The end of 2022 will mark a first in my professional career: I will no longer be a full-time journalist.
That’s not an easy sentence to complete and an even more difficult one to process. Journalism has been the only career I’ve ever envisioned.
When fellow elementary school students dreamed of being astronauts or gymnasts or doctors or presidents, I wanted to be a reporter.
In middle school and high school, as sciences and math were increasingly pushed, I pushed back and focused on writing, journalism and communications courses.
This sounds cliche, but I was first drawn to news for its ability to share important information people needed to know.
Newspapers, at the time, were stuffed full of so much valuable information.
I would lose track of time reading the Sunday edition of the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette — back when it seemed thicker than an encyclopedia. And I always found myself focused on local and regional stories — stories that had an impact or were of interest to areas I lived in or near.
I read the then-Moon Record from front to back — a newspaper that’s related publications would later have a profound impact on my career and life.
I was also drawn to news for its sense of immediacy and that rush of adrenaline when breaking news happens, watching television reporters and anchors bring information to people in real time.
While news stories were of interest to me, so was understanding the art of making news — whether it be for print, television, radio or, later, digital.
To this day, I consume the information while also analyzing the coverage. Ask anybody who has ever watched a newscast with me, and they’ll tell you how enjoyable (my word, not theirs) it is to hear me discuss the coverage.
As a kid, I can remember many times writing “stories” about and anchoring “newscasts” to my stuffed animals. I would even make “incidents” happen in my Micro Machines setups to have newspeople go cover.
Outside of interviewing toys, my first major interview was then-Pittsburgh Steelers kicker Gary Anderson, who I tracked down in an elementary school office following an assembly. I was in third grade.
In high school, my principal threatened to keep me from walking at graduation following the publication of an editorial I wrote that he disagreed with.
As a journalist in college, I helped tackle a groundbreaking legal case of a college nun who sued a Catholic university over sexual discrimination. I helped to uncover sources that were quoted by The New York Times.
My time at the Pittsburgh Tribune-Review allowed me to live out those childhood dreams of sharing stories that mattered to communities and families through the Sewickley Herald and The Signal Item — two newspapers I will forever be grateful to have been part of.
For the last few years with Hearst Television, I have had the responsibility of managing a team tasked with copy editing news and media content across more than two dozen local news digital platforms.
And while it is incredibly difficult to step away from what has long felt like a calling, it was time.
The coronavirus pandemic has allowed me to refocus my life and do something I’ve never done before: Put myself and my life first.
It’s not been easy to say goodbye to working full-time in news. There have been a lot of tears shed.
But I’m reminded of a line in one of my favorite musicals — “Avenue Q” — that is simple and true, and helped me to again understand that nothing is forever: “Everything in life is only for now.”
I’ve spent a large portion of my life volunteering in some capacity for the American Cancer Society.
In that time, I’ve had the opportunity to listen to the stories of so many cancer survivors, their family members, researchers, staff members and fellow volunteers.
What has always resonated with me, and really helped to keep my volunteer spirit alive, is that every dollar raised helps to shape someone’s story.
When I was a reporter, hearing people’s stories was part of the job — whether they were angry about a borough council decision, working to create a better community or sharing with me the grief of losing a child.
Several years back, I shared my American Cancer Society story at a divisional staff conference.
Below is that speech, with some edits sprinkled within. Since I delivered this speech, there have been many other friends who have had their own stories.
The American Cancer Society is built on stories.
For many of you, it was a story that brought you to the American Cancer Society.
Your story might have started as a volunteer.
Your story might have started in another division.
Your story might have started as a caregiver.
Your story might have started as a survivor.
You might be one of those people who say your story started because you saw a group of people at a stadium walking laps … or riding bikes … or wearing pink from head to toe.
Think back to the moment you first walked into an American Cancer Society event either as a volunteer, participant or as staff.
What were you feeling?
Who were you with?
What was the atmosphere like?
Can you picture those purple or pink survivor shirts?
How about the smell of walking tacos or the sounds of a volunteer promoting the American Cancer Society Cancer Action Network?
Most importantly … what was the weather like? We all remember the weather at American Cancer Society events!
My story begins when I was in middle school. Before I knew of purple shirts and the words “caregiver” or “survivor,” I knew what chemotherapy was.
Before I knew what a luminaria ceremony was or what being an event chair meant, I knew what it was like watching someone lose her hair, lose weight and lose her excitement for life.
Before I knew what the American Cancer Society was, I knew I hated cancer.
Five months after turning 13, I watched my grandmother die. She had been diagnosed with bladder cancer.
She never saw me drive a car, graduate or get to read my byline on news story I wrote.
My grandmother and I never again hung ornaments on a Christmas tree.
I never watched her do crafts again.
She never walked a survivor lap.
I’ve never gotten over what cancer did to her, to me and to my family.
But my story doesn’t end with just mourning the loss of someone who — to this day — means so much to me.
Nearly a year after her death, I participated in my first Relay For Life.
It was like the iconic Relay we think of: Football stadium (when schools let you use the field more liberally than many do now), visitor side bleachers shining with “HOPE” in luminaria bags, hundreds of walkers and participants and thousands of dollars raised.
There were raffles, games, baskets, homemade haluski, cookies, hot dogs and many sleeping tents; lumunaria bags seemed to be able to be lined from here to Erie — probably not that far, but when you’re that young, that’s what it seems like.
There were high school students, middle school students, churches, politicians, school district employees, families, banks, corporate teams and neighborhood groups.
We celebrated survivors. We remembered loved ones who died. And we pledged to continue fighting back through more fundraising.
And that was long before we understood the “Celebrate. Remember. Fight Back.” tagline.
There were people.
There was fun.
And there was a lot of money being raised to fund the mission.
I was hooked.
My story started with my maternal grandmother’s diagnosis, but cancer has written many chapters in my American Cancer Society story — from friends and colleagues to former teachers, parents of friends and others I’ve come to know over the years.
There’s a friend, who, in her mid-20s, was diagnosed with cervical cancer. Doctors told her she likely never would have kids.
There’s another friend, who also in her mid-20s, was diagnosed with breast cancer. Her mom served as a caregiver during her journey. A few years later, she became the caregiver for her mom.
There was my mom’s best friend, who was diagnosed with cancer. Her story began with a brain tumor, and the cancer spread.
My mom and her friend had gone to Myrtle Beach about two weeks every summer for more than a decade. Their last trip was not long before her diagnosis.
She died in October 2014 — about a month before her son married his wife.
A month or so before that, cancer tried writing a chapter for me.
Truth be told, all I heard was “sinus cancer.” And all I knew was that either result — the papilloma or cancer — would mean surgery.
That was Monday, Sept. 15 — just five days after I had a CT scan to see what was going on with my nasal passages that had caused many problems including the inability to fully breathe and swallow for at least four years.
It was 10 days after the nation’s largest Stand Up 2 Cancer party I helped plan and host. At that time, the American Cancer Society and Stand Up 2 Cancer partnered for watch parties across the country. We worked so hard to build the largest party.
It also was four days before I’d be in Dallas, Texas, for an American Cancer Society national summit for Relay For Life.
I was the doctor’s last patient that day. He had canceled all but two appointments due to an unscheduled day in the operating room that apparently went longer than anticipated.
My first visit with him in late August was when he requested a CT scan.
“You’re a mess,” were the words he used — in a fun, upbeat way so not to scare me.
So, on Sept. 15, as we looked over the CT scan results, he explained how imperative it was to have surgery to remove the funky objects inside my nasal passages.
“So, this isn’t because of allergies?” I said, hoping he’d say yes.
“It’s much worse than that,” the doctor said.
So, right then and there, I had my first biopsy.
It was painless, really. No needles were involved, just a shot of some spray to numb the inside of my nose. As he clipped away at the growth inside my nose, he made attempts at small talk by asking about a story he read recently that I wrote.
I knew he knew I was scared.
Not usually at a loss for words, I was mumbling words and fumbling for letters to complete those words.
But I was trying to play it cool.
Meanwhile, I didn’t know what the hell was going on.
“We’ll get the results in about two days,” he said.
“What do I tell my mother?” I thought. “‘Hey, Mom, so you know how I went to the doctor? Well, he sniped a piece of the thing in my nose and we’ll find out soon … well, in two days … if that thing is cancer?’ Yeah, that’s not going to work.”
So, I told her nothing.
She likes a good cliffhanger, but only in Salem on “Days of our Lives” — not when it involved the health of any of her family.
As soon as I got in my car to leave the doctor’s office (tissues stuffed up my nose because it was bleeding), I called a friend.
An in-person hug would have done wonders, but I had to settle for a phone call.
And, I went back to work. Doing so calmed me down. Or at least the thought of it calming me down was what I was going with.
My next call?
It was to the American Cancer Society’s National Cancer Information Center. You know, that 1-800-227-2345 number we all say really quickly when we’ve completely forgotten a mission moment, and then we tell others, “That number has a lot of stuff.”
And a lot of stuff it had for me.
The nice man on the other end of the phone (Ryan was his name) was extremely nice and comforting and emailed me a whole bunch of information that I read later that night.
On the second day of that two-day period for biopsy results, I saw the doctor’s office calling my phone. So, I quickly answered.
It was a woman explaining I didn’t need a second CT scan after all.
“But what about the results?” I said, and quickly followed it up with, “I mean the biopsy results. Do you know when they’ll be back?”
She put me on hold.
“So, this is how I’ll hear the results?” I thought. “Sitting in my work conference room on my iPhone?”
You see, as an American Cancer Society volunteer, I had this idealistic view of how someone’s story as a survivor began.
That idyllic thought goes like this: You go for your appointment. You have some tests and such done. Ans when those results come back, you are sitting in your doctor’s office with them behind their desk and you in a fancy wooden chair and the doc says, “Mr. So-And-So, you have cancer.”
Never mind the fact that the story doesn’t make sense because of all of the holes in it. How do you know you need to come back to the doctor? Do you schedule that appointment prior to and just know that’s what happens?
Thankfully, she got back on the phone before my mind raced any more and explained that the results were not yet ready.
Not. Ready. Yet.
Not.
Ready.
Yet.
NotReadyYet.
“Not yet ready?” I panicked in my head. “That’s because it is worse than I thought. Oh god. How do I tell my mother? How do I go back to work? This isn’t how it’s supposed to work! And I know how it’s supposed to work, damn it! I VOLUNTEER FOR THE AMERICAN CANCER SOCIETY! I KNOW HOW THIS WORKS!”
Spoiler alert: I did not know how this works.
So, she tells me that if I don’t hear back from them by the end of the next business day to call Friday morning.
Awesome.
Except.
I was to be in Dallas that Friday morning for the Relay For Life summit.
There was no way I was going to be *ahem* deep in the heart of Texas as I got news on whether this thing in my nose was cancerous.
So, I waited until Sept. 22 — an entire week since he took out the piece to be biopsied — to call.
But before that day arrived, I was in Dallas for an entire weekend of nothing but cancer-themed discussions … all while trying to tell myself I can’t worry about what’s going on in my nose. I did well, for the most part.
That is, until the final portion of the conference when a speaker told a story about going to a doctor and being told a biopsy needed to happen, then trying not to freak out waiting for the biopsy results.
“You could get flattened like a pancake leaving the doctor’s office,” the man said.
And I thought about how a plane could crash into me and a tree could fall and a meteor could land … and then that damn biopsy result wouldn’t matter.
That’s what I told myself.
I don’t think I believed it.
But it helped.
I should probably note that on the flight to and from Dallas, I finally found time to read a book I had been longing to read but couldn’t find time.
The book?
“The Fault in Our Stars.”
I know, right?
I had tried many times over the summer, but couldn’t get far because I cried and then set the book aside.
On a plane, though, I was stuck reading the book or dealing with the strangers next to me.
And, wow, did that book make me cry.
So, Sept. 22 comes.
Mondays — at the job I was doing at the time— were busy days for me at work. So finding time to call was a problem.
But I knew I couldn’t put it off.
I sat back in the work conference room, dialed the number and tapped the many prompts to get to some woman who sounded as if her office was in Bedrock.
To be honest, she wasn’t very friendly.
“Hi, I’m looking for results of a biopsy I had last week?” I said.
After a few more questions and placing me on hold, she said: “Well, the doctor will have to call you back. He’ll call within the hour.”
“Well, this isn’t good,” I thought. “Why couldn’t she just tell me? I know why she couldn’t tell me because the doctor always tells the patient they have cancer.”
I know because I VOLUNTEER FOR THE AMERICAN CANCER SOCIETY. I KNOW HOW THIS WORKS.
Spoiler alert: I still did not know how this works.
So, I sat back down at my desk. My co-worker looked on and I said, “The doctor will call within the hour.”
Within the hour the doctor called.
I don’t know if I’ve ever sprung from my desk that quickly.
I raced to the conference room.
“Bobby,” the doctor started and continued with an apology for not calling back. I didn’t care, man! You’re on the phone now … spill it!
“What’s going on in your nose is this: It’s an inverted papilloma,” he said.
What?
Me: “So … ??????”
Him: “We’ll remove it.”
Me, in my head: “Yes, I know, that’s why I already have surgery scheduled with you!”
Me to the doctor: “So … is it cancer?”
Him: “No.”
Me, in my head: “He said no. I think he said no. Did I ask it right? I asked if it was cancer. He said no. So, it isn’t cancer. The tumor in my nose isn’t cancer.”
He said some other things, I think. I’m wasn’t really sure. I was listening, but not comprehending anything — which is very rare for me because I remember the most insanely minute details.
All I heard was that he said the thing in my nose that’s caused breathing issues and swallowing problems wasn’t cancerous.
I had that surgery … four days before my mom’s best friend died.
But, like many things in life, that “no” from the doctor came with fine print.
I think the doctor removed what amounted to nearly a dozen tumors in my nose and head, and said that, had I waited another month or two, I’d have been in surgery to remove tumors near my brain.
In a checkup appointment a few months after the surgery, he told me the tumors likely will come back at some point.
And when they do return, he thinks there is a chance they could be cancerous. So, I have regular checkups to keep an eye on things.
But I couldn’t think about that. In fact, going into surgery, I wasn’t thinking about that.
I didn’t have time.
Because someone else was adding a chapter to her American Cancer Society story.
Just a few days before the surgery to remove the benign tumors in my head, a dear friend called to tell me the results of her biopsy.
That 800 number we all push? I called it in the days leading up to her surgery. I talked with a guy named Chris.
For the first time in my adult life, I had to use the term “caregiver.”
I can fill the role of volunteer well, but caregiver? I had my doubts.
So, I told Chris I needed help. He told me about resources the American Cancer Society has, offered to email those to me, and told me to call back after I read over them with more questions.
I started this off by talking about the stories that bring people together.
But there’s something else about the American Cancer Society that keeps volunteers like myself coming back year after year.
It’s the team captains we meet at Relay For Life events. The ones who are coerced by co-workers or friends and family to take on the role only to later discover a loved one has been diagnosed.
Or watching a daughter put her arm around her mother at a Making Strides Against Breast Cancer event within days of the mother hearing those three little words that pack such a big punch.
It’s the bicyclists who travel 328 miles between Cleveland and Cincinnati.
It’s the families who depend on Hope Lodge locations to find some comfort in an unfamiliar time.
So, we return to Relay For Life events.
We return to Making Strides events.
We keep pedaling (well, I don’t — others do) at bike events, or buying daffodils or raffle tickets or walking tacos.
Prevention and early detection programs are working.
It’s working every day in our communities from Anderson Township to Perrysburg, Ohio, from Belmont County, to Ashtabula, Ohio, from Erie to Greene County, Pa., and from West Chester to Montrose, Pa, with Relay For Life events; and from Philadelphia to Washington, Pa., and from Jefferson County to Lima, Ohio, with Making Strides Against Breast Cancer walks; and to our bike events and other fundraising events … what … you … are … doing … is … working.
We ARE fighting cancer. And we ARE saving lives.
Every day, the American Cancer Society is saving lives.
Thousands and thousands of calls are made each year to the National Cancer Information Center.
Thousands of nights of free or reduced-rate lodging are provided to cancer patients and their families traveling away from home for treatment.
Thousands of cancer patients who are uninsured or on Medicaid receive assistance.
Those are great stories to tell.
But this next one blows my mind.
There’s about $26 million in nearly 40 research grants in Pennsylvania, as of Aug. 1, 2021.
We are fighting cancer. And we are saving lives.
But we only can do better if we share our stories and work together.
We need to keep building relationships so we have more stories to tell.
While I spent much of the year navigating the pandemic, I still got to experience so many things. Every year is filled with love and loss and great memories. Here’s a slice of what my 2021 looked like.
Kicked off 2021 with … cold brew coffee
This was the first cold brew coffee of 2021. The first of many!
This was my first time walking on Presque Isle Bay from the Presque Isle side! I watched people ice fishing, playing hockey and doing other ice-related activities.
In the 101-year history of Kennywood Park’s Jack Rabbit, it had never operated in December. I got to ride it on Dec. 24! I also ate Potato Patch fries on Christmas Eve. Yinzplosion!
The clock is about to strike midnight on dozens of Disney Store locations.
Keepers of the happiest place on Earth will shut about 40 Disney Store locations on or before March 23. This includes the final Disney Store in Western Pennsylvania — at South Hills Village mall.
The news shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me as retailers continue a mass exodus of brick-and-mortar locations in an effort to stave off losses brought on by online shopping and to appease shareholders.
As a millennial, I’ve mourned the loss of many childhood spots: Children’s Palace, KB Toys, Hills, Kaufmann’s, Sam Goody and, of course, Toys R Us.
But there was something about the Disney Store news that seemed like a tipping point for me.
As a child, shopping wasn’t always a fun experience. I hated what seemed like hours spent in Kaufmann’s fitting rooms trying on clothes. Being dragged to the crowded grocery store on weekend mornings as a kid also wasn’t a magical experience.
Visits to Toys R Us, Hills and the Disney Store always offered a reprieve from the doom and gloom of grown up stores.
The Disney Store always offered that chance to pretend like I was at Disney World — a place I have only visited once as a sophomore in high school on a choir trip. I came close to Disney World again around 2010 but didn’t get a chance to visit.
In true Disney fashion, every inch of the store was steeped in magic — from the decorative columns to the artistic character scenes to the overall theme of the store.
Even as an adult, I regularly stop into the Disney Store and become lost in the magic of childhood stories. (And don’t even ask how many Christmas ornaments I’ve purchased from the Disney Store.)
Browsing the colorful displays as cheerful and very recognizable music pumped through the store added to the magic of Disney. I still got excited seeing stuffed animals, action figures and other collectibles with beloved characters on them.
Slogging through pages and categories and pop up windows and filters on the Disney Store website doesn’t seem to have the same magic as being inside of a brick-and-mortar Disney Store.
On what might have been my final visit to Pittsburgh’s last Disney Store, I purchased what is a very 2021 purchase: Several Disney face masks.
Disney is using lyrics from a version of “The Mickey Mouse Club” theme song to say farewell to fans: “Now it’s time to say goodbye.” Unfortunately, how that song ends (“See you real soon!”) is not how the Disney Store story ends.
I did something this week that was long overdue: I stepped away from all of my volunteer and extracurricular activities.
I stepped back from volunteering* with an organization I’ve been heavily involved with for more than 25 years.
I officially resigned from a nonprofit board position, stepped back from a few other nonprofits where I’ve offered assistance or volunteered and said no to some recent asks for my help in other activities.
Being forced last year to pause so much helped me take a hard look at what I was spending my life doing. Like a lot of you, I said “yes” far too much.
I’ve been going hard at volunteering for nonprofits for way too long. For many years, I tried to keep track of my hours spent volunteering and I easily racked up anywhere from 1,800 to 2,600 hours a year volunteering.
I’ve put so much time in, and I just needed to take a break — something I’ve been trying to do for a few years now. But every time I found myself with extra time, I found some nonprofit group or activity to fill its void. I’ve said “yes” too often just thinking it would be a simple ask, and it usually wasn’t.
The ongoing global pandemic has taught me that I need to slow down and live my life.
The nonprofit groups will continue. The other activities will go on.
When I’m ready, I’ll find my way back into volunteering — either for groups I’ve recently hit pause on or new endeavors.
There’s a song from one of the greatest musicals — “Avenue Q” — that I often am reminded of: “For Now.” The lyrics go: “Nothing lasts. Life goes on, full of surprises. … Except for death and paying taxes, everything in life is only for now.” This pause is only for now.
What led me to this decision that, from the outside, seems drastic? As I said earlier, it’s been a long time coming. When doing any kind of volunteering, I think of another “Avenue Q” song that goes: “When you help others, you’re really helping yourself.” Helping nonprofit groups began to feel like tasks mounting with no end in sight — and I started to feel as though I wasn’t helping myself.
A friend suggested that nonprofit work should still — at the core — be fun and fulfilling.
The other day, I ran across a post on Facebook with the quote posted above. I found Yasmine Cheyenne’s Instagram account to give her proper credit. But that quote (“I don’t have to apologize for letting go or choosing things in the name of my peace and healing”) really resonated with me. It’s OK to let go.
* Besides, did you really think I could completely step away? I’m still going to raise some money for the American Cancer Society because I signed up as a team captain and don’t want to have a zero-dollar team. But I’m going to do it with as little effort this year. And I still plan to help with a journalism group.
Of course, with an ongoing pandemic, there is little to fill this large chunk of time with. And maybe that’s for the best for now.
BobbyCherry.com 