Flashback Friday: 2009 - The Benefit To End All Benefits In Enfield

ENFIELD, CT — Today is March 14, which marks a significant moment in my life. This column will be a bit unusual, as I tell you the story of what makes this such an unforgettable date.

First off, for those of you who don't know me well, I am a cancer survivor. I was diagnosed with cancer on Sept. 12, 2008, and given a 30 percent chance of survival. 16 and a half years later, I am still with you all.

Here's the backstory:

In the summer of 2008, I was on top of the world. I had two wonderful children, was editor-in-chief of my hometown newspaper, was coaching high school ice hockey and had just recorded the third hole-in-one of my life (on three different golf courses, in three different decades).

Suddenly, in September of that year, everything changed. I had been experiencing increasing pain in my left leg throughout the summer, and in typical guy fashion, waited about six weeks before deciding to see a doctor.

While awaiting the test results, I was laid off from my job. A week later came the diagnosis: a rare form of cancer called diffuse large B-cell lymphoma in my left femur. In layman's terms, cancer had eroded away some of my left thighbone.

The first step was surgery to attach 11 inches of stabilizing stainless steel to the bone. I am, to say the least, an extremely difficult patient, and Dr. Kevin Raskin and the staff at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston did a phenomenal job during my eight-day stay there.

A few days after returning home, I began suffering excruciating pain in the leg and called East Windsor Ambulance. Within an hour of arrival at Baystate Medical Center in Springfield, I was in the operating room having a massive blood clot removed. When I awoke, the surgeon, Dr. Julius Brecht, told me, "That could have killed you."

After another six-day stay in the hospital, my 55 staples and I came home for good on Nov. 22, 2008, but I still had the cancer treatment to endure. Before my first chemotherapy session in early January, I had to basically learn to walk again. At just 43 years of age, I had to rely on a walker for a month, then graduated to a cane.

2009 began with three and a half months of chemo, in which I was hooked up to machines for up to nine hours at a time. In the midst of those sessions came one of the most incredible experiences of my life, when my family and the town of Enfield rallied together to hold a benefit dinner to help with my mounting medical and living expenses.

The evening of March 14, 2009 is forever etched in my memory and my heart. Guests ranging from Lt. Gov. Nancy Wyman to old college friends to people I'd never heard of showed up at the Mount Carmel Society hall to help in my fight. I am eternally grateful to the hundreds of people who came to my aid during my struggle.

There are so many things I vividly recall about that event, but I will share just a few here.

I was told in advance about the benefit, because I was in the midst of what became about a 30-year career as a DJ, and the organizers figured if they didn't tell me, I was likely to book a gig somewhere.

In my decades of spinning tunes and entertaining, I had worked these types of events before, but never had I witnessed what was to occur that night.

With a capacity limit of 251 people, Mount Carmel was sold out weeks in advance. I recall the morning of the event: I was flipping around this newfangled fad called Facebook, and people were on there asking if anyone had extra tickets to it. As sick as I was, it almost made me feel like a rock star or something.

My kids, who were 9 and 6 at the time, came with me. We got there a few minutes before the posted starting time, but the place was already filling up. All of a sudden, the floodgates opened, and before anyone knew it, there was barely room to even breathe. As I mentioned, I had performed at similar benefits in the past, but never had I seen people trying to cut a piece of roast beef with their elbows tucked into their chests; there was literally that little room to maneuver.

Being a longtime reporter in town, I naturally know thousands of people, and sometimes knowing the right ones can work to your advantage. Case in point: at one stage, someone came up to me and said, 'Tim, this place is way overcrowded, the fire marshal could shut it down any second.' My immediate response was, 'Yes, you are absolutely correct, except for one thing: the fire marshal and his wife are over there in line for food.' Needless to say, it didn't get shut down.

At the time, I was in my fifth year of working as the public address announcer for the Fermi High School ice hockey team. The Falcons had an outstanding team that year, and on the day of the dinner, they had a state tournament game at Trinity College against a powerful Notre Dame-West Haven team. Obviously, I had to miss the game, which Fermi won 6-4 on its way to the Division I semifinals.

About midway through the evening, I was shocked to see coaches Frank Genovese and Steve Beaudoin walk into Mount Carmel with about 10 players and their parents. Just moments after winning the biggest game of their lives, the kids had enough respect for me that they came out to the benefit. That has stayed with me forever.

Once in a while, I haul out pictures from that night and reflect on all the amazing things that took place. I well up when I see friends who are no longer with us: Paul Carney, Dickie Madsen, Rhonda Little, Jan Wingen, Sheila Ward, Tony DiPace, Rose Hudson, just to name a few. I often wonder why they passed on when it was supposed to be me.

The extraordinary efforts of so many people enabled enough funds to be raised to literally keep me from having to live in my car, which, without exaggeration, was only a few weeks away. I will always be indebted to everyone who attended, organized, set up and basically saved my life. You all are my heroes. Thank you again.