Detroit News by M Keenan

Detroit News Article
- Written by Marney Keenan

Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Marney Rich Keenan:
Spencer Bell 1986-2006

The band plays on.

Rare cancer took the life of Spencer Bell, but family and friends won't let the young Renaissance man be forgotten

On Thanksgiving Day last year, 20-year-old Spencer Bell walked into the emergency room at the University of Wisconsin Hospital in Madison complaining of stomach pains. He hoped to be treated and released in time to enjoy turkey and all the fixings.

Hours later, an emergency room physician reading the X-ray of Spencer's abdomen was stunned to find a football-size mass of cancer. Ten horrible days later, Spencer died from adrenal cancer, one of the most aggressive, lethal and rare forms of the disease.

On Dec. 3, 2006, the cancer that strikes one-in-a-million took the life of a one-in-a-million kid.

On Friday, friends, family and local musicians are staging a benefit concert and silent auction at the Royal Oak Music Theatre. Their goal is to raise awareness and money for the University of Michigan's Multidisciplinary Adrenal Cancer Clinic. Spencer's band, the Stevedores, will be joined by top local bands.

The event will also pay tribute to the life of a kid who grew up in Bloomfield Hills, and had a genius-level IQ and extraordinary potential as a musician. Friends and family described him as "a visionary," "a renegade," "a Renaissance man" and "a mystic." Teachers called him "arrogant," "intimidating" and "brilliant."

When Spencer died, he left behind of dozens of journals filled with poems and illuminating essays, paintings, sketchbooks and more than 120 songs.

"We all knew he was a genius and incredibly talented, but it wasn't until we started digging through his stuff that we realized how much there was," says Dan Graupner, a former classmate and recent graduate of the Royal Scottish Academy of Music and Drama in Glasgow. "There were enough scores to fill approximately seven to eight complete albums."

In his short life, Spencer achieved goals that, for any other teenager, would seem like youthful fantasies. At 15, he was performing solo to packed coffee houses. He was determined to be living in New York and making music by age 18, and he did. He wrote and recorded two albums with his band. He attended the New York Film Academy and made several 3-D animated films. He created art installations based on scientific formulas, called "pathways of energy," by duct-taping walls, floors and ceilings. He made sculptures using soda cans, rubber bands, scraps of iron, wood and broken chairs. For amusement, he'd endlessly dabble with mathematical sequences and geometrical concepts. He had plans to renovate an abandoned missile silo in New Mexico for a dinner theater and mapped out a motorcycle journey across South America fashioned after a young Che Guevara in the film "The Motorcycle Diaries."

But all of that passion and his seemingly good health -- Spencer was 6-foot-4, 230 pounds -- was no match for adrenal cancer. On that Thanksgiving Day, doctors found a tumor that had spread to his kidney, liver, lungs and adrenal glands. They also found a dangerous blood clot extending into the right atrium of his heart.

Adrenal cancer has a staggering prognosis. Even Stage 1 carries only a 50-50 chance for survival after five years. Spencer's cancer was already at Stage 4. It grew undetected, hidden in a cavity in his back.

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"That's me I'm the lyricist, it's not my job it's my disposition. I gotta let you know that life is rich. We're not alone, you see, it's really me I'm trying to convince."

-- From the song "The Lonesome Ballad of the Lonesome Boy" by Spencer Bell
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Born in Los Angeles, Spencer did everything early, his parents say. He walked by 11 months. He was talking in full sentences at 18 months. At age 2, he'd plunk out his own melodies on the piano. By 4 years old, he'd written his first song complete with lyrics. He called it "Guinea Pig Rhythm."

As a toddler, Spencer would take apart electric mixers and can openers bought at garage sales and try to make something new with them. "He would stop at nothing," his mother, Cathy Bell, 50, says. "And nothing was ever as it is. He always had to reinvent it in his own way."

In 1992, Spencer's father, Bill, now 50, was transferred by his employer, Sunset magazine, and the family moved to Bloomfield Hills.

Spencer began acting in sixth grade at Bloomfield Hills Middle School. By seventh grade, he was handling Shakespearean text as if he were a professional actor. In eighth grade, Spencer won a first place in the state and was awarded a perfect score forensics trophy. When he reached the stage, he picked up his coach, Mary Pagnani, and hoisted her up in the air.

Now, says Pagnani: "I can't coach a team without adding 'Spencerisms' to my meetings. When I ask students to feel passion about everything they say and do, it's because of Spencer."

In 2000, Spencer was admitted to the theater program of northern Michigan's prestigious Interlochen Arts Academy.

In less than two years, however, Spencer was not "invited back," as the school put it, which was code for expulsion. Spencer's songwriting had taken off, but he'd become less interested in theater, letting his grades slip. The last straw was when he and his friends got caught for smoking violations. An administrator sent out a missive saying that Spencer and his friends were "lost boys" and warned others to not be "corrupted" by them. Soon after, the boys got tattoos that read, "I'm Lost."

Spencer came home and entered Lahser High School as a junior. At the end of that first day, Spencer announced to his parents: "I've been invited to be in a band." The band was called Sheer Funk and Misery. They played at a Battle of the Bands in Birmingham, the Dream Cruise in 2002 and the "Mitch Albom Show" on WJR-AM.

Elizabeth Volpe, Spencer's creative writing teacher at Lahser, says in her 30-plus years of teaching, she'd never seen a student like Spencer. "From the start, I was intimidated by his semi-gothic appearance, his brilliance and, yes, his arrogance. At first I was crushed by Spencer's criticisms, but in time I redesigned the class with Spencer's help. It was scary for me to relinquish control of my classroom, but most days it was a class that worked in the way Spencer envisioned it. In the few years left before my retirement, I continued to conduct my class in the 'Spencer Model.' " His mother, Cathy Bell, says the force of his intellect was daunting. "Sometimes, Spencer would talk with such authority and an eloquent vocabulary, people would think, 'I wonder if he's for real,'" Cathy remembers. "But he knew all this strange stuff because he only had to hear or glance at something once for it to be cemented in his memory."

Somewhere during that junior year, Spencer decided he was going to live in New York and make music before the age of 18. He refused college, saying he didn't need it.

"Spencer was always trying to defy convention, always pushing us with 'Why? Why?' " says his father. "Basically, we came to the agreement that there are some things you have to do in order to do what you want to do."

So he did. He hit the books, graduated six months early and arrived in New York two weeks ahead of his 18th birthday.

Stuck in one of his bags was an envelope with a letter inside from his father.

It read, in part: "It's no picnic being the parent of someone who takes the bumpier road. It's part hell, part heaven. I envy your belief in yourself and in your desire to pursue REAL meaning in your life. But, as a parent, I'm afraid for you because it won't be easy, and the result isn't guaranteed. I love you, Boy. Don't ever stop sifting through the rubble of life in search of something worthwhile. The secret is in the giving: Give love and it really does come back to you big enough to knock you over."

In New York, Spencer formed the Stevedores with his friends from Interlochen, who were also living near the city. Amy Dupcak, features editor of Beyond Race magazine, a publication spotlighting the independent arts culture in New York City, wrote in a review of the Stevedores' album "Tamuawok": "Harmonious and rambunctious, blues-driven and classic-rock oriented, the Stevedores can certainly boast distinctiveness and authenticity rarely encountered in today's music scene. Spencer Bell's dynamic singing and folk-rock-bluesy blend of songwriting is incredibly original and melodic."

Two years later, Spencer moved to Madison, Wis., to a huge old house he rented with his bandmates. During the day, Spencer worked at the Wisconsin Early Autism Project. At night, the band fine-tuned a second album of Spencer's compositions and performed at local venues.

"Spence lit up the stage," says Missy Liu, Spencer's girlfriend at the time. "He'd swivel back and forth across the stage on his heels and belt out that amazing voice. People were mesmerized."

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"I must force myself to continue moving, always moving. Always thirst for awe. The thought of someday learning and saying, 'There, that's it! This is what I've been looking for!' is more than enough to drive my calloused feet."

-- Spencer Bell's journal entry

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On Thanksgiving Day last year, Cathy Bell was sitting in the stands of Ford Field watching the Lions game with her cell phone on vibrate.

Her younger son, Brady, 17, had flown to Madison the night before to join his big brother for a Thanksgiving feast cooked by Spencer and his bandmates. The following morning, after a bath would not alleviate Spencer's back pain, Brady coaxed his brother into going to the emergency room.

Cathy thought it was probably a flare-up from Spencer's acid reflux condition, or maybe kidney stones. Finally, with the Lions game over, the phone trembled on her lap.

As if a casual greeting could mask the lightning-bolt news he was about to deliver, Spencer said, "Whatcha' doin' Mom?"

Cathy placated him: "I'm walking to my car, Spencer, what are you doin'?"

"Mom," he said, his voice breaking. "They're saying I have cancer."

At the time, Bill Bell was driving on I-75, on his way to Florida for vacation (the Bells divorced in 2000). He turned around and met Cathy at the airport.

Cathy and Bill found Spencer in a room in the intensive care unit. His blood pressure spiked to 210/170, and doctors feared he might stroke out.

Waiting for biopsy results, Cathy and Bill were given best- and worst-case scenarios. Or rather, the lesser of evils. "If you can imagine," Cathy says. "We're all praying to God: Let it be liver cancer. Let it be kidney cancer. Not adrenal cancer. Anything but adrenal cancer."

By Tuesday, the worst possible news came back from pathology: adrenocortical carcinoma, or adrenal cancer. University of Wisconsin Hospital's Dr. Daniel L. Mulkerin, Spencer's oncologist, told his parents surgery was the only recourse to save Spencer's life.

Mulkerin began to assemble a "dream team" to investigate the extremely complex and intricate surgery -- doctors said it would be a 12- to 15-hour procedure.

At the time, University of Michigan's Dr. Gary D. Hammer, considered the leading researcher in the country, was in Germany attending an international conference on adrenal cancer. Reached by cell phone, he was eager to consult. Hammer is the director of U-M's Multidisciplinary Adrenal Cancer Clinic.

When Spencer's best friend, Ben Johnson, the drummer in his band, walked into the hospital room, the first thing Spencer said was: "It doesn't hurt. It doesn't hurt." He did not want sympathy.

Ben was Spencer's closest friend. The two attended Interlochen together, and later, when Spencer headed east, he lived with Ben while Ben was a student at Sarah Lawrence College in Bronxville, N.Y.

While there in New York, Spencer was focused on his art installations. "His projects frequently damaged the house or property, but, at the same time, were always clever or interesting," Ben says. "I think the guys respected him but didn't understand why he had to prove himself so much. I would always remind them that he was only 18.

"We were all a couple years older than him, but it was easy for everyone to forget because he was such a genius."

When Ben walked out into the hospital hallway, his eyes met Cathy's. It was a look she will never forget. "He looked so lost. The weight of the world's sadness was upon him."

Months later, Ben would reflect: "His writing was constant, sometimes all night long. It was who he was. I didn't realize it then, but he was the oldest soul I ever met, like he was sent here for a purpose. He was bigger than music, bigger than words, more inspiring than any person I've known."

As the week progressed, Spencer's legs swelled to 40 pounds, as heavy and as painful as tree trunks. The thrombus occluding Spencer's atrium was compromising his blood flow, increasing the fluid retention.

By Thursday, after consulting with specialists from the Mayo Clinic and Sloan-Kettering and U-M's Hammer, the doctors had reached their conclusion: Surgery was out of the question. He would not have survived it.

Hammer phoned, telling Bill and Cathy he concurred with U of W's decision. "They are doing everything that I would do here," he told her. "I am so very sorry."

The doctors went in to tell Spencer as his parents and his godmother, who had flown in from Portland, Ore., quietly wept.

"But I thought you said surgery was the last remaining hope," Spencer said.

"We did," one doctor answered.

Spencer nodded, half in defeat, half acknowledging that he understood. Then he asked for
everyone to leave the room.

A half-hour later, Spencer summoned his mother back. In deliberate, yet faltering speech, Spencer said, "Mom, we have some business to take care of."

Cathy took out her notebook. Her pen shook on the page.

"I want my musical instruments to go to Ben" he began. His journals to his friend Jessi, his books, music and favorite first guitar to Brady.

Then, Spencer became very specific: "I want you to find an urn made of lead. I want to be cremated, and I want for my ashes to be dropped in the Marianas Trench."
"Where?"
"The Marianas Trench."
Cathy had no idea what or where this was. Still, she was not surprised; it was vintage Spencer.

Indeed, the Marianas Trench is as extraordinary a spot on the earth as was her son's short life. Located in the Pacific Ocean, 230 miles off the coast of Guam, the Marianas Trench is the deepest spot on the surface of the earth, deeper than Mount Everest is high.

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"The headstone read

In the shade of the tree

'My baby lay heavy

On the floor of the sea.'

I'm not going to be here for the

Cancerous wave

I'll be under the ocean where

The seahorses play."

-- From the song "Where the Seahorses Play" by Spencer Bell, 2005

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While Spencer knew he was dying, he was not resigned to it. He wanted to go down fighting, says Dr. Brad Manning, Spencer's physician at the University of Wisconsin Hospital. As such, it took him days to sign a "Do Not Resuscitate" order.

"I've had many sick patients and emergency situations," says Manning. "But nothing has been quite as hard as delivering the endless stream of bad news to Spencer and his parents. I told Spence, if he wanted me to use the ventilator, defibrillator, CPR, I would. But, in what I always felt was a gift, he chose not to make us and his parents go through that. Spencer was unbelievably brave."

By Friday, two days before Spencer died, the suburban Detroit contingent arrived to say their last goodbyes. They read prose and poems from John Donne, Spencer's favorite author, and several Dr. Seuss books. (Spencer's My-Space page is a tribute to Seuss' "Oh, the Places You'll Go!")

"He was so ill, but his eyes were still bright and vivid," says friend Jessica Kezlarian of Royal Oak. "I must have kissed his forehead a million times and told him that I loved him even more."

Ben believes Spencer purposely rallied that day. "As soon as the Detroit crew showed up, he sat up in bed, and cut back his morphine, because he was with the people he loved," Ben says. "That night, he was cracking jokes and had the whole room laughing more than once."

By Sunday morning, the doctors told Bill and Cathy it would be a matter of two to 12 hours.

Suddenly, around noon, Spencer shot straight up, eyes open wide. He wailed:
"MOOOOMMMMM!"

She grabbed his face with her palms, trying to reach him, wherever he was, in whatever realm. "I'm here, baby, I'm here. I won't ever leave. I'm here. I'm here. I'm here."

By 10 p.m. that night, Spencer's breathing had changed dramatically. Both parents stood at either side of the bed, stroking him, whispering that it was OK to go. And Spencer did just that, peacefully, as he had planned.

More than 400 people crowded the Goldner Walsh greenhouse, where Cathy works as a landscape designer, on Dec. 9 for Spencer's memorial.

Seventeen of Spencer's friends had camped out in sleeping bags all over Cathy's house.

On Sunday, as they left in a caravan of cars and Cathy walked back into her empty house, "That's when it all hit me," she said.

Sometime next year, a deep-sea freighter will journey deep into the Pacific Ocean -- 230 miles off the coast of Guam -- to the site of the Marianas Trench. Spencer's lead urn will be dropped into ocean. His ashes will plummet down into the deepest spot on the Earth's crust, deeper than Mount Everest is high, where the seahorses play.

You can reach Marney Rich Keenan at (313) 222-2515 or mkeenan@detnews .com.