Khevin Barnes

Khevin Barnes is a Male Breast Cancer survivor, magician and speaker. He is currently writing, composing and producing a comedy stage musical about Male Breast Cancer Awareness. He travels wherever he is invited to speak to (and do a little magic for) men and women about breast cancer. www.BreastCancerSpeaker.com www.MaleBreastCancerSurvivor.com

I understand how guy’s with breast cancer can feel overlooked or ignored. After all, I’m one of them.Ours can be a lonely disease. We’ve been making our case publicly for a long time now, and I’m pleased to see the progress that’s been made, but there is a challenging road ahead for those of us with this obscure disorder.

Where men are concerned, it may be easy to get lost in the sea of pink that envelops breast cancer; to feel disregarded and snubbed by the medical community, the pharmaceutical industry and even our friends and family members who see the cancer in male breasts as some sort of aberration of a much too common and pervasive illness.

None of this is our fault of course. Or is it? In sheer numbers and statistics, we are a miniscule part of the cancer club; representing a mere 1% of all breast cancer cases. But when all is said and done, the biggest problem as I see it is not that we’re overlooked or ignored; we are simply undiscovered. At the same time, we are the one’s endowed with the capacity to find that bump in the road, or in this case, the bump in our breast that stops us cold on the highway of life.

Most people don’t connect men with breast cancer. And why would they? Far too few health care professionals suggest that the gentlemen among us probe our chests for anything amiss, and society has created a decidedly feminine connection to human breasts. We can’t change that. But the problem doesn’t lie with women or doctors or even society. The problem is men. The problem is us.

Imagine a man, somewhere on your list of acquaintances, spending the day laying shingles on the construction site; hopping on the Harley and speeding home; blowing through a few beers and stepping into the shower to wash off the dust and grease and — check his pecks. This, by the way, is the very stereotype that prevents early detection and kills men. This is the kind of thinking that takes perfectly healthy men and renders them invisible.

This is the world of the “undiscovered.”

The point is, you are no less masculine because you have breasts and no less susceptible to the ravages of breast cancer than your female friends. Like so many men I know who are advocates for early detection in male breast cancer, I too am determined to bring our group into plain view; to not only make us visible where a breast is concerned but to make us indivisible where our quest is concerned.

Voices bring awareness and that in turn brings us out of the shadows and puts us on the grid. This may take some time, but if you are diagnosed with cancer, time doesn’t seem to take up so much space anymore. The time is now. The minute we are survivors of cancer of any kind and at any stage, we become estranged from what might seem like the regular world. Life is no longer reliable, and our future is no longer secure. Early detection can change that.

Thirty seconds in the shower. That’s the time it takes to put on your shoes or pet your cat. That’s about how long it took to read the last two paragraphs in this story. And that may be all the time you need to save your life.

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The greatest obstacle facing men with breast cancer may be … ourselves.

The Bad Boys of Breast Cancer

I was recently sifting through an old collection of photographs that have survived for 70 years, locked away in a wooden box that had long ago (according to the label pasted on the top) held a child’s blanket, two teddy bears and half a dozen “Hardy Boys” mystery novels.

The handwriting on the box appeared to be my mothers, and the black and white photos were dated 1957. In them I saw a seven-year-old boy sitting at a table with a chocolate birthday cake in front of him. There were seven burning candles waiting to be extinguished through a wish and a breath. The boy had a black patch over one eye, a plastic sword in one hand and a paper pirate’s hat on his head. That boy was me.

My pirate birthday party opened a door of creativity and wonder for me that day, and over the ensuing years while growing up, I learned how imagination is a crucial part of our survival and development as human beings. In my mind I was that pirate, growling and snarling and flexing the muscles of my manly chest as I searched for the treasure that had been hidden by my mother, somewhere in the house.

Little did I know that 57 years after that photograph was taken, half of that manly chest of mine would be removed and I would be diagnosed with a rare form of breast cancer.

That’s when life itself became the treasure for me. Not my former, pre-cancer life, but the life I’m living at this moment; the one that has cancer in it. And I suspect that many of us with a life-threatening disease might see our former selves with some trepidation and perhaps even a bit of sadness.

We can never predict our future of course, but looking back, there will always be snapshots of our former selves. One of the keys for me in accepting my disease as something more than simply an unfair curse was in seeing those snapshots of me before I had cancer as a separate life in a sense. Sure, those memories are of me as a healthy man, totally unconcerned with what my health in the future might look like. But cancer changes everything.

And while it may seem beneficial to attach ourselves to the memories of our pre-cancer existence, it does little to help us focus on the here and now. After my wife died of cancer 25 years ago, I struggled to find some hint of a positive future; a future that didn’t include missing her every day and a future that contained new events and friends and experiences that didn’t include memories of her either. At first this was a painful endeavor but as I came to understand that I was beginning a second life; life No. 2 with a whole new set of circumstances and goals and challenges; that pain began to soften.

That didn’t mean that I was losing the love and joy of my past.

It was important for me to understand that those memories from before; those 22 years of marriage, travel, family and work weren’t going away, but rather they were just making room for my second life to emerge.

It was tough for a while. But surviving as a guy with cancer demanded that I imagine a world where being alive was fun again, where love and laughter existed again and where good health was available once more. But it would be different. Ever so slowly, I began to picture a world where life was just as fulfilling as it had been for all those years, but this time around I was a new man: A guy with cancer in his breast.

I still enjoy those snapshots of my former self, but now they’re housed in their own special library and labeled “Book One”.The sequel is a work in progress.

While it may seem beneficial to attach ourselves to the memories of our pre-cancer existence, it does little to help us focus on the here and now.

Old Photos Give Cancer Survivors Snapshots of Their Former Selves

of music at the age of 8. Like most kids, I listened to songs on the radio and television, but on one very special day in 1957 at Walt Disney Elementary School in Anaheim, California, when my fourth-grade teacher taught us a simple song, I heard something that would change the course of my life. It was called counterpoint, or the art of combining two or more harmonizing melodies in a musical composition. It was like having two songs intertwined, and it was magic to my ears, creating a breadth and expansiveness to music that set my imagination on fire.

When I got home that day, I wrote my first song.

But I didn’t write music with the intention of becoming notable for my creations. Music for me was an intimate form of self-expression. Today, when I listen to any old tune of mine, I remember exactly how I felt the moment the notes and words materialized. Looking back, I see that music and lyrics are the diary of my life, chronicling every aspect of growing up over the past seven decades.

Today, at 70 years of age and as a six-year survivor of breast cancer with 200 original tunes in my songwriting repertoire, my love of music has never played louder. I now use my music to connect with children facing tough medical, physical or emotional challenges.

The opportunity to compose and donate music to these children through the Songs of Love Foundation, a nonprofit organization, gives my musical passion a new purpose.

I learned early on that music could affect our drives, our actions and our emotions. I wrote songs to support Cesar Chavez, an American civil rights activist, in 1966, and a song to protest nuclear power stations in 1970. I wrote songs about things I enjoyed: science, magic and natural history. There was a song for my wedding and a song for my wife’s memorial service when she died of ovarian cancer. Later, there were songs for my new life and my new wife. I composed songs for two Broadway-style musicals, one about male breast cancer. And, of course, there were songs about my own cancer experience.

But mostly, there were songs for children. My long career as an environmental educator and stage magician put me face to face with young people in several thousand elementary school assemblies before I retired from performing a few years back. And every year that I went on tour, I wrote new songs for the shows. It seems that children and cancer have been significant themes in my life.

After I got my diagnosis of breast cancer, and even before the stitches were removed from my mastectomy, the first thing I did was compose a tune. It made me smile and became the lead song in my breast cancer musical. “What Good Is a Breast?” is a lighthearted and mildly acerbic look at the practical, biological need for breasts in men. I’ve found humor to be a great companion in my life with cancer.

One day, a wonderful singer and friend of my wife told me that she composed and donated music for children facing medical, physical or emotional challenges through Songs of Love. I had a feeling that my songwriting ambitions were about to find a new purpose.

Songwriters who contribute to this organization create free, personalized, original songs that are recorded and packaged in a special book and delivered to the child, teen or young adult up to age 21 and their family. There is never a charge, and the child’s identity and condition are kept confidential unless the family chooses to share their story.

I was immediately inspired to write music and lyrics for one child each month. I contacted the company and began the important and crucial process of auditioning — not just my musical work but also my intention, dedication and motivation for working with these often very sick children. Prospective contributors are screened carefully, and rightfully so, to ensure that each child is treated with the utmost respect. Details of their diseases are never mentioned in their songs, so songwriters receive personal information that the child can relate to favorite TV shows, family names, pets, interests, hobbies and preferred musical genres. Then we set to work creating something that fits their age group and individual interests.

I’ve had the pleasure of writing nearly a dozen songs so far, and I keep a photo of each recipient next to my keyboard to remind me of how precious every moment is for them. And for me.

I work specifically with children ages 1 to 12. As a 70-year- old guy with breast cancer, I’m well aware that my life thus far has been a long and fortunate voyage. But as I look at the smiling faces of these kids, some of whom have devastating illnesses, and think up words and music for them, my cancer experience seems very insignificant. So, with this ache in my breast but this song in my heart, I find a key, then a note, then a chord and finally a tune that ultimately gets sent out into a world that seems so unfair at times, right into the open arms of a child in need of healing.

The most challenging part of the work for me involves incorporating the personal information,

which often refers to characters from movies or children’s television shows I’ve never seen and requires me to do some online investigative work. Names of brothers and sisters, friends, pets, favorite foods and family members are often included in the details. There are, of course, references that will make little sense to anyone beyond the child and their immediate family, but that’s what makes the song so special for the child. After all, this is their song.

One of my favorite creations was for a young boy by the name of Amir Marvelous Jackson. I fell in love with his name before I even read his bio, and by the time my song was recorded, this little boy had wrapped himself around my heart and instilled in me a deep appreciation for our human spirit and determination to survive in a world that isn’t always easy. His parents graciously allowed me to tell you about him.

Amir is 3 years old. He was born with spina bifida, a type of defect that occurs when the neural tube fails to develop or close properly. He also had hydrocephalus, a buildup of fluid in the ventricles deep within the brain. Both are very serious medical conditions.

When I wrote his song, he already had a Facebook page of his own with 300 likes and lots of photos and videos. His mother, Veronica, has documented his young life by publicly sharing his story and raising awareness about his disorder. It’s a remarkable and loving tribute to a boy whose smile outshines any human affliction and whose laughter is music to our ears. You can hear my song about Amir 

In writing tunes for Amir and others, I discovered something important about myself and about the cancer experience. The moment we turn our attention away from the distress of our own misfortune, we can find an opportunity to connect with those whose lives inspire hope, expanding beyond the confinement of our disease. Music has a way of tearing down the fence that divides those who are well from those who are infirm.

What touched me so deeply throughout this medical and musical experience was the joy and love his parents feel for having the gift of Amir in their lives, just as he is. He’s a superstar, and the Songs of Love Foundation has confirmed that by giving him a song that is his musical signature alone. Young Amir didn’t disappear from my world after his song was finished. I think of him often, especially when I receive a new assignment for another child in need.

That’s the power of music. Scientists tell us that the sound waves we create eventually dissipate and fade away because they can’t exist in the emptiness of space. But a song of love, like the music in our hearts, plays on forever.

is a stage magician, musician and regular contributor to the Voices section of 

® and curetoday.com. Since 1997, he has operated his own nonprofit company, The Dr. Wilderness Show, which donates magic programs to children with cancer. 

One cancer survivor finds health and healing in the gift of music.
 

Filling Their Hearts With Song

The other day on my morning walk I noticed an unusual uptick in the number of "Home for Sale" signs in my gated community here in Arizona. I was surprised by the sudden rush of melancholy I was experiencing and decided to examine the thoughts and feelings that these signs were provoking.

Long before breast cancer showed up in my life, I had a deep interest in Eastern art and philosophy. I simply found Zen meditation and Eastern culture to be relaxing, illuminating and inspirational.

Coincidentally, it was during my year-long apprenticeship living in Hawaii at the Palolo Zen Center studying meditation that I was diagnosed with male breast cancer.

And it was there that I had the chance to see the impermanence of my life as something more than a just a catchphrase. After all, things come and go, and those thoughts we have about things do the same.

After my mastectomy surgery when my wife and I made the choice to retire in Arizona we were attracted to the idea of living in an active adult community. We are both avid pickleball players (a tennis-like court sport) and enjoy social events such as line dancing and music concerts (before COVID-19). But I had a subtle hesitation about moving into an over-55 community for the simple reason that I expected the death rate to be statistically higher here. I didn't like the idea of losing friends, whether it was to natural causes or diseases like cancer.

As we approach our sixth year here in the neighborhood, we have lost just one close friend to cancer so it would appear that my concerns were unfounded.

But something about those "Home for Sale" signs that pop up fairly regularly still give me pause. These placards of change offer a promise for the future to some and a reminder of our past to others.

Most of the time these are folks moving on to some new adventure; perhaps to be closer to their kids or downsizing to make life a little easier. But since my wife and I are committed to spending the rest of our lives here, I know that someday in the future that sign will stand before our home as a final farewell to the time we've shared on Earth.

Many people may think the impermanence of all things is an unpleasant fact we'd rather turn away from. We see the world around us, and most of it seems solid and fixed. We like to stay in places and in situations that we find comfortable and safe, and we don't want them to change. Intellectually we might understand that things are impermanent, but we don't actually 

The reminders we have of our limited days are sometimes obvious, like the occasional scare that our cancer may have returned; and sometimes subtle as in the "Home for Sale" notices we see on the streets. And with regard to our impermanence here on Earth, these messages are much more than markers of past lives.

As I walk around the senior community that I live in, I notice the stark reminders that life is an impermanent adventure.

Author | Khevin Barnes

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