up from the depths

Note: This article can be found in Wizard #112

Fathom artist Michael Turner had it all: youth, health, money, a great job. Then cancer struck. And Turner struck back.

For the rest of his days, Michael Turner will have trouble spelling certain words. "Camphogen" is one. "Candelabrum" is another.

A Webster's Unabridged Dictionary rests on a shelf in Turner's new Los Angeles condo, strategically located just three blocks from Top Cow Productions and three blocks from the UCLA Medical center. But the book's incomplete; a page is missing. Turner ripped it out himself. It's the page that contains candelabrum and camphogen - tough words for anyone. But another word on the same page is toughest for Turner. It's a word he knows up close and personal, because he's battling it. That word is "cancer".

"I don't' say it, can't write it, don't spell it," Turner says "And I don't live with it any more. I will live with the after-effects of it for the rest of my life."

There's an eerie parallel between Turner and the dictionary. Something has been ripped out of them both. In Turner's case, it's one entire hip, 40% of his pelvis and three pounds of bone. And that's no all: 17 muscles that were anchored to his pelvis are now attached to his abdominal wall. The top of his thigh bone is anchored to ... nothing. There's nothing there to attach it to.

But don't even think about pitying Michael Turner. He's happy. He's beaten the disease down. For the first time in months, he can actually sit in a chair. He looks weary because radiation treatments take their toll, but he's smiling. the 29 year old star writer and artist of the creator-owned Fathom knows he's on the way back. "It changes your life," Turner observes. "But you go on living."

The Diagnosis

Turner's condition began manifesting itself in March, when he first felt a bump on his right hip. "it was nothing that hurt," he says today, rubbing the spot. "It felt ... weird, but no big deal."

It became a big deal two weeks later when Turner went snowboarding. "I fell on it," he remembers. "Now it hurt. I thought it was maybe a bone spur. I knew then something was wrong."

Turner got an x-ray, followed by an MRI. Then Turner got a call. Not the call, not yet - just a call. "They told me I had a tumor that looked like part of the bone. I thought it was just a little growth. I figure 'Okay they go in, they get it out'."

But things turned worse. Shooting pains radiated down Turner's right leg as the tumor started pushing on his sciatic nerve. Soon, Turner couldn't sleep. He went to see Dr. Jeffery Eckhardt, a world-renowned specialist. Eckhardt ordered further tests.

The test results took weeks to come back. And Turner, knowing full well that something was wrong, went to work. He had 31 comic store signing appearances to do as part of a Fathom promotion. It wasn't easy.

Frank Mastromauro, Top Cow's sales director and close friend, traveled with Turner. "even before we started, it was hurting Mike a bit," Mastromauro remembers. "When we flew, we'd snag all the pillows on the way in, and prop his leg up with four or five of them. It's the only way he could travel."

It was on the road that the call came from Dr. Eckhardt. Turner stood in a hotel lobby, trembling hands clutching a pencil that spelled out "chondrosarcoma, right pelvis." He asked Eckhardt for the exact spelling. He needed to know precisely what he had.

"And I remember exactly what he said," Turner recalls. "'We're going to go in and excise that. You will be able to walk again, but running or jogging will be out of the question.'"

The news crushed Turner, an award-winning water skier and a holder of an instructor-level red sash in the martial arts. "The mouth goes wide and the blood rushes from the head," Turner remembers. "I broke down. I was torn up inside."

Turner had done 14 of 31 tour stops. He tried to finish, but had to stop because of the crushing pain. He couldn't even sit any more. He notified his family, and scheduled the soonest appointment he could for surgery. "I was going to wait a week and just walk, because I knew I wouldn't walk again for at least a year. But I couldn't wait. The pain was too much." There was that, and one other thing: "I just wanted this alien out of me," Turner says.

Turner gathered his family around him. The night before he went in, Turner made 20 phone calls to close friends, letting them know what was happening. And he did something he loved - he drew, finishing a piece he promised Wizard as a contest prize.

On July 27, 2000, Michael Turner entered the UCLA Medical Center. He'd come out a changed man. And ultimately, a stronger one.

The Operation

Michael Turner woke - if you can call it that - into a haze on July 29. A massive brace held his right leg immobile, and mammoth doses of pain killers coursed through his veins. So much bone had to be removed that the only replacement options considered were of the experimental variety. The missing bone couldn't be replaced with surgical steel, because the body simply rejects that large an amount of metal. The docs were willing to look at anything, and Turner actually had some expertise in the matter via his research for Fathom - experiments grafting coral in place of bone have been tried, but a procedure like that would be at least a couple of years away.

For the first week of his hospital stay, only family attended him, but after that a constant stream of well-wishers paraded in. As much as any hospital will allow, Turner's room became party central. Turner planned his return to an active life, practicing his golf swing while propped up in ed. "I've got to really rip it through with the right arm now," he observed.

Turner says he experiences "a slow acceptance of what life was going to be. There were a lot of things I wasn't going to be able to do, but I focused on the things I would do."

One thing Turner did, of course, is draw. Turner's sketchbook remained at his side the entire time in the hospital. He drew the operation for family and friends, showing how his hip and pelvis looked before and after. He even drew suggestions for the doctors. Turner studied up on his condition, and even improved his art. "After this ordeal," he joked, "my anatomy is better than ever."

That's not all that's better. Turner has destroyed the recovery curve. He was supposed to be in the hospital for six weeks. He was out in three. He wasn't supposed to start therapy in the pool for eight weeks. He was walking in the pool by week five.

"I refuse to believe I'm not going to be able to do all these things they say," Turner says. "How many times have 'they' been wrong? Sure, I'll never be able to water-ski like I used to. But I'm still going to work harder and play harder. It's just different kinds of playing."

Turner has plans. He's already getting around on crutches, and will soon take up hang-gliding, landing on water to protect his leg. "You come in on pontoons," he says, a sparkle in his eye. "It works!" And note his careful working: "I'll never water-ski like I used to." He'll take to the skis again someday.

But the work will come first. Turner's Fathom Swimsuit Special just hit stands. Extra pages in the Fathom hardcover edition will hit in early 2001. He's finished a cover for Vagrant Story, plus a Witchblade and two Tomb Raider covers. Fathom #13 is on the horizon. And a new book called Dragonfly is being prepped.

Turner's already drawing two to three pages a week, despite being slowed by radiation therapy. "The fatigue is terrible," Turner relays. "It feels like you have a hangover all the time." It's thought all the malignant tissue is gone. But this is a game where you can't afford to take chances, so Turner will undergo nine months of treatment. His hair is still doing fine, much to the surprise of Fathom colorist Peter Stiegerwald, who shaved his head in sympathy or Turner. "I said, 'Hey Pete! I'm not gonna lose my hair for six weeks yet!'" Turner laughs. Stiegerwald's only response? "Oh. Uh-oh."

The progress is steady, but slow. Turner thinks it'll be a year before he's walking. "I want to have my mom sculpt me a cool cane, maybe with Aspen coming up out of the water," he says. His mother, Grace Crik, is a world-class sculptress who helped Mike develop Fathom. She's been at her son's side through the whole ordeal, and the two have drawn strength from each other. "Mike has been a study in courage and positive attitude," she observes. "If he can keep it up, we've got it whipped."

There are still hurdles to overcome. Turner knows that in a few years, he'll probably get opened up again when medical technology comes up with a permanent solution for the bones he's lost. In the meantime, he approaches everything with humor. He refers to his soon-to-be limp as his "stylish new walk." And scar stories? "It could be from a sword fight, it could be a shark bite," Turner jokes. "I could make up a lot of stories to impress the right people. Female people probably."

The Aftermath

For the rest of his days, Michael Turner may have trouble spelling certain words. But he's having no trouble getting on with his life. He's happy to display the new pages he's doing. He's pleased as punch to show off his sketchbook with new material. Hell, he'll even show you his dictionary. Just don't ask him to spell "candelabrum." Or any of those other words.

By Jim McLauchlin