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#162 - Glenn Rockowitz (SNL writer & cancer survivor)
lovelinefan
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This episode has Glenn Rockowitz, who was a writer on SNL and is a cancer survivor and advocate for young adults with cancer.
He was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer at 28, when his wife was pregnant, and didn't tell her at the time. He had his first chemo treatment on the day his son was born. He finally told his wife about his diagnosis when he was scheduled to do a speech and was traveling with her on a plane.

He talks about being diagnosed with a bunch of other cancers after that one - one in his abdomen, one with multiple tumors in his throat, then an epididymal cancer (all at separate times). He said he was doing ad writing and after his throat tumors were removed, his voice changed a little and T-Mobile wanted him to be the voice actor for their ads, so he started doing that. I wish he'd talked about what it was like to write for SNL in 1994 and work with Farley, Spade, Hartman, Nealon, Norm, Jay Mohr, Sarah Silverman, etc.

It's a really good episode, and there are some good callers in the second half of the show too. I really liked listening to it and his perspective on going through cancer. This is an excerpt from Glenn's book, from the website:

Voices are underwater, faces are Vaseline, smells are electric,
words are paint spills and I can’t feel a goddamn thing.
An hour ago he called me in and he asked me to
wait and he told me to sit and he told me the News.
Now I’m just staring at the wall behind him.
His head is on the table and I can’t bring myself to look at him.
He’s crying.
He shouldn’t be crying but he is and I can’t stop him and
I want to stop him and put my arm around him and let
him know that everything is going to be okay.
But it’s not.
And it’s me, not him, who needs my arms.
There have been no pains no lumps no rashes no bumps
no marks no scratches no sores no fucking anything.
And now I’m staring at the x-rays hanging on a light box behind my
doctor’s head, a glowing abstract black and white light littered with shadows.
Cancer. Everywhere.
“You should be dead. You should be grateful.”
His voice is underwater. I’m twenty-eight years old.
My wife is eight and a half months pregnant with our first child.
And maybemaybemaybe if I’m lucky I’ll see three more months.
My doctor is crying.
I am not dead.
And I am not grateful.
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