on to captain the Cal Poly at Pomona basketball team. I do believe Bud had the talent to play pro basketball, but chose instead to mentor young men. For many years, Coach Reich was the head basketball coach at Charter Oak High School. Bud has made a positive influence on almost every young man he has ever come in contact with. If there was a way this message could reach all those players he coached over the years, it would be a good thing.

Oh, one last thing, Coach Reich was born in Alabama and his team is the Crimson Tide...make no mistake about it.

Roll Tide....
Roll Reich....


------ End of Forwarded Message

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A MATTER OF "TRUST"

If my past medical experiences have taught me anything, I would be best off to ignore the doctors prognosis. Every time I have gotten a doom and gloom prognosis it has thrown me into a tailspin. It was no different, when several weeks ago a physician told me that I only had a short time to live…my cancer had spread and surgery was no longer an option. I need surgery to survive this disease and for a couple of weeks I fell into depression. I didn't trust my faith and I didn't bend over, grab that root and growl. I failed myself by not trusting my instincts and I should have, because trust has always been a great ally of mine, as you will see…

The "Grandma Mafia" trial was national media news. Television trucks from all the national and local networks were parked in front of the Federal District Courthouse in Los Angeles. I testified for 10 grueling days in that trial and the "Grandma Mafia" case became a featured segment on the television news show 20/20.

Needless say it was that undercover role that launched my government career in a new direction. My work had caught the attention of important people in Washington and undercover program managers from around the various regions of the United States. It wasn't long before I received a request for assignment from Gene, the Southwest Region’s Undercover Program Manager. Imagine that, they had a money launderer in Dallas…I only thought those people existed in Miami and Los Angeles...just kidding, but little did I know that working in Texas would become a life-changing experience, and all for the better.

Gene was the first person I met when I arrived in Dallas and the first thing we did was go to a bar. Going to a bar for a little “truth serum” parlay was his way of finding out if I had "the right stuff" for his Texas style undercover assignments. How do you not have an affinity for a guy that refers to his Italian wife as "The Dego", has a basset hound named Beaux, and places his football bets with a Louisiana bookie, who just happens to be his mother! It’s the truth, I swear!

To get the full picture for what I was in for, you have to understand that Gene worked directly for Glenn. Glenn was the Assistant Regional Commissioner (ARC) for the Southwest Region. Glenn was the number one honcho in the Southwest and his badge, numbered "1", said it all. Hell, my badge number was four digits long. Glenn's closest friends referred to him as "His Arcship". Glenn drove the government "Arcmobile" and talked on his mobile "Arcphone". Glenn's cattle  ranch was in the metropolis of Maypearl, Texas, population closer to zero than a thousand. To me, Glenn was living proof that everything was bigger, grander and more ostentatious in Texas. His swimming pool was designed in the exact shape of our Federal badge. Of course he had the number "1" tiled in the plaster at the shallow end of the pool. Who has a urinal installed in the ranch house powder room…Glenn did.  I felt like pearl handled six-guns were required wear when you walked up to his bar. Glenn was quick to boast that the back bar cabinetry was made from a favorite headboard of one of his beds…if furniture could only talk!

I had Sunday BBQ with Glenn at that fine cattle ranch and were often joined by Gene and "The Dego" and Beaux. It was all great Southern hospitality but it was also their way of getting to know me. If they were going to invest in my so-called undercover talents they also needed to know if they could trust me.

The Southwest was a whole new culture for me. It was a laid-back, line dancing, Texas two-stepping fun time in my life. Gene and Glenn came to trust my judgment, so they always had my back. They reduced my stress level and most of all it made my work fun.

I knew I had their full trust and confidence, when one day Gene said, "Ralphie always puts the bread on the table". I went on to work undercover on a number of cases in Dallas, Houston and San Antonio. Throw in a case in El Paso, Corpus Christie and a couple in New Orleans...Hell, seemed like I spent a career working for those good old boys in the Southwest.

I was very fortunate and made a number of very good friends while working in Texas. But there was no better friend than Tucker. Tuck was also an undercover agent working for Gene. He had his own little ranch in Maypearl where he raised thoroughbred horses. Undercover agents are meant to fool people. They come in all shapes and sizes and Tuck was no exception. He had blacksmith’s hands, with big bones, thick fingers and an iron grip. If you went to his ranch you might see him wearing chaps and shoeing horses…but when Tuck worked undercover, he wore monogrammed everything! His shirts, ties, socks and underwear...I mean everything was monogrammed. Hey what can I say, undercover agents are quirky.

In his day Tuck could drink, gamble and line dance with the best of 'em. That was the undercover Tucker…but that wasn't what Tucker was about. The real Tucker is a gentle soul and a deeply religious Christian.  We met in the middle 80s and  remain very good friends to this day. Tuck has seen me through my battle with throat cancer and this current malady that I face. Tuck and his prayer group pray for me daily and I believe that those prayers and the prayers of many others have gotten me through my illnesses. I trust Tuck when he tells me that I will prevail.

Over the years, many people placed a lot of trust in me. Just like Glenn and Gene, many other government officials risked plenty when they supported me in high-risk undercover operations. Ending up in the funny papers was never an option for government executives.

This past week I had a CT scan. The scan showed that my chemotherapy treatments have moved things in the right direction. There was regression of the cancer in my liver and some positive regression of the tumor in my pancreas. This is a far cry from the news I received a few weeks ago. I have a wonderful pancreatic surgeon at the City of Hope that I have placed my trust and faith in. He went over my scan with me and he has not ruled out the future possibility of doing surgery. My surgeon and I are on this journey together and when he says the time is right, I trust in him that he will give me his best shot.

I am not a hard read. I’m sure by now you know that trust has played a major roll in my life. I have been fortunate throughout my life to trust the right people and circumvent those that were not so trustworthy. It is now my time to trust again. Trust those that pray for me, that their prayers will be answered…but most of all, when the going gets tough, you all can trust that I will bend over, grab a root and growl.

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HEAVEN CAN WAIT

As of March 13th, I started insulin treatment for diabetes. I have been a prediabetic for a number of years but I have never been on any medication. Now along comes chemotherapy with all its wonderful side effects, one of which is very elevated blood sugar. I now "pop pills"and I'm "shooting up"...believe me this was not a part of the narcotics industry I ever wanted to experience...

In the latter part of 1985, I met Geraldo, a trusted member of the Pablo Escobar drug cartel. As it turned out, Geraldo was in the Escobar cartel hierarchy overseeing their money laundering activities here in the US. A confidential informant told us Geraldo was also a major trafficker. Given that I had established a relationship with Geraldo, our agency would spare no expense to bust him and hunt down his amigos.

The mid-1980s was a crazy time in Los Angeles for drug traffickers. It was a "Westward-Ho"movement as all federal agencies were putting a lot of heat on the "narcos" in the south east region of the United States. Smuggling cocaine through Tijuana was on the rise which meant the dopers needed local contacts to help launder their cash.

I've had money couriers drive up and throw a satchel through the open passenger window of my car, containing as much as a quarter of a million dollars in cash. Crazy shit when you think about it, imagine if the courier mixed up my car for that of an innocent bystander!

I've taken in millions of dollars meeting in hotel suites; but for good old Geraldo we used the crème de la crème of our smoke and mirrors props...the "storefront", which was an expensive operation to set up.

The "storefront" was slang Feds used for an undercover business office,  completely wired for sound and video recording.  I leased an office space in Glendale in my undercover name. Chico, my Bolivian informant introduced me to Geraldo at my new office digs.  Little did Geraldo know that this was the grand opening, expressly created for him...and anybody else he chose to bring along.

Over the next few months I converted Geraldo's narco bucks into wire transfers or cashiers checks. Business was a rockin' and a rollin' with Geraldo sending in some of his underlings to boot.

We knew the cash was the proceeds from cocaine sales. But to tell the truth, at this point I had no idea how high up in the food chain of this Colombian organization Geraldo...all 5' 7" of him, stood. As time went on, Geraldo seemed to trust me more and more. Finally one day he told me that he worked directly for Escobar. He asked if I could handle all the organization's money coming into Miami!

"Mi amigo, of course I can! My partner Raoul and I have well established operations in Southern Florida."

I drove to Geraldo's home in Montebello. There were four young men mulling around his front yard. I didn't approach the house, I just leaned against the front fender of my Mercedes. They stared at me and I stared back.  A couple of hours later, Geraldo and I settled back in our first class seats heading for Fort Lauderdale. Geraldo was an affable little guy and fortunately for me he spoke decent English. "Those guys at my house told me not to go with you. They thought you were a cop." I joked around about his comments, even telling him he probably should've stayed home. I inquired about a courier Geraldo had sent to my undercover office that wore crazy bright colored striped pants. For some reason the courier thought he had $385,000, but when we counted, it was only $310,000. He seemed very upset and confused over the short of $75,000. I never saw that courier again and I was curious if he was still working for Geraldo. "No, he was called back to Columbia, he was tortured, and his body was cut up and thrown in the river"Geraldo said in a matter-of-fact manner, as he grabbed a pillow to take a short catnap.

Raoul, my undercover counterpart, who was meeting us in Fort Lauderdale, was a sizable and impressive man. A flashy dresser, he fit that "OK Corral" reputation Miami was known for. He was born in Cuba and at about 6'4" with thick wavy black hair and a full beard... no one would ever guess he was an undercover agent. I had worked with Raoul in the past and I knew he would have both Geraldo and me impressed with the "smoke and mirrors" props he laid out for this operation.

Each of us had a posh suite at a luxury hotel on the marina in Fort Lauderdale. Docked in slip at the marina was a 55 foot Hatteras sports fishing yacht, used only for undercover operations... it was completely wired for sound and video. Raoul had planned a little cruise that evening to impress Geraldo and the boat was stocked with food and booze. Geraldo had his own little surprise, he invited a local Colombian along. As an undercover agent you can never under estimate guys like Geraldo...they will always have someone covering their back. Sometimes you see them and sometimes you don't.

It was a beautiful evening as we slowly motored out of the marina towards the Inland Waterway. As we passed a moored yacht, Geraldo and his newfound pal pointed at the boat's stern, laughing at the name..."Heaven Can Wait". I've never forgotten that night looking at that name and wondering to myself what kind of humor was going through these two Colombians minds. I learned early on, that life was very cheap in Colombia. Perhaps they knew their careers had a limited life span, but for now life was good and heaven can wait. That was my impression.

We spent several nights in Fort Lauderdale discussing our new business venture with Geraldo and a great deal of time entertaining him. You could say it was a lot of "wine, women and song" with the emphasis on procuring women for Geraldo.

Finally Raoul and I got our bonus... Geraldo placed a phone call from my hotel suite to Pablo Escobar, and Raoul negotiated to meet with Escobar and a person called the chemist, in Rio de Janeiro.

I know some may doubt that we really talked to Escobar. But when multiple federal agencies join together in a high-level investigation like this, amazing technology happened even for those days. The phone Geraldo used to make the call from my suite was tapped and the number he called was a known phone number belonging to Pablo Escobar.

I had parked my Mercedes in one of the large garages across from the Delta terminal at LAX. Geraldo and I were joking about something and we casually strolled up to my car. I went to put my key in the drivers side door and was startled that there was no lock. The lock was drilled out without leaving a scratch on the paint. It was the same with the trunk lock and the glove box lock. I quizzically looked over at Geraldo who just shrugged his shoulders and grinned. Since I didn't have a bullet in the back of my head, or something worse, my car obviously passed the white glove test search done by Geraldo's comrades.

You never underestimate guys like Geraldo or ever take them for granted. I now knew that Geraldo would never have stepped foot on our yacht in Fort Lauderdale had my car search turn up anything that  linked me to law enforcement.

I was pissed at the little Colombian shit sitting next to me, but at the same time I was thrilled to be alive. Guess what I was thinking as we drove out of the airport... "heaven CAN wait"!!

I go tomorrow, Wednesday, to start another 10 hour day of chemotherapy. The after effects seem to worsen with each treatment. But what's the hey, I knew what I signed on for and I'm so happy to be close to one of the best cancer centers in the country. When the aftereffects of the chemo and my diabetes hit me, I have no choice but to bend over, reach down, grab a root and growl...and growl again.

I truly can relate to Geraldo and his Floridian buddy, when they laughed at the name of the yacht moored in Fort Lauderdale. As perilous as things may seem, I agree with them and I also truly believe that "Heaven Can Wait".

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"SQUARE ONE"

In the late 1980’s I was the lead undercover agent in an investigation my agency called "Operation Deep Snow". Terry was a person of interest that I had previously met in South Lake Tahoe...he was overly confident, brash, smooth talking, but most of all he was very greedy.

A couple of months later, I was in a hotel room in Dallas, Texas working another undercover money laundering investigation when Terry called me. He reminded me that we had met briefly in Tahoe . Although I didn't know his full name, the very cocky Terry Trupp was quick to blurt it out. Surprisingly he followed up claiming that he was the Mayor of South Lake Tahoe. Trupp sounded elated when he boasted that he was calling me from the city council chambers! I could hear voices in the background. "Is this guy for real!", I asked myself...no one chances talking about this stuff over the telephone???

Indeed, if what he was saying was true I had some mad man by the tail,  who loved living on the edge and got off talking about dirty money in the presence of his colleagues. From our previous meeting in Tahoe, Trupp already knew that my business was laundering drug money, and I now knew he wanted in for his piece of “American Pie”...he also wanted me to get him a 100 kilos of cocaine...a pretty tall order for any would-be trafficker, especially for a Mayor.

I could usually find something that I liked in most of the crooks I befriended. Since this investigation lasted nearly 20 months it would've made it easier for me if I could've found something in Terry that I liked...I just couldn't get there with him. The Mayor was in his mid 40s and his wife, Kim, was about 21 years old, and an absolute knockout. Terry had no problem boasting that Kim was his former stepdaughter and poured out some sordid details about her mid-teenage years when he was married to her mother! Please don't let your mind wander too far this is a family blog PG-13.

I never let my undercover work with the bad guys become personal. It was always strictly business. Social dinners and drinking yes, but the topics always turned to business. Not so with the Mayor and his doper, bodyguard, and alleged hit-man and partner in crime...Tom Tamez. These guys were such sleaze bags that I took a personal interest sticking it to them hard. Hoping... no praying, they would get maximum prison sentences. Tamez was a prime suspect in two unsolved murders, an expert in martial arts who allegedly could put your eye out with the flip of a matchbook cover. One day Tamez said he wanted to have a serious talk with me. He directed me through knee-high snow out into the woods. I could tell by Tamez's demeanor that he was trying his best to instill fear in me and he meant me harm if our conversation did not go well. Trust me, he had my attention. Since I am writing this I guess you can tell how my walk "In the deep snow" turned out. I'm still standing, unscathed... probably because I came across more ruthless then Tamez expected. All Tamez succeeded in doing with this walk in the deep snow was burying himself in additional prison time.  The look of the snow rather reminded me of high quality coca. I hope Tamez enjoyed the sparkly snowflake powder walk... I know I did. It was game on, and my adrenaline was pumping.

In the end about 20 or so people in the South Lake Tahoe area were arrested. Casino employees, doctors and real estate agents were among some of the others prosecuted. The Federal government seized cocaine, cash and a cache of weapons. I genuinely felt sorry for Kim, the Mayors’ young wife...she served Federal prison time. I don't think she ever had a fair shot at life, being married to that petifiler at such a young age. For me it was never personal with her, it was strictly business. Trupp loved showing her off. Kim was always with Trupp,  in the wrong place at the wrong time, but did she really have a choice? It would be a miracle if this blog ever circulated to her, but I would like her to  know my feelings.

Just recently, I have encountered some severe abdominal cramps. They come and they go. Doubts and fears try to creep into my mind. Is this pain, pancreas related or is it a more simple explanation, a non-life-threatening explanation? If I allow fear to take over, I most certainly will be history...and my positive attitude will be set back to "square one". Most of us see fear as a weakness. Tamez certainly would have sensed fear if I showed it during our "walk in the deep snow". Most likely I would've lost in any physical confrontation, since I was unarmed and no match for him.  But now, just like then, I will never let fear take over and push me back to death's door...back to "square one".

In my undercover work with Mayor Terry Trupp, I intentionally put fear into him. I portrayed myself as an unsavory criminal. I needed the control.  So I had to be ruthless...simply because failure was not an option.

Failure is never an option not then, not now.

Currently I must be ruthless with myself. I must channel my fear to make me stronger. I can't physically control the disease that rages within me; but I can control regressing to "square one".  F**k "square one".  F**k cancer!

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DON’T TUG ON SUPERMAN’S CAPE

 I played golf this past week at our little country club. It was my off week from chemotherapy and I do so look forward to playing golf during that week. I can tell the effects that chemo is having on me. Exhaustion, lack of strength and balance are the big things. Our group of Tom's soldiers remains pretty much intact, and we still play together Wednesday and Friday. On those days we combine with a larger group of guys and we all enter into a skins game competition. Nowadays I count on golf for my mental health therapy days. Most of my golfing buds are praying for me and giving encouragement. It's good, it's a privilege to have that kind of support and it is helping to me through this arduous process.

Unfortunately my pace of play has slowed enough to irritate someone. In the future, it may irritate more players... I hope not. However, I must be more cognitive of other people's feelings. After all I'm not the only sick person out there. Most people don’t know that I have very quick and explosive temper. In the past, I have been too quick to strike out and it has cost me. I need my good friends that are so supportive of me.

Most would agree that you don't bring a knife to a gunfight. You don’t tug on Superman’s cape and you don't piss into the wind. Maybe we should quit trying to fill inside straights? Good advice for conservative personalities...well for most people, but me....

During my working days I dealt with a number of gun toters. I once had a guy pull a 22 Magnum and hold it to my head. This happened in Los Angeles and I happened to be armed that day. I was carrying a switchblade. A beautiful knife my father gave me which was taken off a WW II German paratrooper. As calmly as I could, I told Mr. Crook to relax. I had something in my pocket I wanted to show him. Cops don't carry beautiful bone handled switchblades and when he saw it, it got him to back off. Fortunately, my knife and some good old fashion tap-dancing prevailed over his gun. What the bad guy missed was the wire that I was wearing.

In the early 90s, I worked my way into a nationwide African American criminal enterprise. On the surface, they were a coast to coast computer sales company. In reality, they were using the company to smuggle and sell cocaine, specifically crack. I had worked my way in and was close to Eric, an ex-con that had served time for murder. Eric pumped iron at Gold's Gym every day, and at about 6'6" he was built better than Superman. As intimidating as he was, I found things I liked in the guy and we shared a number of cocktails together. I began laundering his organization's LA crack money and he soon introduced me to his contacts in Atlanta and then New York. "Blue" ran the NYC side of the organization and his minions delivered one half million dollars to me in the morning and one half million dollars to me in the afternoon for as many days during the week as I could stay in the Big Apple.

Cases like this require the resources of other federal agencies and local law enforcement to be successful. By no means did I ever do this alone or could I ever do this alone. The FBI did my backup security and a great deal of outside surveillance and manned wiretaps.  The NYPD narcotics squad also had excellent surveillance teams and vans loaded with very high-tech surveillance tracking equipment. Believe it or not the bad guys had even better high-tech counter-surveillance equipment. If I had to guess they may have had more fire power.

"Blue's" minions would meet me in my hotel suite dragging their suitcases full of money. Proceeds of crack sales consisting of 20’s, 10’s, 5’s and even singles, totaling one half million dollars per delivery... it was a lot of bags.  More often than not they came packing heat. One short stocky girl, with long dreadlocks, seemed to enjoy flashing the fully automatic weapon she carried under her overcoat. My adrenaline rushes never stopped. I wasn’t scared, I was hooked and addicted to the rush.

I was in New York City doing my "traveling money-laundering show" the day the World Trade Center bombing took place. Every FBI agent in the city was sent downtown, including my backup team. I made up some flimsy excuse to "Blue’s" thugs as to why I had to leave town immediately. Needless to say my unexpected departure did not set well with "Blue", as he had a lot of money he still needed to unload...I also had to come up with a decent explanation to Superman Eric back in LA!

People that try undercover work either love it or hate it; there's really is no in between. You can never be half good at this type of work. Like in a good game of "Texas hold 'em", you're either all in or you're out.

I spent a great deal of my life going against the grain. Defying the odds if you may. I put on a lot of capes and I've ruined many pants by pissing in the wind.  I'm still a sucker for that inside straight draw...I guess it's the rush I get when I pull it off.

People must believe they can use unconventional actions or mindsets commensurate with knives, capes, wind and straights to get through life's adversities. It has propelled me to fight this current challenge and gave me the strength to bend over, reach down, grab a root and growl. Try it, you have nothing to loose.




------ End of Forwarded Message

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TOUGHEST MAN I EVER MET

If you've read any of this blog you can probably tell that I'm not a deeply religious person. I think my destructive lifestyle was indicative of my religious beliefs. But you will see, I do believe...

One morning during April/May 2011, I arrived at my country club. Tom called me over and said, "I've got stomach cancer. " I remember that, like it was yesterday. "When are you going to have surgery"?..."There is no surgery, it's inoperable. Going to get chemotherapy. Should start soon".

All 5 or 6 of us in our small golf group, must have been in some form of shock. We golfed with Tom that day, but none of us brought up anything or pried further about his condition. We watched Tom take the lead and we sort of numbly followed him around the course. After all, Tom was a former club champion and was able to kick most of our butts whether he was healthy or not.

For about six months, Tom went through a regimented course of chemotherapy. "Big Gun" therapy as I now call it. They blast you full of "high test poison", then give you a week off for a breather and the following week it's back to the big guns again. When Tom was having his off week he would play golf. He didn't play just once, he played four times during most of those weeks. I played in his group on Wednesdays and Fridays. We did this for many months after his diagnosis. At times I felt bad for Tom. I knew he was struggling to maintain his good play and it frustrated him. We all saw his pain and some times we heard him cry out. Tom was tough, and I tried to tell myself...he'll handle it. Onward our group trudged, hitting shot after shot,  hole after hole, week after week... it was Tom's will. This was a personal battle and he was leading us soldiers through his war.  I have never experienced anything like it in my life. Trust me, Tom was kind and compassionate, but he was the toughest man I ever met! 

Tom left us for a much better place about a year ago. As for me, I'm not much of a believer in coincidence. I believe that I was in that golf group for a reason. A far deeper and more spiritual reason than I could have ever imagined.

People are very scared when they get this kind of cancer and they have every right to be. Too many people give up and never have a chance to recover. Many people don't know how to mentally cope with the disease. I believe anyone can develop the mindset needed to bring enough confidence to fight hard. Of course having a playbook detailing what to expect along this hard road is a nice thing to have. Whether it was by pure fate or by Tom's design, I know not, but he left me his playbook. I know what to expect in advance and it gives me comfort and confidence. It has allayed my fears and it has significantly played into my reasons for writing this blog.

During Tom's most difficult hours, I know he looked this "Devil" in the eye and growled. I just know it!

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SMOKE AND MIRRORS

Whew...I've been through a bit of a rough patch from this last chemo treatment. However...

My take on today's medicine is that oncologists must be one of the most dreaded doctors people have to face. That also makes them one of the most under appreciated doctors, in my opinion. These chemical wizards have the thankless job of trying to convince their patients that by putting carefully crafted poisons into their bodies they will be cured or at least have an extended quality-of-life. This is not like the old days. Patients have internet access, they come armed with questions. Many patients want to know the truth, even if they can't handle the truth. It takes a very skilled physician to assuage fears, build confidence and instill that "never give up attitude". I'm sure my oncologist could sell ice to the Eskimos or convince people to take sand to the beach. He instills confidence in me, yet is very honest assessing my situation. I'm not rushed, he spends time with me and Kathryn going over my MRI's in detail. His confidence for my recovery has allowed me to feel that I am an important part of this process, not just another object in a cattle-herd type process.

Whenever I began a new undercover investigation and met the crook for the first time, I always got an adrenaline rush. The best undercover agents I ever met were pure adrenaline junkies and I had the pleasure of knowing and sometimes working with a few great ones over my 13 years of undercover work. My personal idol and all time favorite was Willy, a graduate of Notre Dame and Yale Law. He had a wry Irish smile that could allow him to play Santa Claus 365 days a year and he was absolutely brilliant in his affable approach that appealed to people's desires. He could switch from quoting philosophers to pure debauchery without missing a heartbeat. To be honest, I don't think any crook ever stood a chance with Willy. Would anyone have ever guessed that the devil they were dealing with was the FBI? Plain and simple, it wasn't a fair fight. Willy infiltrated the infamous Japanese Yakuza, a very ruthless crime syndicate. He also successfully infiltrated the New York mob and managed a nightclub for them, for quite sometime. Adrenaline junkies do that sort of thing and thrive on it.

Every good undercover agent has his own shtick, his own bag of tricks, his certain lines, his hooks so to speak to reel in the bad guy.  I would blind a crook with a bit of "bling" and appeal to his greed. I've often thought of it as similar to a magic act...sort of a smoke and mirrors routine. I lived 24 hours a day with another identity completely different from my real life, right down to the USA passport. I morphed into that undercover person, always on alert for that accident waiting to happen, that unexpected run-in with someone that knew me as Richard and not Ralph. There was always that constant adrenaline pump going, tempered by that drink or two or three.

Undercover agents, the adrenaline junkies that we were, all suffer the same fate... withdrawal. Like any junkie, you can't stop cold turkey and not suffer withdrawal or depression as it may be. I know this is true, I saw it in Willy after he retired and I know the effect retirement had on me. That was when I really should have, bent over, reached down, grabbed a root and growled...but I didn't.

Do oncologists have their bag of smoke and mirrors, I think so, and I can appreciate that.  Even if my oncologist is telling me to bring sand to the beach, he has succeeded in his mission, by boosting my confidence that I can and will beat this disease.

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"BAG 'EM DANNO"

My Kathryn  goes with me for my chemotherapy treatments. I can drive, so she doesn't have to be there for the 8 to 10 hour stint.  She goes because this is her journey also. Kathryn  is a veteran, she has been through all the health wars with me. When you're in trouble one needs veterans around. My veteran knows my every move, my every thought, she knows what's going on with me at all times, she is my advocate, my rock and she has saved my life more than once.

A doctor was standing over me with a very large syringe ready to plunge right into my heart when Kathryn jumped up and said, "Stop! Don't do that, he's only got gas!" NOW THAT'S HOW MY ADVOCATE SPEAKS FOR ME. (I needed that to lighten things up) If you follow along you will catch my drift.

Something quite similar to that incident really did happen in 2009. If Kathryn wasn't my advocate at the hospital that morning, demanding that the ER doctors to do a CT scan of my chest, I may have died from an undiagnosed pulmonary embolism. I subsequently spent 10 days in that hospital dissolving the blood clot.

Everyone facing a desperate life threatening situation needs humor to get them through. It lifts the spirits and allows for gaining strength and most of all confidence. Tears and crying are not bad things, they help to release all the pent up emotion and shock. Those feelings are as important as anything, but then we have to work on...moving on, there' life to live! Permanently remaining in a depressed state of mind is torture for you, as well as family members and is the perfect recipe for doom. No matter how bad it is, exercise daily, even if it's nothing more than just a short walk. Don't lay around watching TV and vegetate!

When you get far along in your personal journey, your mind may be your only weapon. Drugs and all medical science may have run their best course. You must will your body's natural defenses to work for you and that can only be done by your positive thinking and your innate belief that you will survive. You have to bend over, reach down, grab a root and growl and most of all you must believe...you must be tough.

When you crash and burn so to speak, or just do something plain stupid, try to stand back, take a deep breath and you will find some way to laugh at it. Even while doing it through those frustrated tears.

Your mind is your greatest weapon and may be your only weapon. Trust me I know. It has given me the confidence to fight great adversities in my life. Doctors wrote me off on numerous occasions. One even called me a salvage operation.

This is what I thought about that opinion: "Book 'em Danno", which was a statement made famous on TV's Hawaii Five-0 and also happened often for me during my law enforcement career. I put bad guys in the federal penitentiary and one bad guy I know is doing a life term.

Now the phrase, "Bag 'em Danno" doesn't belong here. Why, because I don't believe it applies just yet. I know that something will break loose for me again. Perhaps something  unusual, unheard of or even confounding to my doctors, will occur. If you believe as I do, it can happen for you...no one has anything to lose. When you get up each day, think to yourself how much better you will feel in a year, two years. Refuse the temptation to let your mind slip to the dark side of the force.

Many of my loved ones, friends and colleagues over the years have told me that I am like a cat with nine lives. It's another viewpoint but I'll take it and run with it. Right now I need another cat and I'm damn sure I haven't used them all up!

And by the way I did undercover meetings using the Oahu Ilikai hotel suite that featured Jack Lord in the opening scene of the original Hawaii Five-0 TV series. There were a lot of book 'em and bag "em Danno scenes in that show, and a few in my case.

I completed my second chemotherapy treatment yesterday, spending 10 hours at the City of Hope. Now I am home, hooked up to my last chemo bag and a small pump for the next 48 hours. The next few days are my worst and really it's not all that bad. I'll be back in two weeks with a smiley face, to do it all over again.

In the meantime, I will return to the golf links next week with the mindset that I will score my age...some year in the distant future.  <;-)

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ROCK TOWN

 
My folks moved us to the City of Duarte in 1954. At that time, the big deal in Duarte was a national medical hospital called the City of Hope.

The City of Duarte was also known for a few square blocks of terrain known to locals as "Rock Town".
 
Rock Town was poor, literally dirt poor.  As a kid, I heard rumors that many Rock Town families lived with dirt floors. It was common community knowledge, that if you didn't live in Rock Town you didn't want to be there after the sun went down. The area was tough, the kids were tough, the dogs were tough, hell even the chickens were tough. The whole area was filled with tough growlers young and old, and baby, I got some serious life lessons. They made me grow up and they made me tough.

The only thing that Rock Town and the City of Hope had in common was that they were in very close proximity to each other.

Naturally, I went to Duarte High School. I was a proud falcon. I was in the first graduating class of 1961 and some of my friends that I played high school sports with, and still see today, lived in Rock Town. 

                                                                                                                  
Yeah that's me in the picture, Number 22, my senior year playing football. I was a running back for the "mighty" Falcon's of DHS. I WAS IMMORTAL! I threw passes to the kids from Rock Town, I pitched baseballs to kids from Rock Town. I tackled them and they tackled me. Funny thing about sports, it's a great equalizer. There were more things that were different about us than were the same. But we could care less...we were friends; we would die on the gridiron for one another. That being said...I was still out of Rock Town when the sun went down!

The kids I knew worked like hell to get out of Rock Town. Some went to jail trying, some died trying, but some of my good friends worked their way out and became successes in their own right.

It's ironic, perhaps even destiny, that I now make the greatest stand of my life, my toughest fight...on a patch of City of Hope turf that's very near to old Rock Town. It's been 53 years since that picture and as I sit in the City, infusing my bags of chemotherapy, I reminisce about my old friends, the old neighborhood and the immortal days of my youth. Now I sit so close to it I can reach out and touch it, yet it's so far away.

When I bend over, reach down and grab a root, I do what I learned from my pals so many years ago...growl and growl loud.

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WITH THE SPEED OF LIGHT

Pancreatic cancer is a very fast-moving and a very difficult cancer to treat. In my mind I know that my cancer is growing and spreading at astonishing speed. I would wager everything that I own that anyone else that has been told they have this dreaded disease feels the same way.

To have any reference of what I am talking about, you might want to follow along my short timeline. I would say my starting timeline for the beginning of this cancer was December 17, 2012. I had a routine MRI of my midsection at the City of Hope just to check out my adrenal glands. I went to see the doctor on January 4, 2013 to get the results of my MRI, only to learn that there was a lesion at the head of my pancreas and possibly one on my liver. The lesion in my pancreas measured approximately 3 cm and considering the entire pancreas is approximately 15 cm (6inches) that seemed watermelon size to me. The fact that an MRI taken six months ago showed no evidence of any lesions, meant that this all happened fast..."at the speed of light"..so to speak.

Now things for me picked up speed. I met with City of Hope's top pancreatic surgeon on January 7th. On the 18th I had an endoscopy with ultrasound which included biopsies on the lesions in my pancreas and liver. On January 21st I was back with my eminent surgeon who delivered the bad news. Adneocarcinoma of the pancreas and liver and to be quite honest it could have spread to other organs by now!! I felt like I had been slam-dunked by Kobe Bryant.

A meeting with the oncologist (my personal chemist) on January 28th was to set up my chemo treatment schedule. I chatted extensively with the chemist over the list of questions I brought with me. He was a very nice man, honest and he instilled enough confidence that I believe he knows his mixology. He scheduled me for a CT scan on Friday, February 1. I'm sure the chemist needs reference points for the beginning chemo. I am thinking that the CT will show the progress the cancer has made since the MRI taken on December 17th. Unfortunately, I don't get the results of the CT until I meet with the chemist on February 20th. But I'm jumping a bit ahead...

On February 4th, I underwent outpatient surgery to install a power port in my chest. It's a tidy little device which will be used for my chemotherapy infusions.  An upside, if there is one, the port can be used to draw blood...so no more needles in the veins.

February 6th...my first day of chemotherapy! It took from December 17 to get to this point, which may seem a long time to some. But to me it came at the "speed of light".

When I take my wonderful long-haired Doxie out for a walk tonight, I'll reach down, grab a root and we'll growl together.

I refuse to let this beat me...ever!

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WOMEN, CAN'T LIVE WITH THEM AND CAN'T LIVE WITHOUT THEM

My all female team of surgeons. In reality, I might not be alive today...so I can't live without them.

In one giant step back, I equate my career working as an undercover agent to something like being the headliner in a large theatrical production. With any good production, theater or undercover work, a joint effort from many supporters is required to successfully navigate the operation. I got the kudos and the glory when everything went right and my bosses didn't end up in the funny papers, but I didn't necessarily get all the jeers and blame when things went south. 

The women I am about to tell you about, are ones that I couldn't l live without, but spent enough time with, that I felt like I lived with them.

I learned the ins 'n outs of the money-laundering trade, when a couple of women from Miami came to Los Angeles in the early 80s, and began operating a major drug and money-laundering operation. What I learned from these women, while I laundered $24 million in cash from their drug cartel contacts, was a free education in drug trafficking and money-laundering. A kind of a "How-to for Dummy's" book...bet that book would still work today.

Wildly popular with the media, they dubbed these women the "Grandma Mafia" when the case went to trial. When the "Grandma Mafia" cased ended there were bodies strewn everywhere. I couldn't tell the good guys from the bad guys. A federal agent, turned rogue, met a terribly painful death; federal agents that went to the dark side for money were prosecuted; a prominent Los Angeles attorney was prosecuted and went to jail; crooked cops and agents in Miami and Los Angeles popped up; and eventually a couple of ex-Federal agents committed suicide. ON PAPER THESE WERE THE GOOD GUYS!!

For the most part and physically unscathed, the bad guys and girls went to jail.

So who cares? I'm sure the families of all those people cared. Those naive family members that said, "you want me to put up how much for bail?".

I know my doctors care because, they're asking for answers as to why I transformed myself into the Marlboro man with a gallon sized appetite for Red Label scotch.

It's Valentines Day and I'm now a week past my first chemotherapy treatment. I don't want to scare my Valentine, so I'll probably go over to a corner, reach down, grab a root and growl...softly. I live with her and most of all, I can't live without her!

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OH MAN, I DIDN'T SEE THIS ONE COMING

Life's not fair, you sometimes say...that's nothing but a crock. I fight for my life just like I fight for the things I believe in. I believe in my heart that I will be here much longer than these doctors expect I will. When you get this kind of crap news, doctors begin to talk to you in terms of months "to go", not years.

I flat did not expect this...I thought wait a minute! That's  not the plan! My doctors always referred to years remaining, not months! As limited as those years were, they created a comfort zone between me and my galloping soul, which seems far too anxious to find greener pastures.

In 1964 they gave me five years with a diagnosis of a terminal lung condition "histiocytosis X". In 1998 after two heart attacks in Mexico, the cardiologist gave me five years if I did not receive a heart transplant. Too much heart muscle damage. Since then, bouts of congestive heart failure have left me hospitalized for brief periods in such glorious places as Mazatlan, Mexico and Petra, Jordan. Too much salt in those foreign diets I suspect.

Then came 2007... Squamous  Cell cancer in my neck lymph nodes. Operations followed, lots of them, as the cancer roared back after each surgery. Doctors advised and then pleaded with me to get radiation and chemotherapy treatment on my head and neck. I knew that the treatment had terrible side affects, so I opted for a quality of life future instead. True growlers are allowed to do that....opt out that is, and do their own thing.

And oh baby, did all that growling pay off. In June 2010 my wonderful team of doctors at the City of Hope found the tumor causing all these cancerous lymph nodes. The primary tumor surfaced at the base of my tongue in a very difficult spot to reach. My surgeons offered to do the operation using the Da Vinci robot...a first time adventure for them in this type of throat cancer surgery.

I could fill volumes talking about my "all star" female team of surgeons. Extremely talented, gifted, skilled, innovative, dedicated, young and beautiful... just doesn't quite get it done. But I know they're all growlers...I'm sure of it...they are my idea of Seal Team 6.

Since the operation I have tested clear of throat cancer. It's been six years since I was first diagnosed! Yes, I like years!

Like with the flip of a light switch, I am now thrown into the months category or perhaps extending my months by doing chemotherapy treatments. My latest doctors/surgeons/oncologist are great. They are formidable experts at what we are dealing with, but they don't know with whom they're dealing with.  I'm going to let them do their job and I'm going to do mine.

As you might guess, I'm just going to reach down, grab another root and growl! Months will grow into years.

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REACH DOWN, GRAB A ROOT AND GROWL

On January 21, 2013, I  was officially diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer, invading from my pancreas into my liver. I have been going to the City of Hope since 2007 fighting throat cancer with great success...I might add. But even their great surgical staff had to grimace when they gave me this news. Shit house odds beating this one was written in their eyes...but If you do stick with this journey you will find that I have been told that story more than once in my life. In fact I've been told that several times, and that's where the mental toughness "reach down grab a root and growl" helps me to over come adversities.

This is Not a pity party so please don't do that. If you choose to follow along, and even respond, understand that this is therapy for me. However, I can only hope that in some small measure I can make a positive difference for someone out there that may be suffering and feeling hopelessness.

 My lifestyle, my environment were some reasons doctors gave for why people get pancreatic cancer. Can't say I would disagree with their analysis, since I worked in a high stress environment as a federal undercover agent for 13 straight years. I laundered millions and millions of dollars for the old infamous Pablo Escobar drug cartel. My experiences all began in the days of the Cocaine Cowboys, originating out of Miami in the early 80s and continued through my retirement in 1994. I loved my daily bottle of scotch and my three packs of smokes; and the stress that I had learned to cope with, kept my weight down. I was happy living that rich life style of a dirty money-laundering banker with fast cars, fist class air and five star hotel suites, and I wouldn't have traded those experiences for anything. When you get too close to drugs and money at the same time it tends to intensify situations at hand. Guns, booze and partying don't mix very well...

Did this environment and lifestyle contribute to my disease? It's Possible! I suppose...

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