Bad luck comes in threes.
I just lost my camper van in the same week as where I dropped my phone in the river and my shoulder inexplicably became totally useless and pain-ridden. Bad luck comes in threes, but you decide what comes out of it.
I am reminded of my podcasts on the Burgundians and the Habsburgs. Both of these families suffered a threefold defeat at their beginnings. One family perished and is almost unknown to most, the other went on to conquer the world. What makes the difference? What you learn and how you respond to your environment.
I personally don’t believe in bad luck, really, I don’t. To me it seems that life keeps doling out messages and lessons. We either pay attention and learn and evolve or we lose the game of life.
Let’s go back to the summer of 2019, the 9th of July, my birthday.
My ex, of whom I generally have little good to say after our six years together, had organised a surprise birthday party at the squat. Seeing as she generally did not like birthday parties and did not very often do nice things for me, it really did come as a surprise, or rather, shock. The squat we lived in was called Epanage. It used to be a towing service, which in French and Flemish is called a depanage. The D had long ago fallen off the building. It had a huge garden in which we had many vans and caravans set up. We had built a beautiful stage from scrap wood collected from all over, building sites where the left-over wood had no purpose. A lot of friends came by, more than I would have thought, including even my by now wife and her then boyfriend.
We had concerts and DJs. I even played a very memorable Kobi One electric live set, even though that name had yet to be born. The afternoon bled into the night and before I knew it, had turned into morning. I was well on my way to lovely pastures of my dreamscape but Clara wouldn’t let me sleep. She couldn’t sleep so why should I? She tried to keep me awake by poking and prodding in a supposed cheerful manner at my half sleeping body. Eventually she resigned to pinch me with all of her might, right in the balls. That kept me awake alright.
As I screamed out in pain she said I shouldn’t be such a pussy but now that we were up we could go walking the dogs, so off I stumbled. During the walk she started dredging up this thing that happened during the early hours where she started making out with one of the girls that lives with us and literally pulled me into it. I think to myself, this has drama written all over it, but it is my birthday after all, so I cave and I join in. The party is interrupted by one of the sleeping drunks not being very sleepy anymore upon discovering what is happening next to him. He tries to join in and gone is the moment.
By now, hours later, I am being assaulted over this very situation. I try to explain that being jealous is a bit strange, seeing as she initiated the whole thing. Her response: ‘Yeah, but only because I knew you would want it. And see, you joined in, didn’t you? I knew you thought she’s hot, I just knew it.’ There is no reasoning with madness, but it took me years to figure that out.
The next day my testicle had swollen to a good three or four times its regular size. I presumed, very wrongly apparently, this was a direct result of the pinch given by Clara. I continue life and wait for my ball to heal. It doesn’t.
A week or more later, I am talking about it to my parents, too ashamed to admit it was Clara who did it, I spin a story of sitting on it on the bicycle. They say, go to the doctor so, off I stumble. The doctor seems worried. He sees no signs of direct physical trauma and refers me to the hospital. Turns out I’ve got cancer. I can’t believe it at first. The ball was normal until she pinched it. Within one night it grew four times in size, bigger than a goose egg, and it’s cancer?
I go back to the squat and I want to tell people but they seem too busy. I take the dogs to the park and I cry, for about five minutes. Then I tell myself, you survived so much already, you got this. I took off my shoes and vowed to discharge electrically, literally ground myself with my bare feet in the dirt, more often again from now on. I got this.
The trip itself, losing my first testicle, then the chemotherapy, the most hardcore chemo doctors are allowed to give, the cancer was in my lymphomas, all of that will get its own episode but one thing I will say. I never gave up. I am too impatient. Sick? Forget it. No hair, pale as a ghost, Nosferatu looked like Adonis in comparison, I kept hosting jams in the squat, I kept rehearsing with my band, named Kobi One & the Full Sacks in honour of my fallen testi, I would not be defined or restrained by my body. I dictate the terms around here. People that got to know me then, thought that was just how I looked. When they eventually found out I was going through chemotherapy, they couldn’t believe it.
I have today a friend, one of our very best friends, and she is going through something similar as we speak. She too, is impatient. I couldn’t be more proud. She is stuck at home and she can’t wait to get better. Literally. She can’t. She just went to a concert, in a wheelchair, with my wife and son just yesterday. At home she is making music, reading or writing. She feels sick, she is in constant pain and she doubts herself and if she is anything like me she wants to curse this body of hers. But instead, she stays busy with what she loves and passion and love will eventually prevail. She will heal because she turns bad luck into positive change.
I had cancer three times. In two testicles. What are the chances? First time, we remove the testicle, we put agent orange on my garden to destroy the naughty weeds and everything else alongside it. I don’t know if I will ever be able to have children after so, I save some seed first. I get better, I change my life and find my wife. She gets pregnant, naturally, with us hardly even trying. Hooray, I am still fertile!
While my wife is still pregnant, the doctor does a routine check, explaining to me that he is considering never doing it again because his entire career, he has never seen someone have the second testi hit by cancer as well.
He finds cancer that same day. We save the ball by cutting the cancer away and I walk around with pain between my legs for months.
And then, we find cancer again.
I lose my last testicle.
I am now forever sterile and dependent on testosterone from a lab. I fought my entire life for independence and have dependency thrust upon me in this manner and what say I?
Bring it on baby. I have things to learn still and I am greatly impatient, just like Philip the Bold from my last Strange Origins. Moult me tarde.
Three battles, three times cancer, and it has left its marks. These marks have become the roadmap to my soul and as I walk the lines, my soul and I inch closer to one another.
Whatever has happened to you, and whatever will happen still, does not define you. You define you. All the shit the world keeps throwing at you will only break you if you try to carry it around like luggage. Learn what you need and do what you love as much as you can. Or do something else all together, you choose.
You got this.
