Mr Be Strong: The Tourist of Life: A True Story

By Panagiotis Michael

“One of my dreams was to write a book about my life. Most people stop dreaming when they become adults. We become stern, busy, cynical and we forget to dream. Without my dreams, I wouldn't have made it through life. This book was written as a reminder of the importance of dreams. It is the realization of my own dream, perhaps my biggest one so far. I wrote this book in hopes that someone would gain strength through my story. If my ordeal empowers even just a single reader, then it will have been worthwhile. Had I given up on my dreams, life might have given up on me.”

Panagiotis Michael, a professional gymnast, delivers an “aerobics” lesson on finding our inner strength and getting through hard times. After a health ordeal which left him paralyzed as an adolescent and battling cancer as an adult, he shares his experience with us through his empirical writing. He gives us an important lesson on empowering our body through exercise, feeding our soul with laughter, drawing strength from our dreams and never letting go of our hope. Because when you stop dreaming, you stop living!

70% of the sales' net income will be donated to BE STRONG Charitable Organization which supports people with cancer from Greece, in order to create the 1st Cancer Survivors Wellness Centre in Greece.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AKAKIA Publications
• Release date: Jan 28, 2013
• ISBN: 9781909550414

Book preview

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PREFACE

One of my dreams was to write a book about my life. It was neither to satisfy my ego, nor to make money (after all, I’m not a writer by profession). It was the simple belief that even if what I’ve been through was read by just one person, and that one person drew strength from it, then it would be worth putting on paper.

Writing the book about my life would be worthwhile, for just that single person.

The idea stuck around in my head, but I didn’t know how to go about it. Until one morning, while reading my Sunday paper, I noticed a writing competition by a publishing house and one of the many categories advertised was biography.

The winners of each category would get to see their books in bookstore windows…for sale.

That was it: Time to make my dream come true, I said to myself and that same afternoon, I planted myself in front of my computer and started typing these first few lines. I didn’t give it much thought, all I knew was I wanted to write the story of my life. I wanted to set down in black and white each experience, each feeling it sparked in me and how I felt about it now, right at this moment, while putting it into words.

Suddenly, the first tentative words already painted on my screen, I realized I’m not a writer… How am I going to write this, how will I compose it? I wonder, the first signs of hesitation coming over me. I felt a wave of panic. That’s when I decided that I would simply narrate all my feelings and experiences as if I were sitting with my mates, casually sipping on a cup of coffee. At the end of the day, even if my story never gets turned into a book, I will have written it; because what’s left of our lives in the end, but the things we’ve done and the things we’ve written?

Delving deep into my memories trying to figure out where to begin, I’m flustered. I think my grandfather will help me out once more, with his wise words: In this life we are tourists…don’t ever forget it!.

I couldn’t if I wanted to; life itself had a way of reminding me. Two dates left a mark on me, they completely changed my life and I will remember them to the day I leave this world:

April of 1984: I was 17 years old when suddenly, without conceivable reason, I found myself paralyzed.

July of 1997: I was 30 years old when I was diagnosed with testicular cancer.

Oh, I forgot to mention that I’ve booked myself in for an appointment tomorrow morning, to enroll in a nicotine addiction treatment program. Indeed, despite my health issues, I am a smoker, but I have decided to quit after 15 years. I’m taking it as a sign that the appointment coincides with the beginning of this book, as I will feel your presence beside me for the duration of my ‘treatment’. You’re my mates, after all, aren’t you?

PART ONE

MY CHILDHOOD

In a foreign land

Hamburg, Germany, 1971, a glum winter’s day in a dark blue Opel Kadett. The driver, cheerful but pensive, a cigarette in hand and the window open to spare his passengers the inconvenience of second-hand smoke.

It’s my father, Andreas. A Cypriot immigrant, who moved away from home at 18, seeking a better life. He worked as a weldor in German shipyards, a tough job considering he had to endure temperatures as low as -18c to provide for his family.

Let’s take a look at his passengers: In the back seat my mother, Sophia, cradling a tiny baby in her arms. She had also left her homeland, Topoliana, a beautiful village on the outskirts of Karpenisi, as a young girl, for a better future. She’s a worker at the Nivea factory. Later, she will double as a seamstress to help her growing family make ends meet, since on this day, we are bringing home its new addition: My newly-born sister, Stella.

How strange life is! Two people from a far away land found each other and fell in love in 1966 Germany. The fruit of this union arrived shortly after. On the 27th of July, 1967, I was brought into this world, though I had no say in the matter. I was their first born, and they named me Panagiotis.

Contrary to what most people might think, I was far from pampered. My father was a strict man who came from a conservative, underprivileged family. In later years, I would come to realize he wasn’t as rigid as he had seemed through my childhood eyes.

I’m sitting in the back seat by my mother, my wide hazel eyes set on the little creature covered in a blanket. I feel a little uneasy about having to share my parents’ attention.

Mom, where did we get this little baby from? I asked.

From the supermarket, my mother answered.

Can’t we return it? I don’t like it.

You see, I felt threatened- even though I was only 4, I knew I was losing my exclusivity. That’s for those of you who think kids don’t understand.

What we call the ‘stone years’ were particularly tough in Germany. Not that I had any comprehension of this fact at the age of 4, but as I grew older my father's vivid accounts painted the situation for me. In order to marry my mother, he had to sell his only professional tool, his welder.

Present at the ceremony were just a couple of acquaintances and the best man. Ostensibly a modest ceremony, it was lavish in feelings of love, companionship and devotion. So, they managed to provide for all our needs while we were growing up and remain deeply in love to this day. To me, they are the epitome of a successful marriage.

Inevitably, the mind drifts to today’s youth, who think that they need to have all sorts of earthly possessions before taking the plunge…the point, my friend, is to really want it. If you don’t, forget about it. How come the older generations always found a way to overcome whatever hardship was thrown their way, while we constantly make excuses, even though we have everything?

I started speaking German before I even uttered my first word in Greek, so when I hear it today, it sounds especially familiar. I don’t speak German any longer. When I came to Greece I was too shy to do so and my parents decided I should study English instead.

I never understood why.

My memories are filled with images of Germany. On Sundays, his days off, my father used to take me to these huge fun fairs- he remembers me as an enthusiastic, demanding, whiny child. Why? As he explained when I was older, I was passionate, impatient and wanted to do everything at once. I just had a very loud way of expressing my demands.

Three character traits that have stayed with me are enthusiasm, impatience and assertiveness; I can achieve anything if I set my mind to it! And to think we shake our heads in doubt when experts claim an adult’s character is fully formed by the age of 5.

Apart from the vast fun fairs, I remember zoos, playgrounds, parks with jungle gyms and greenery. Of course, I could never forget the state-of-the-art department stores. I always tagged along when my parents went shopping. That’s why, to this day, I love hanging around malls. I got a kick out of it, especially around the massive, well-stocked toy stores. I wanted my father to buy me everything. I remember dragging him by the hand to the latest toy that caught my fancy. Sometimes he’d get it for me, but more often than not, he’d refuse. It was understandable, since the family could hardly make ends meet.

Surely I couldn’t leave out the darkness and gloom that mingles with each happy memory. And I mean that literally; the days in Germany were usually cloudy and dull. To catch a ray of sunlight, you’d have to be watching a travel documentary about Greece. After all, ‘sun’ is just a synonym for ‘Greece’!

Talking about playgrounds has brought to mind an old home movie I once watched. It had been filmed by my father on one of those hand-held cameras that were popular at the time and the reel was mounted on a similarly hoary projector. It was the DVD of the era, you see.

In this film, I saw myself in a playground in Germany. My father liked to capture our moments, either as stills or motion pictures. I’d be running around and dad would chase after me with his camera. I took a leading role at everything I did. I’d find ropes to hang from with urgency and eagerness to be first. I’d spot the highest point in the playground and climb up so everyone could see. On the merry-go-round it had to be me setting the pace, I wouldn’t let anyone else turn it.

If there was a climbing frame, I’d surely be hanging off it like a monkey…which makes me wonder…could it be that the profession we eventually choose is also defined during our childhood? Just saying, since I chose to be a professional gymnast.

In search of childhood memories, I opened up the old chest where I kept a photo album from the years I spent in Germany. Looking through those pictures, it's crystal clear that the tiny baby I had once wanted desperately to get rid of, had turned into my favorite little sister. In so many pictures I'm holding her in my arms, the expression on my face clearly stating: Hurt my little sister and you're dead meat.

I loved her deeply, and I still adore her. My parents confirm this undeniable fact. They tell me I had taken her under my wing and was prepared to literally crack the skull of anyone who mistreated her.

Speaking of cracked skulls, I still remember an incident between myself and a little Turkish boy that left a mark in my memory and also, on the top of my head.

Right across the street from where we lived, there was a park. My dad frequently took me there to play with the neighborhood kids.

Conveniently, the park was visible from our home so our parents could keep a watchful eye on us from the comfort of their living room. That day, after my father had dropped me off, I noticed a little boy I hadn't seen before. I went over to speak to him and asked him where he was from, because his name sounded unusual. When he said he was from Turkey, I got an odd feeling. I knew I was from Cyprus and I knew my country had trouble with Turkey. Turkish people were the bad guys.

Not that anyone in my family had ever expressed such a view directly to me, but keep in mind that children are like sponges: they absorb every morsel of information, store it in their brain and, eventually, they bring it up. There are good and bad people everywhere, it has nothing to do with nationality.

That day, however, I wanted to hurt that little boy. I wanted to pin him down on the grass and claim victory over him. I put my arm around him, and under the pretense of friendship I asked him to take a walk with me around the park. As we walked, I cunningly slipped my foot between his legs and tripped him. Clearly, he hadn't expected it and looked stunned. I wanted him to eat dirt, but he managed to get it together and nothing but his knee touched the ground. Next thing I knew, we were rolling on the grass, struggling, fighting each other.

In the heat of the battle, as I'm on top of him, he turns around and flips me over. As he straddled me, I felt a bolting pain in the back of my head and he ran away. I thought I had won, since he was the one that fled the scene, but when I brought my hand to where I had felt the pain, I saw that I was bleeding. What had happened? When he turned me over, my head landed square on a brick that was lying there. I was taken to the emergency room and had to get 5 stitches in the back of my head. I carry the mark to this day as a reminder that wishing harm on others will always come back to bite you in the ass.

Those pictures brought back so many memories: My favorite toys, my teddy bear, my rocking horse. There's a picture of me on that wooden rocking horse: I'm standing on it, an imperious look on my face, my arm outstretched and pointing forward. I look like some kind of leader, guiding his people towards a more prosperous land. Perhaps I was gazing into my own future. Who knows what was going through my boyish mind at the time.

I also saw my childhood bathtub, which was a plastic basin in front of the wood stove. I'm sitting in it, naked, while my mother is trying to get me to be still so she can wash my hair.

One thing all the pictures have in common is that I'm always posing for the camera. Making goofy faces, looking serious, smiling or mimicking the mannerisms and movements of a professional model.

The ones that touched my heart the most, are the ones in which I'm in my father's arms. The way he holds me is so affectionate, so tender and protective it makes me want to be a baby again, just so that I can feel his touch. Unfortunately, I wasn't aware of it at the time, and my most prominent memories are those of his stern and strict manner. I don't want to have those memories any more, I'm tired of them. I have no reason to keep them alive. I'd like to have amnesia! But there's no way to delete what your hard disc stores when you're a baby.

To be honest, I wasn't the most well behaved child. I was mischievous and naughty. When out with my father, my hands would be darting in all directions, feeling and touching everything that came my way. And if something didn't come my way, I would surely go after it. As any child, I wanted to discover the world, I couldn't help it, could I? Hence, the insurance policy my father had taken out for any damage I might inflict on the stores we visited.

I remember the huge malls we used to go to with my parents. I guess it explains my love for window shopping. My mother tells me of how the sales clerks would fuss over me in all the shops. She says I was a beautiful baby, with large lively eyes and long eyelashes. I was frequently mistaken for a girl, which really isn't the best compliment one could hope for. But what did you expect my mother to say? Even a baby crow is beautiful in its mother's eyes.

Looking at myself today I can tell you that I was a cute baby, sure, but nothing to write home about, really.

The 50 or so pictures from Germany in my collection might not be a whole lot, but they are enough to bring back scenes, events, celebrations, faces and landmarks of my childhood.

One of those landmarks was my christening, as I actually remembered being christened by two people. They were brothers from Crete, friends of my father. That must seem like a really good thing to you, a child having two godparents. I mean, who wouldn't be excited about their child having two spiritual fathers, right?

Well, not really. Sorry to disappoint, but as it turns out, it wasn't exciting for me. Remember how I said I remembered being christened by two people? That obviously means I had forgotten about it.

The reason is simple enough: I never saw them again after the christening ceremony. No Easter chocolate baskets, no Christmas presents, not even a postcard. It was frustrating and always a sore point for me.

That's why I've been trying to be a godfather to a child for quite some time. I would honestly like to be someone's spiritual parent so that I could give them what my two godparents never gave me. You'd think my chances would have been better with two, rather than the typical one, wouldn't you?

To be fair, I did see one of them again, at my wedding. Although I was quite hurt by their lack of interest, it gave me great joy that one of them was present on my big day.

What's really funny about the whole godfather situation is that they had insisted to choose my name. And that name was...Sofronis! An extremely dated and awkward sounding name.

Thankfully, my father put his foot down and I was named after my maternal grandfather: Panagiotis.

I mentioned that I'm actively trying to become godfather to a child. That is because the people I have asked so far, have refused me. Don't think I go around asking just anyone, I'm talking about people I think of as friends, people who are dear to me. All of them have given me a plausible excuse, that they've already promised someone else. I can understand making a promise, but a child can have more than one godparent if the couple so chooses.

Anyway, let’s not dwell on it. Perhaps the reason I'm being rejected is that I'm not ready to be a godparent. I think these things have taken the form of agreements more than anything else. Even when friendship is involved, all too frequently godparents fail to meet their responsibilities. We tend to forget our sacred duty to stand by our godchild, at least until he or she comes of age.

Here's a little kid now, just three years old, alone at home, hiding under the covers, feeling scared. He's waiting to hear the familiar voice of one of his parents so he can shed the fear and be normal again. Who is that little boy? Why, it's me of course.

A memory so clear, like a picture etched on glass.

This is how he feels: Under those blankets his mind is constantly replaying the last thing his parents said to him before they left: We're going to work now, so we can put food on the table. Don't open the door, no matter who knocks.

They'd give me a kiss and then they'd go away, leaving me alone in the deafening silence of our empty home.

I felt so afraid that I'd stay covered with my blanket until my parents returned. Even the slightest sound would give me such a fright that I'd bury my head underneath the covers.

Our financial situation was so tight that in order to get by, they both had to work. There was no-one to stay home and take care of me. They had to take their chances and leave a three-year-old at home, all alone.

Another thing I remember is how strict my father was. I can still hear him saying don't do that, no, don't. He expected me to conduct myself like a grownup, forgetting that I was just a child who needed to do childish things.

And I knew that if I didn't comply, a good spanking followed by a punishment was in store for me. 

If I dared to ask why, the answer was always because I said so, an answer I still find frustrating.

My parents never fussed over me. They would never force me to eat, or offer to make me something different when I didn't like what was for dinner. The child will eat when the child is hungry, they'd say and I appreciated that, because I never liked to feel pressured.

I don't mean to make it sound like I don't have any pleasant memories of my father, because I do.

Actually, I'm holding a picture that brought back one of those happy memories. In it, I'm sitting underneath the Christmas tree trying to play the accordion. It was that year's gift from Santa Claus.

According to our customs, gifts were exchanged on New Year's Eve.

At  the stroke of midnight, the lights would go off at our place, and when they came back on, Santa would be there holding his big bag full of toys for me. I was sorely disappointed when I found out that Santa was none other than my father. Every year he would don his red suit to deliver my presents. It was one of the best days of the year, and I always looked forward to seeing that fat old bearded man in the red suit that brought me presents.

How I wish Santa Claus was still around! Perhaps the world would be a better place. I think for most of us, the end of our childhood marks the end of our dreams and hopes. We become serious and we forget to dream. I'm glad that I remain a child at heart. I say that, because no matter what, I still dream on.

My dreams give me courage, energy, purpose. Dreams are the essence of my being. Without them I probably wouldn't have made it, and you probably wouldn't be reading my story. Simply put, had I given up on my dreams, life might have given up on me.

Flying solo

What on earth is a child of only 5 doing on board an aircraft bound to Athens, accompanied by just a flight attendant?

That child is me. It was the day I said goodbye to my parents and headed into unknown territory.

My parents were sending me to Athens, where I would attend a Greek school and live with my maternal grandmother, Vasiliki. She lived with my mother's brother, Niko, and his wife, Maria.

The going was tough and my parents did what they thought was best for me at the time. Whether they made the right decision or not is open to discussion and I still don't have all the answers.

Imagine how I must have felt, leaving my parents and sister behind, not having the slightest idea of what was ahead of me.

I can't even begin to imagine how my parents must have felt that day at Hamburg airport. Especially when they turned me over to the flight attendant.

She came over and put my Unaccompanied Minor card around my neck. The truth is that when I saw her, I was star struck. I think it was her uniform and the colors she was wearing that impressed me more than anything.

She wore a blue skirt and a yellow and blue shirt. Resting atop her head was a little hat that looked like a beret. She wore a metal brooch pinned to her shirt. It was the logo of the airline I would be traveling with, Lufthansa. It was my first and only time as a passenger with that airline, yet they continued to send me a little souvenir each year until I was 10. That's what I call good marketing strategy.

I was hurt to be leaving my parents, but eager to board the big airplane. My parents had spoken to me about it, preparing me so I wouldn't be scared. At the same time, they had sparked my imagination and my curiosity. It would be my very first flight. After saying my goodbyes, I turned to the attendant. She smiled and held out her hand for me.

I remember loving the experience. Not only was I not afraid, I was thoroughly enjoying it!

The flight attendants kept asking me if I wanted anything. Being the youngest passenger, I was that flight's mascot.

They even took me to the cockpit. I was introduced to the pilot and stayed for quite a while, my jaw hanging in awe as I stared at all the buttons and lights and switches. Some of them made a noise, some just lit up.

After I'd worn out the pilot with all my questions, they took me back to my seat. This experience made me want to become a pilot. To this day, I love flying. Whenever I get a chance, I pack a bag and go.

As soon as the plane landed, I was brought back to reality. I was in Greece and my parents weren't with me. It was a pivotal moment in my life, one which led me to separate my childhood in two parts: C.W.P and C.W/O.P (Childhood With Parents and Childhood Without Parents).

The circumstances of my new life were completely different to what I was used to. My uncle's family was poor and worked all day to make ends meet.

My memories of Athens and the time I lived with grandma aren't the best. No more fun fairs, no more playgrounds, no more Sunday outings.

In the beginning I was looking forward to Sundays, but that anticipation gradually diminished as my uncle spent the day at a football match, or listening to the game on his little portable radio while I played in the empty lot across the street.

As a little side-note, let me add that my uncle is still obsessed with football, and still hopes to become a millionaire every Sunday.

He has invested a vast amount of money on football pools and other types of football-based lotteries. By the way, I don't like football at all. I guess it is inextricably linked to missing my Sunday outings. Who says I have to like it, anyway, because I'm a guy?

I remember my grandmother, with her gray hair and plump cheeks chasing me around with a spoon in her hand, trying to get me to eat. She felt responsible, you see, and didn't want my parents to think she wasn't taking good care of me. Her generation considered plump, rosy cheeks a sign of good health.

I felt such pressure that I frequently ran to my hiding places. But in the end, she always found me and force-fed me. I missed my parents who gave me the freedom to eat what I wanted, when I wanted.

Before we go any further, I would like to mention that my grandmother is a heroine in my eyes. She is 85 years old today, and completely self-sufficient. She's had her share of rainy days, but she's a hardy woman.

She was widowed at 28. My grandfather, whose name and facial features I apparently carry, died of pneumonia when he was just 30 years old.

She was left to fend for herself and her two children in a remote village in the mountains of Karpenisi.

After that, she took in her grandchild. It's no surprise that I am her favourite out of 5 grandchildren. She adores me and, in her own words, everything she did was for my own good. I love you too, grandma!

In the end, it wasn't too difficult to make new friends. As a child, I adjusted to my new reality. I was restless. I couldn't sit still, I always wanted to be outside, on the streets, something my grandmother didn't like. I wanted to meet people and make new friends. I always did strange things to attract attention.

The truth is, grandma had to discipline me many times, since I frequently gave her a hard time.

A specific incident pops into my mind: I didn't return home until 9pm, though my school day had ended at 2pm.

Without informing my grandmother, I went to my friend Yanni's place to play.

My grandmother was in a cold sweat, fearing something had happened to me. She started going around the neighborhood searching for me.

The only home she didn't go to, was the one I was at, since Yannis was a new friend and she didn't know about him. When I got back, she greeted me, slipper in hand. On seeing the slipper, I fled to my shelter, underneath my bed.

As always, grandma came in, pulled the bed from above me and gave me a spanking.

I remember missing my parents a whole lot, I wrote them letters and waited impatiently for the mailman to bring me their response. You see, it was the umbilical cord between me, my past and my parents. At school, I choked up whenever I heard the words mother or father. When my classmates' parents would show up, I always thought: Why can't I have my mom and dad here in Greece?.

To be completely honest, my parents didn't neglect me. Every summer I'd be on a flight to Germany, or they would drive down to Greece because of the price of air travel.

The joy I felt each time I spotted the blue Opel Kadett in the driveway is indescribable, my cries of they're here, they're here, my mommy and daddy are here, still ring in my ears.

I ran outside like a lunatic and the whole neighborhood knew my parents had arrived.

As soon as they were out of the car, I ran like a sprinter into their arms. The whole world was mine, in that moment.

I'm the King of the world, I thought. I am a Leo, so I guess that justifies my train of thought.

The return of my parents

As the years went by, my weight increased (grandma's feedings kicked in).

Unfortunately, it wasn't my scales that brought this to my attention, but my classmates who started picking on me with nicknames other than the usual shorty, stumpy and shrimp which never bothered me. These new ones were porky, fatty, pork-chop, tubby...I didn't like them at all and was quite hurt when I heard them!

Looking at pictures, I can now see what they were talking about; I was indeed a little tubby. I couldn't see it at the time, though. The only way I was going to lose weight was if my parents came back from Germany.

It's that I'm being forced to eat, I think and put the photos down because I don't like the way I looked with the extra weight, at all.

Perhaps that is the reason I chose a profession that deals with helping people lose weight and gain a sculpted body.

My parents eventually relocated to Greece, permanently, not so that I could lose weight, but