Kermit in Soho

I might be out in Jersey, but I'm in still in the NYC loop.  I came across these photos of Kermit the Frog touting skate-label Supreme clothing in Soho.  No word yet if this is a new ad campaign shedding light on a future partnership between Supreme and the Frog, or if it's the work of a bored kid looking to have some fun.  Either way, its cool.

Update: Kermit & Supreme will be featured in a photography exhibit by Terry Richardson in Paris. word.

Take a look around. This is something you won't soon forget

Getting ready to go back to MSKCC (the outpatient hospital, not the main hospital where my surgery occurred) on Monday for my first follow-up visit, I thought it was worth reflecting on the stark contrast in emotions I will have on Monday compared to the hospital visits leading up to surgery.  First things first, I am the kind of person that hates hospital.  I don't like things that smell sterile.  As an athlete, I don't think I've ever received good news in a hospital, and few pieces of bad news beat "it might be cancerous."  What I hate just as much is the anxiety of some kind of bad event to come; like waiting to be operated on.  Each time I visited my doctor before the surgery I had the same gut feeling: just get this over with.

Now, I am visiting with the worst behind me, and with the hope that my doctor will feel I am well on my way to being fully recovered.  But, often times you are far too close to a situation to really understand the severity of what has occurred.  To me, it was doctor's visit after doctor's visit, and then the eventual morning of surgery, and then the handful of days recovering in the hospital.  In order to handle such large events, mentally you need to break them down (take it one at a time, everyone says).  But, when you look back, it is inevitable that you will have a "holy shit" moment.  A mere two weeks ago there was a cancer living in my body, and in order to remove it, they knocked me out and cut out a 7 inch X 7 inch chunk out of my side.  They rearranged my insides so that I could resume a normal life.  When I'm 45 I will always remember this time of my life as a major turning point.

As I prepare to return to the outpatient facility at MSKCC, I am anxious to see if I'll look at the offices, waiting room, etc. in a different light, or if the previous memories from before the surgery will override that.  Regardless, it will all serve as additional detail to what will eventually be turned into a memory of the entire experience.  Surrounded by 70, 80, 90 year olds throughout my visits with the doctors, and the eventual operation, I have a feeling this is something not too many 22 year olds have the opportunity(?) to go through.  As my aunt said to me before the surgery, soak up the journey for all that it offers.  Just call me spongebob.

Matt

the blind leading the blind

Out of the hospital for a week now, and approaching the two-week mark since the initial surgery - I now find myself holding two roles instead of just one: heal-er, as well as heal-ing.  My mother just completed a hip replacement operation, which now puts her equally on the mend.  As she faces the initial battles in the first few days post-operation, I find myself providing advice as I went through that mere days ago.  She is slated to spend one more day in the hospital, and up to a week in a rehab center to get her up and walking again.  When she arrives back home we will be facing different obstacles, but fighting to get back to "normal" all the same.

What is different about my operation than my mom's (besides the obvious) is that she knows what will be difficult: walking.  For me, I have found my recovery to be much less tangible.  While initially, with ribs removed, I found breathing and coughing extremely difficult, I now find a more innate personal strength the biggest hurdle.  It is as if my personal fortitude is recovering, and it requires me to mentally give myself a kick in the ass, since physically it's very easy to be lazy and wallow in the pain.  It is common knowledge in physical fitness that your core is probably the most important area of strength in your body, but besides doing sit-ups it can often be ignored.  Now, as I've had a "shark bite" (doctor's words) out of my side, I see the true value in your core as things like going from a laying to sitting position, picking things up, bending over, etc. cause the most strain. 

When my mom returns it will likely be a funny site: a couple of gimps helping each other.  But, for two people that have just gone through operations, experiencing many of the same issues, we may just be the perfect nurses for each other.  It should be interesting.

Looking forward to getting back to 100%

Matt

Putting my time to (good?) use

With my newfound wealth of free time, I have come to accept that it will be spent on only a few select activities: catching up on my now large magazine collection, completely getting up to speed on the TV series' Lost & Dexter, attempting to finish a couple books, and becoming the most knowledgeable sports guru you know.  With sports in mind, a recent ESPN debate sparked a fire in me, and compelled me to blog about it.  Since my days consist of catching up on the plethora of sports shows ESPN offers (Sportscenter, ESPN First Take, Mike and Mike in the Morning, Outside The Lines, Jim Rome is Burning, Around the Horn, Pardon the Interruption, I'm probably forgetting a few) - I feel that I've heard all angles of the argument.

 

What's the argument you ask?  Who is more dominant in the ESPN era, Tiger Woods or Michael Jordan?  Before any side is even taken here, I disagree with the overall merit of this argument to begin with.  This debate gained steam a couple years ago when analysts bored during the summer months tried to compare Roger Federer to Tiger Woods.  Now, as Tiger once again makes the field look like the elementary school kids trying to play dodgeball against Billy Madison, analysts are forced to compare Tiger to some entity outside his sport.  How do you compare chip shots to clutch shots, 20 foot putts to 20 foot fadeaway jumpers?  More importantly, how do you line up a guy that had 14 others teammates on his roster that he consistently carried on his back - to a man that walks to the 18th green looking like the verizon guy; the spotlight aimed squarely on him.  Regardless, the debate has spawned into something that isn't about difficulty of each others respective sport, individual achievements , style, grace, etc., but rather one word: dominance.

 

To state Tiger's claim, he came onto 

the scene with a blistering '97 Masters that cemented 

Tiger as a sort of Neo from the Matrix character, here to save Golf.  And he did, for all intents and purposes.  He has made golf relevant, and as much as Phil Mickelson, Ernie Els, and Ian Poulter may wish Tiger would prove he is mortal so that they can take him down - they should be thanking him because without Tiger an extremely casual golf fan like myself wouldn't even know who those country clubbers are.  Tiger takes the phrase "head and shoulders above the competition," and makes it laughable;  His shoulders would need to be the size of mount rushmore for that to seem applicable.  Tiger is currently playing as well as he ever has in his career, winning 5 straight events, and 8 of his last 9 - coming in 2nd in the 9th.  More importantly, he doesn't just win, he embarrasses the competition.  It's like the Harlem Globetrotters playing the Washington Nationals every single night, and no one ever gets bored of it.  He has no real competitor that has ever emerged, and it is becoming increasingly blurry if that is a knock on the players in the field, or if it is just impossible to truly contend with Tiger for a substantial period of time.  The scariest thing of all is that in the golf world Tiger is still young.  In his early 30's, he can play into his 50's, 60's even if he continues onto the Senior Tour.  It seems genuinely unfair what he is doing, and he will re-write every single record; it is just a matter of time. 

But what about Michael?  I am extremely biased in this argument because I grew up in awe of Michael Jordan as a die-hard Bulls fan.  People claim that Tiger has the same competitive fire that Jordan has, but... really?  I don't buy that.  Jordan would rip your heart out at all costs, and there was nothing you could do about it.  He would be double, triple teamed and still find a way to score.  He would dunk on anyone, regardless of how big or strong you were.  You could physically beat him up all game, but it wouldn't matter - just ask the Pistons of the late 80's.  You can't say the same for golf.  Sure, Tiger is competitive, but it's just not the same.  Basketball is a different beast.  Jordan won 6 championships in 8 years in what was a better period for the NBA than now.  He won against Magic, Stockton & Malone, Barkley, Isiah, Ewing, Drexler, and the list goes on.  He was borderline unbeatable, and yes, while he had good teammates, it wasn't like some of the team's today where there are 3 superstars carrying the load.  Michael Jordan was the Chicago Bulls.  You don't get a statue unless you are the franchise.  He was the best player in the NBA in every single facet of the game: best scorer, best defender, best clutch shooter, and best passer and rebounder for his position.  

While I don't like this argument in general because it inherently has to go here, but Michael wins the debate because it is genuinely harder to do what he did than what Tiger is doing.  The snap judgement here is always to say, "well you think what Tiger is doing is easy??"  No, absolutely not.  It is mentally grueling, and requires Tiger to master his craft like no other.  But, for Jordan, there are so many other variables that make it damn near impossible to dominate the way he did, and he did it on sheer will more than anything else.  It is easy to pick the guy that is hot in the moment, and Tiger is blowing away the sports world, but back in the mid 90's people would trade their first born kid to be in the presence of Michael Jordan. True story. 

Do you agree?  Do you care?

Don't look now - but I'm stylin' on you!

In the hospital they give you socks with extra grip on them.  But, I could have used these to scorch that 95 year old blind woman that was one-upping me around the 14th floor.  Damn.

Not like College

I have always had good luck with roommates.  In college I spent 4 very good years stumbling back to my room with close friends, always assured that if I was going to wake up feeling like I got hit in the head with a pile of bricks -- the 1, 2, or 3 others in my apartment probably felt the same way.  Every different roommate situation has its own dynamic, and oftentimes it is hard to predict exactly what someone will be like when you actually live with them.  But, like I said, I've always had good luck.

But, what happens when you are forced to room with someone in a hospital, separated by a curtain, and given no reason to actually communicate with each other?  Well, that certainly changes the situation.  I knew the first night that I arrived in my room at MSKCC that my roommate, Mr. Morton, was not going to be the easiest to stay with.  He was not an outlandish man by any stretch of the imagination.  In fact, the first few hours I was there I don't think I heard a sound out of him.  He was a frail 70 year old black man that liked to listen to the TV really, really loudly.  However, his most noticeable characteristic was that he had unique sleep cycles, or lack thereof I should say.  While I slept most of the day post-operation, the anesthesia had begun to wear off, and around midnight I actually found myself truly awake for the first time all day.  I popped my ipod in and tried to relax, only to be kept awake by a grunts, moans, and violent coughs from the other side of the curtain.  It was obvious at that point that Mr. Morton was not in good shape.  This continued all night, and every night throughout my stay.  He would use the period of midnight - 5am to make loud noises, repeatedly call the nurses, or blast his TV; whether he was awake or not.

The only true glimpses I got of Mr. Morton were when I would leave, or enter the room.  The curtain truly blocks off 50% of the room, and you only have a short second to get a look at your roommate.  This created a unique challenge for me, as I tried to paint a picture of why he was here, what his affliction was, what kind of man he was, etc.  I could only use short 1 second snapshots to do that - the rest was done blindly by what I heard on his side of the curtain.  As noted, he was usually quiet, which made his random outbursts of moans and groans stand out even more.  He seemed genuinely in pain, or at the least, helpless to what he was fighting.  He would often page the nurses and complain or shortness of breath.  This, it became obvious, was his biggest obstacle.  He often noted that he had to move very slowly in everything he did because his breathing just couldn't keep up.  Needless to say, in the 4 days I stayed at MSKCC, he did not complete one lap.

Mr. Morton and I did not exchange any words during my entire stay, but I learned the most about him on Monday afternoon, during one his very rare visits from a family member.  What I think was his niece came to visit and had a very direct conversation with him, including the nurse.  You see, they change the nurses every 12 hours, and most don't work 2 days in a row, so Mr. Morton had a great knack for tricking the newbies.  I, on the other hand, heard all his tricks, and caught on to what he was doing.  He would skip breakfast by saying he just wasn't hungry and would wait until lunch, and then when lunch came he would make up another excuse until the next nurse showed up.  When someone would ask what he ate today, or what he did, he would stall, make up an excuse, and change the subject.  It was obvious he was lacking the strength to eat, walk, do anything at all.  Because of that, his niece and the nurse approached him and told him that while this hospital can help him, oftentimes there is only so much help you can provide.  It was at this moment that I found out he had lung cancer, and while he needed additional chemotherapy, he wasn't strong enough to endure it.  They recommended transferring him to a hospice where they could focus on comfort, instead of cures.  Just as Mr. Morton didn't have the strength to do his laps, he didn't have the strength to argue this conversation.  He seemed content; tired of fighting.

The irony of this entire interaction is that Monday was the day I found out I would be released the next day - anxiously awaiting my chance to go home and get back to full strength.  When I left on Tuesday Mr. Morton was still there, and I have no idea how much longer he would/will stay there.  However, his weakness was really sad, and all too sobering as I complain about back pain and the ability to pee on my own.  I didn't get a chance to know Mr. Morton very well, but wish him the best wherever he is.

Matt

This is going to hurt a little bit...

Disclaimer: This post epitomizes the phrase "too much information."  But, since I can laugh about it now, figured it was worth sharing.

My saving grace after the operation was the lovely morphine being injected into me through the epidural that was placed directly in my spine.  Instead of an oral pill, that needs to travel down your throat, into your stomach, digested by your organs, sent back to you brain, and reallocated to the pain points -- the morphine was on the express train from nervous system to brain to pain.  Even better, it was running on a regular schedule with my ability to press a button when I wanted a little more juice.  The catch?  The epidural basically numbs the nerves in your entire midsection, which, for most guys, eliminates their ability to pee on their own.  For that reason, while I was knocked out, I had a catheter inserted (google this if the name doesn't sound immediately familiar).  To my surprise, this caused no pain when I was out of the surgery, and in a weird way was almost nice - I never felt like I had to pee because it was being drained out of me against my will.

But, my doctor had great faith in me, thinking, hey even though 30-40% of guys can't pee with an epidural in, this guy is young and healthy - he'll have no problem.  So, at 8am the day after surgery my nurse and I got to know each other rather quickly as she told me she would be taking the catheter out.  There is no great medical technique to do this; you pretty much just pull it out.  Well, it felt just about as painful as that sounds.  Regardless, I was relieved to be attached to one less device, and was happy to have a bit of my manhood back.  The trick now was to prove that I could pee on my own; much easier said than done.  I was a on mission, downing cup of water after cup of water all day long.  I was like a golden retriever on a summer day.  I had a bit of leeway, with my "pee deadline" of 5pm sharp.  No problem, I told myself, this will be cake.

10, 12, 15, possibly 20 cups of water later, and 3 failed attempts to pee left me feeling like a pregnant woman with how bloated my stomach was.  Worse, it wasn't like I had the urge to pee, but rather that my stomach just uncomfortably full. The nurse kept checking on me, hoping for good news, but unfortunately I couldn't delivery any. 4pm came and went, and so did 4:30. At 5 the nurse gave me an extension - 6pm, no arguments.  To look back: 8am to 6pm drinking all that water is a hell of a long time.  Needless to say, my failed attempts didn't improve any, and at 6 I accepted my fate as the lesser of two evils -- reinsert the catheter opposed to having my stomach burst.

The doctor had informed me they can use some sort of material that allows the catheter to be inserted easier, eliminating most of the pain, but apparently my nurse didn't catch that I wanted to use that, and if I did it would take an hour to get it from the pharmacy department.  It will be over quick, she assured me.  Dear god help me.

I wish I could say I blacked out for the next 6,7 seconds, but unfortunately the feeling that a pin was going into my @#$@ couldn't be ignored.  To sum it up, it was one of the most uncomfortable and unique sensations I never wish to have again.  However, once it was inserted I drained about 2 liters of urine in a minute and a half tops, surely breaking some kind of hospital record.

The next night they took the catheter out for the final time, and about 3 hours later, in the middle of the night, i proudly peed under my own strength, feeling about as manly as hulk hogan.  Truly one of the great accomplishments of my short life.

In the grand scheme of things, this was an extremely minor part of my entire hospital stay, but one that really tested my pain threshold - a test I will vehemently ask never to take again.  Moreover, it will make me never look at my morning pee in the same light.

sorry for the details

bassy

Getting to know your neighbors

Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center has some of the most renowned doctors in the world, but the 14th floor is a place I wish none of you ever have to visit, or worse, stay.  While this hospital is one that provides hope for many facing immense barriers in front of them, for unfortunately more it is a place of great despair, pain, and ultimately serves as a pit stop before they let go for their final resting place.  I wish I could infuse some humor into this situation, but the most alarming thing about my stay at MSKCC was that I, a "healthy" 22 year old athlete, was in the same treatment center as so many people so close to death.  

What is interesting about the 14th floor is that there is an etiquette to it that you pick up on quickly - mostly during everyone's daily "laps."  You see, nearly everyone, myself included, just had some major surgery that threw their body for a loop.  To lie in bed increases the chances for pneumonia, and also doesn't promote healthy blood flow necessary for optimal recovery.  It is important to get up and move around, and as I found out - 14 laps around the floor is a mile, everyone is encouraged to do at least that daily.  In the halls it is like the most depressing daytona 500 you'd never want to see.  The doctor's have a great sense of humor, and when I tried to brag to one, saying I'd already done 15 laps today, his reply was, "well a 95 year old blind woman has done 16 so don't be too satisfied."  Further, doing your laps around the floor gives you a chance to see the inhabitants of all 24 rooms.  Some of them you pass in the hall, and a lot of them give you a kind smile, connecting that you both understand the same thing.  Others, you can't help but look in their room as you pass - and its the ones that don't have the strength to do their laps that truly break your heart.  Some of them are alone, bald from chemo, and coughing up what sounds like a small animal.  Others are fast asleep in their bed as the family sits silent around them (these are harder to look at).  Possibly the worst is when I saw the pastor reciting a hail mary in one of the rooms.  I would like to say that I couldn't believe what I was seeing, but after a few minutes on the 14th floor - nothing surprises you. 

While walking the halls you see mostly elderly men and women, fighting a good fight, but there was also a little boy that I saw a number of times.  He couldn't have been older than 5 years old, walking with his mother, older brother (about 7 or 8) and father.  He was a cute little kid, with his hair spiked up in a little fo-hawk, asking questions to his mom in an uplifting little-kid voice that made me smile (he asked, "something smells, did daddy fart?").  The little boy seemed to be doing okay, and I hope that he was as lucky as me, and his stay was only a few days.  This reminded me that the cancer has no discrimination, and while older men and women are easy targets, we are all susceptible.  

Those laps were always eye opening, and without them, it would have been easy to fail to see outside the curtained-off half of a room I inhabited.  Possibly the most touching neighbor I came in contact with when was I was waiting for an x-ray.  A nice middle-aged woman in a british accent approached me as they took her father into the x-ray room.  You have a lot of people around you, she noted.  Yes, I told her, I'm very lucky, and it makes the days go by much faster, I responded.  She inquired about what I was there for, and when I told her that removing the tumor should be the extent of my operations she was blown away, reminding me how lucky I am.  Her father has stage 4 lung cancer that has spread to his bones.  They came all the way from London to MSKCC because of how great of a reputation the hospital has.  Already, he has been able to walk and begin to speak again after previously not being able to do either.  The woman seemed genuinely grateful that I had an optimistic outlook for my recovery, and I echoed to her that her presence just being in the hospital for her father already meant a lot, whether he expressed it or not.  It was that personal interaction that reiterated to me that while this hospital was one of despair at times, it had an incredible buzz of energy at the same time.  People look at complete strangers and smile and pull for each other because whether or not they know exactly what procedures, operations, stages they are going through - they can relate.  I just consider myself immensely lucky that I was probably the healthiest person there, dealing with the most minimal medical situation.

More to come

Matt

The rest of your life starts now. A short recap.

It seems pointless to have a space in the universe chronicling the trials and tribulations dealing with surgery removing cancer from my body and not give the play by play of the juiciest details: the first day, the anesthesia, the roommates, the morphine, etc.

Where to start? I was told to arrive at the hospital at 5:30 am on Friday, February 15th. In a way I was relieved about this, feeling that I would be too tired to really get nervous (that didn't really happen), and also that I wouldn't spend the day pacing around waiting for the imminent five hour surgery. Needless to say, I spent Thursday night (Valentine's Day) trying to keep my mind off of the operation, but when it came time to actually go to sleep that became impossible. Thoughts running through my mind ran the gambit: am i going to die, what will the hospital look like, will it be cold tomorrow, am i forgetting to pack anything, what if i dont wake up from anesthesia, what if the anesthesia doesn't knock me out, why did that guy on TV drink silver? With my alarm set for 4am, I don't think I actually fell asleep until 1am. However, those three hours of sleep didn't leave me drowsy and disoriented, but rather I popped out of bed with my stomach in knots, ready as I was going to be to get this over with.

We were supposed to arrive at the hospital at 5:30 am, but actually arrived at 4:45, forcing a 45 minute wait. Everything went fairly smoothly and I was in my gown, in my bed, getting an epidural injected into my spine at roughly 7am, which left me feeling a bit drunk - a very welcome feeling. I was wheeled into the operating room on my bed at about 8am, and the nervousness had, for the most part, left me. I knew it was out of my hands, and the numbing morphine being injected into my nervous system was also helping take the edge off. I vaguely remember having the anesthesia put over my face, and the next thing I knew my eyes were creeping open in the recovery room with two thoughts popping into my head: 1) where are my glasses (my first words), and 2) holy shit my whole body hurts.

The doctor was there to explain the surgery in short detail, but my attention span was about that of a cocker spaniel and could only listen to 4 words at a time before I either drifted off to sleep or had some incoherent thing to say (when one nurse emptied my pee bag, I said - in ron burgandy voice - "impressive... just as I expected"). What I did hear from the doctor was that the tumor on my side did not appear to be a sarcoma, as originally believed, but rather a desmoid, which is still cancerous, but has a lower chance of spreading. To ensure the entire tumor was removed, the operation entailed: a portion of 4 ribs to be removed, a 16 inch incision to be made, my latissimus muscle to be moved on my back (effectively eliminating its ability to function), and the muscle around the incision (including part of my oblique, and the muscle above and around my ribs) to be removed as well. I wish that laundry list of changes ended with some mastercard reference, like: acquiring spiderman's ability to shoot web out of my fingers, priceless. Unfortunately, my big payoff was that I get to deal with a ton of pain, but also don't have a dangerous tumor living in my body. I'm fine with that.

I arrived in my room, 1421A, at around 9pm Friday night, where I would meet a bevy of nurses, a host of interesting patients, my roommate mr. morton, and a handful of amazing doctors over the next 4 days. The stories of those will come in subsequent posts.

Have a good one

Matt