by Mick Rhodes | editor@claremont-courier.com

Readers will remember Cash Whiteley as the subject of several of my Courier stories and columns, beginning August 12, 2022 with “Cash Whiteley is a man.”

Cash was a shocking sight when I first met him at the Coffee Bean in early August 2022. A mystery medical condition was attacking the left side of his face, and it appeared he was losing the battle. But I came to learn Cash, now 62, was made of tough stuff. He had been through all manner of suffering over his previous two-plus decades of homelessness. But this latest setback —  with half his face a large open sore — had nearly defeated him. He was, as one would expect, feeling pretty low.

Cash had friends all over town, and many of them had been trying to help him for years. After my initial column was published, the network of people interested in his well-being broadened. Doctors, church leaders, homeless advocates, and a bunch of regular folks were on board, and the momentum built to find treatment for our neighbor. Then, thanks to a few tireless advocates in late September 2022 Cash was finally diagnosed with squamous cell carcinoma at City of Hope West Covina. Several rounds of immunotherapy followed. His wound began healing almost immediately, and within a few months the open sore was all but gone. Meanwhile, friends pooled their resources and purchased a car for him, which allowed him to start working as a Door Dash delivery driver. After CBS reporter David Begnaud got wind of the my stories and columns, he featured Cash on CBS Mornings. He was on TV! Finally, things were looking up.

With help from a caring group of friends and advocates, Cash pulled himself up and out of what had been a low point. Who knew what might come next? Everyone, me included, hoped it would be a roof over his head.

But that hasn’t happened. Cash is still sleeping in his car. And while I get the temptation to declare this a failure on his part or ours, it’s not. It’s just “an is” as my friend Wyman says.

On Tuesday, Cash and I caught up at Coffee Bean. He was happier than I’d ever seen him, laughing, joking, and telling stories. The cancer left his mouth and ear partially misshapen, but his face has healed. He looks great, all things considered.

He’s got his routine, he told me, helping out at St. Ambrose Church where he avails himself to its community showers every Tuesday and Friday, and frequenting his regular haunts where he’s greeted as a friend. He’s still a fixture around Claremont, a distinctive figure with his rail thin frame, long white hair, and ever present brown leather jacket. His physical and mental health are greatly improved, though his insurance through Medicare has unfortunately lapsed, and for now he’s unable to see his oncologist at City of Hope. I’m hoping he can get that straightened out soon.

Now that Cash’s health is stabilized and he’s not in constant pain, we talk less about trauma and more about everyday stuff. We’re the same age, and share many 1970s and ‘80s pop culture references. We had a good time kvetching, reminiscing, and pontificating.

Two cups of coffee and about an hour later, it was time for me to get to work. As we were saying goodbye it occurred to me once again that my version of contentment, safety, and happiness does not apply to anyone else. When we first met, I was on a crusade to get Cash healthy and housed. He had other ideas. I didn’t understand it then, but I do now. My version of his happiness was an invention of my own making. Who was I to try to convince him I was right?

It’s true I was reporting on what I thought to be an emergency in 2022, and it turned out it was; had folks not come forward to help Cash get treated at City of Hope, he would surely be dead today. I’m supremely grateful for all the people — you know who you are — who made that happen. I had imagined the miraculous results of Cash’s immunotherapy treatment would be the first step back toward my idea of a normal, safe existence. I’ve since learned my “normal” is far from universal, and I should just butt out when it comes to everyone else. It’s been a valuable lesson for someone who, to be kind to myself, leans toward controlling.

When I was a very young man, just a few weeks out of Glendora High School, I was leading my first punk rock band. I wrote, played, and sang the songs, booked the shows, made the flyers, and promoted the group in my manic, untrained way. It was my first true non-romantic obsession, and I was in full tyrant mode. I forced the guys in the band to rehearse past midnight every night we weren’t playing a show, and some were still in high school. I thought I was being a dedicated leader. Looking back, I realize I was just being an egocentric jerk. I had (and have) a tendency to obsess and lose sight of how my mania might be affecting those around me. The thing with Cash showed me that tiresome flaw still exists, more than 40 years later. Sitting with him this week was a good reminder that people really want less problem solving and more listening; they want to feel heard, not advised from on high.

When Cash and I got together this week it was just two caffeine jittery friends shooting the shit. I’m not on any kind of crusade, and Cash isn’t wounded, needing help. He’s tough as nails, that guy. He’s taught me a lot about perseverance and true independence, and I’m grateful for the lesson.