Perspective

It's all about the lens from which you're looking through.

Isn't it funny how good things can appear great when compared to where you've come from? Or vice versa. Experiences only become relevant when they fit into a context. Further, down the line, when you look back on what made up your life - what defined you as a person - it's never just a randomly ordered series of events. Rather, its a myriad of ups and downs, all building off each other. So, whatever success of tragedy one faces, again, it's all about context & the perspective that context gleans.

So, when I heard from my Dr. today that the cancerous tumor plaguing my body was a level 1 seminoma that can be treated with simple observation my reaction was ecstatic. Wait, back up. I received the confirmation that a potentially deadly tumor was inside my body, and I'm happy? Absolutely. Compared to what the results could have been, this is a best case scenario. And, as a cancer survivor, maybe you're never in of the clear, but I'm very close to saying these three powerful words: i beat you. Make it four: again.

While wildly popular comedians typically aren't the best source of inspiration, I read this quote from Stephen Colbert recently in a Rolling Stone article, in reference to his father and brothers dying in a plane crash when he was young:

"the most valuable thing I can think of is to be grateful for suffering. That is a sublime feeling, and completely inexplicable and illogical, but no one doesn't suffer. So the degree to which you can be aware of your own humanity is the degree to which you can accept, with open eyes, your suffering. To be grateful for your suffering is to be grateful for your humanity, because what else are you going to do - say, 'No, thanks'?"

So, being through two bouts with cancer, maybe I've lost some physical pieces of my body to rid that cancer, but I've gained one thing: perspective. So, for that, I don't feel unlucky at all to have gone through this; I feel pretty damn grateful.

Life After the MIUU

I created this blog based on a simple premise: i went through something life-altering and this was a way to chronicle it. At 22, when I first encountered cancer, I assumed it was sort of a once-in-a-lifetime deal. Well, 19 months later, i found out fate can be a funny thing.

It all started about a month ago when I felt something that just wasn't right. Feeling a lump on your body is always a scary moment, especially for someone that's faced cancer before. I had it checked out, was referred to a radiologist to get an ultrasound and was then referred to an NYU urologist for an additional ultrasound where the diagnosis was clear: testicular cancer. That was Thursday, 6 days ago. Yesterday, September 15th, exactly one year and seven months after my first surgery, I was back under the knife.

Naturally, facing cancer again, my thought process gets broken down in two ways: the known and the unknown. The known was that I had a tumor that appeared cancerous, and to remove that required an orchiectomy. An orchiectomy is performed by making a small incision on the lower abdomen and removing the testical that the tumor is impacting. This, hopefully, is what rids your body of the cancer completley. But, that leads to me to the unknown.

Coming into the surgery, I had no idea if the cancer had spread to other parts of my body, or what sub-type of cancerous tumor I was inflicted with (either seminoma or nonseminoma). Depending on the sub-type, it can require additional treatment even if it hasn't spread. Well, I received a CAT scan two days before the surgery, and was treated with this news right before I went under: it came out clean. So, at a minimum, one piece of the unknown was made clearer - the cancer hadn't spread. However, I still don't know know what type of cancer it is, and what the next steps will be. So, while I've made strides to answer the unknown, there is still progress to be made.

Physically, the contrast between what I detail in this blog about my previous surgery and what I am going through now are night and day. My first operation required a 5 day hospital stay, and getting in and out of bed felt like climbing mountains. This most recent operation took place at the NYU Medical Center in the MIUU (minimally invasive urology unit). The words "minimally invasive" were like music to my ears. Thanks to the amazing world of medicine, the doctors are able to perform this operation while taking a very small physical toll on me. The recovery time is 7-10 days, not 4-6 weeks.

So at this point, all there really is to chronicle is that stage 1 is complete. The cancer is out of me, and while I'm not in the clear yet - I'm moving in the right direction. I may not have the time on my hands like I did a year and a half ago to keep up with this blog, but I felt it necessary to revisit it.

Cancer had me down once, and I got right back up. I don't know what it's thinking coming back for more. I look forward to my 2nd victory dance.

Redemption

Life is a test. That's what people say. It's not how you react when you are succeeding, but rather how you face adversity. How you pick yourself up when the chips are down. I like to think I agree with that.

Today, on July 28, 2008, 166 days after surgery, I can proudly say that I've faced (and passed) many tests in that time. Some, I didn't ask for; like getting out of bed the morning after surgery and struggling not to fall over just to make it 3 steps to the scale. Or, completing my first few laps around MSKCC, mentally and physically intimidated by the scene that surrounded me. Or, taking 5 weeks to rest at home, day in and day out spending my time watching TV when I would rather be back on my feet. I didn't ask for any of that, but I had to face it nonetheless. Some things I did ask for. I asked for them because I wanted to show the illness that it had nothing on me. Like playing in 2 basketball leagues beginning the same week I returned back to work. Like playing in Harlem at the Rucker, one of the most physical basketball leagues in the world, professional leagues included. And, most importantly, challenging myself physically to run the NYC half-marathon, 13.1 miles, just 3 months after I was cleared to resume physical activity.

Over the last 3 months I've prepared myself in the gym to get ready for this, to prove to the illness that it could impact my physically - but not defeat me.  To exercise was an exercise in will power.  I primed myself mentally to have this be bigger than a run or a race.

As the race approached my training only took me to 9 miles. 13.1 was a realm I hadn't even really come close to.  However, whether stupidly or not, I knew I could count on a (not so) secret weapon - adrenaline - to carry me.  So, on the morning of July 28, I entered Central Park knowing that there was no chance I wouldn't conquer this race. There was no way, after all the tests I'd passed, that this would beat me. If anything, this race was a culmination, a celebration even, of the months I had put in to physically get back to normal. 

The race started, and the camaraderie was stunning. 10,000 people all united in a single cause to take their bodies to the limit, and get to take in some sights of NYC in the process. 7 miles through Central Park, 3 miles through midtown & times square, and 3 miles down the West Side highway. NYC had literally shut down for this race. It was a truly unique experience.

The first few miles flew by, as it was more of a spectacle than anything else. It was hard to even think about being tired with such positive energy all around. At every phase of the race people were cheering you on. One of the most amazing aspects was looking at all the signs that family members held up. Signs of inspiration. Some people were battling back from injuries, illnesses, or were running in honor of lost family members, or for a cause - like cancer. Everyone had a reason to be there.

As I rounded out mile 7 I felt great. I was finishing up Central Park, and overall my legs and body still felt strong. I exited the park into Midtown where I was greeted by an amazing sight: Times Square lined with people all cheering their hearts out, bands playing on the side, cheerleaders, ABC cameras, and more. It was at the point I felt very small in comparison to all that was in front of me. I was trekking across Manhattan, surrounded by 10,000 people all doing the same. 

I stopped at nearly every fluid station to down gatorade and dump water on myself, as my body tried to keep up with my excited and inspired mind. I hit mile 11, and it was here that I finally felt the wear and tear of the race. My legs felt heavy. But, I had come too far not to push through this. I had come very far, indeed.

I hit mile 12 and let out "one more baby, one more," to which the man next to me turned and smile and lifted one single finger in agreement. I picked up the pace yet again, as I was almost sad to have the whole thing come to an end. I hit the "800 meters to go" mark, and then a few minutes later the "400 meters to go." I was ahead of my 2 hour goal, and was very very close. Around the bend and I spotted the finish line. It was here that it hit me all too hard. I came to the end and lifted my hands in the air, then over my face as I crossed the line and took a few moments to soak it all in: A few months ago I could barely stand under my own power, walking came next. When I began running after the surgery I noticed that without a true rib cage on the right side, my lungs couldn't expand to same way they could on the left, which made heavy breathing very difficult. My core muscles were left severely weakened from the surgery, and your core is an immense part of running. Yet, despite all this, I took it upon myself not just to get back into shape, or begin running regularly, but to take on a feat that I had never even thought of while in my best shape pre-surgery.

I had one overarching thought throughout the duration of the entire race, and it culminated at the end. It wasn't the day after my 5 hour surgery that cemented this single fact, nor was it when I returned to work, or began playing basketball. Thing single thought I had, 5 1/2 months after surgery was this: I beat cancer. In a weird way, it took this - something I could never have done before cancer plagued me - to prove that I won. That if this couldn't beat me, nothing would. And now I have a gold medal to remember it by, and another reason to believe that there is always hope.

There is Always Hope

When I was a kid I used to ask for signs. Stupid things. Things like "God, if the Bulls are going to pull this game out in the 4th quarter... give me a sign." Then, I'd expect a picture to fall off the wall or something. It never happened, but then again the Bulls had Michael Jordan. They probably didn't need the divine intervention. Still, I don't think signs work that way. I get the feeling they are a bit more complex.

When you try to put together the picture of what six weeks of recovery from a cancerous tumor looks like - its difficult to walk that thin line between melodrama and meaningful perspective. But, some things are undeniable. For instance, I have a wallpaper background on my laptop of a graffiti artist - Banksy. I put it up on my computer months ago; a picture of a little girl, hair blowing in the wind, outstretched arms, just out of reach of a heart shaped balloon floating away. In itself it's a nice picture. Nothing amazing, but rather an interesting moment frozen in time of a girl and her balloon, juxtaposed on a dreary street corner in London somewhere. But, that wasn't all to the photo. On the same cement, a few yards down from the girl was a simple phrase etched on the wall in sloppy handwriting: "THERE IS ALWAYS HOPE"

I remember there being a moment, days before the surgery, when things started to feel all too real. In hindsight, the anticipation was far and away the worst part. But, then I saw that photo of the girl, and the balloon, and the phrase of hope. I wish I could say it was like a shining light, some powerful message that carried me through unchartered waters, but that's all too cliche. It wasn't as much that I carried it with me, but rather that it stuck. Days, weeks later, I found myself coming back to it, unable to shake it from my memory. And, it wasn't nearly as much for me as it was for others. While there was a cancer on my side, the people I shared a floor with at the hospital were men and women of all types of conditions. Some better, some worse. Some were probably like me - going home in a few days. But, some were small children, all too young to be in such a place. Some were old, and tired, and had surely ditched hope years ago for a much more tangible sidekick - survival. But, that's not to say the hope wasn't there.

I don't know what it was about that simple phrase, but it still hasn't quite left me, and I hope it doesn't. It's not hard to walk away from a situation such as this and say that you learned to live everyday like your last. Or, to cherish everything because it can be taken away in a heartbeat. And, those things would be right. But, few people can actually live everyday like their last, or defend against getting comfortable with the things they cherish. I'll want to throw my blackberry against a wall sometime soon. I'll be mad that I missed too many shots in a basketball game sometime soon. I'll let things get to me. That's not the point. The point is that there are things deserving of hope all around - things I most likely would have been blind to before. And, I don't consider myself some phrophet because I had a tumor. Everyone finds their way on their own, and it would be ignorant of me to think I am in a position to impose whatever "lessons" I may have learned on anyone else. Sharing is a different story. So, if walking away from the hospital, and working my way through recovery with the image of that girl and her balloon and the phrase of hope is what I take from this experience - I'm fine with that. Mr. Morton would probably fine with that, I'm sure. So would the little 5 year old boy down the hall, and the the nice British woman's father. After all, "hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies." Thanks Andy Dufrense.

Steve Lavin and Homer Simpson. Ahh, it must be March.

Rot - verb

1. to undergo decomposition; decay. most likely in the form of sitting or laying position. typically on a sofa with some sort of entertainment.

2. Mind completely shutting down

source: Ricky Butler personally published dictionary

Hockey, baseball, football, futbol, college football ... umm, arena football... fans across the globe: soak this in.  Let it marinate.  The best time in sports all year.  March.  College basketball.  Mmm, that tastes good, huh?  The 11 other months of the year I am subjected to Chris Mortenson analyzing the NFL, Kirk Herbstreet analyzing CFB, Mel Kiper breaking down the draft picks, Lou Holtz shocking the world day in and day out that a) he is still alive and b) ESPN still employs him.  I am subjected to baseball lasting FOREVER, and completely befuddling the mind by scheduling 245 games per day, despite their only being 30 MLB teams.  And soccer and hockey, well, being professional sports (Beckham in LA! that was cool for about a day).  

It doesn't get better than the NCAA tournament, and even most non-basketball fans willing to swallow their pride can admit that.  And, while I couldn't have predicted or planned this (well, I could have, but that have been borderline masochistic) I have received doctor's orders to continue to Rot for the first two rounds of the greatest show on earth (sorry Ringling Brothers Barnum & Bailey, and the St. Louis Rams '99-'01 "greatest show on turf").  What is rotting you (read: me) ask?  It's doing nothing.  It's sinking so far into your couch that you create a Homer Simpson ass-groove.  It's being so mindless that you answer questions with grunts and moans.  In this particular situation, it's absorbing zone defenses, cinderellas, sleepers, upsets, buzzer beaters, blowouts, and Steve Lavin's gelled hair until you melt into an extension of the television.  It's really quite beautiful.

But, we all know this.  Everyone knows this - that March Madness is the best.  But, what's special about this year?  Well, here's 3 things I like, and 3 things I don't like:

Like

1: The freshman.  Is it just me or do you need to continue to be reminded these kids are 18 and 19 (OJ Mayo is actually 20, go figure).  Not that they are this good at such a young age, but that they are grown men with facial hair that puts Adam Morrison's senior year mustache to shame.

2. The middle of the pack.  Villanova is a 12 seed, Notre Dame is a 5 seed, and Duke is a 2 seed, and I have absolutely no idea which team is the best.  Jim Boeheim said it best on PTI in that with all the studs leaving early for the NBA you don't have truly great teams anymore, but just a bunch of good ones.  Great, my bracket is screwed.

3. Psycho T.  What is up with Tyler Hansbrough?  Oh wait, these are things I like?  Woops, wrong category.

Don't Like

1. ESPN "expert" pics.  Between Jay Bilas, Reece Davis, Digger Phelps, Hubert "quickly to be replaced full time by Bob Knight" Davis, Bob Knight, and Dick Vitale no one besides Knight picked a seed lower than #2 to be in the final four.  Thanks, experts.  No, really, thanks.  I mean, the selection committee spends hours and hours to determine who the top 8 seeds are, and the guys on ESPN are earning their keep by pointing out to us exactly which 8 teams they picked.  We can read, guys, but really, thanks.  Way to go out on a limb.

2. Butler-Southern Alabama & Gonzaga-Davidson.  Probably the 4 best mid-major schools are slated to play each other in the first round.  I know the selection committee doesn't have enough time to take everything into account, but we see mid-majors play each other all year long.  Isn't this the time we see if they can hang with the big boys? 

3. Bob Knight.  To make up for Psycho T belonging in this category (purely for his super weird intensity), I'll put Knight in the "like" category.  After a whopping 3 days of experience he's already better than most as a TV analyst and does so by simply speaking from the immense amount of basketball knowledge he has.  In the midst of the immense time crunch of the tournament picks (and my depressing amount of ESPN watching) I've seen technical difficulties (prompter not working, graphics not working, etc.) completely stump the analysts.  It's like they don't even know what basketball is without a teleprompter.  Knight has been good, very good even.

Should be a good few weeks.  I have Kansas, Memphis, UCLA, and Tennessee in the final 4 - three #1's and a #2.  Looks like I am a product of my own rotting; unable to go out on a limb picking anything but what the experts tell me.

Sneakerology 101. Seriously.

I feel conflicted, torn, confused.  I'm searching for answers, direction, a sign even.  Carnegie Mellon, a rival athletic institution of my alma mater NYU (yes they both have athletic programs), has started offering the course "Sneakerology 101."  How could this be possible?  How could Carnegie Mellon, far and away one of the most boring campuses I have ever set foot on, offer this class?  A school located in Pittsburgh.  Pittsburgh! Blue collar Steelers fans.  They aren't interested in the origin of the Nike Dunk, or the uprising caused by Run DMC - the first hip hop group to to receive a Million dollar contract from Adidas.  How could NYU not have jumped on this earlier?  I mean, I took plenty of ridiculous classes at NYU, and Sneakerology 101 would rank right up there near the top.  The entire student population is full of vibrant, diverse, fashionistas with too much money and not enough time.  There could have even been a field trip to one of the local sneaker bodegas offering one-of-a-kind kicks.  Are they going to open a Flight Club in Pittsburgh? (hint: the answer is no)  

I should be happy about this.  An extremely respected university embracing the roots of the Sneaker culture; from hip-hop and basketball to the modern day marketing schemes of Nike.  But, all I find myself is feeling like a sore loser, a bad sport, a disgruntled college graduate that was stuck taking African American Vernacular English 101 (seriously) as an elective (actually one of the harder courses I ever took).  Eh, there's always grad school.

Can I have surgery... umm with a side of an aston martin, rolex, and some crocodile loafers. yeah, definitely don't forget the loafers.

Not that I expected different, but hot damn there are a lot of 0's at the end of the the bill after surgery and a hospital stay.

Kind of alarming to think of the 47 million Americans that go without health insurance.  But don't take my word for it, here's a little more hard data than just my two cents (or couple hundred thousand)...

• Nearly 47 million Americans, or 16 percent of the population, were without health insurance in 2005, the latest government data available.¹
• The number of uninsured rose 2.2 million between 2005 and 2006 and has increased by almost 9 million people since 2000.¹
• The large majority of the uninsured (80 percent) are native or naturalized citizens.²
• The increase in the number of uninsured in 2006 was focused among working age adults. The percentage of working adults (18 to 64) who had no health coverage climbed from 19.7 percent in 2005 to 20.2 percent in 2006.1 Nearly 1.3 million full-time workers lost their health insurance in 2006.
• Nearly 90 million people - about one-third of the population below the age of 65 spent a portion of either 2006 or 2007 without health coverage.³
• Over 8 in 10 uninsured people come from working families - almost 70 percent from families with one or more full-time workers and 11 percent from families with part-time workers.²
• The percentage of people (workers and dependents) with employment-based health insurance has dropped from 70 percent in 1987 to 59 percent in 2006. This is the lowest level of employment-based insurance coverage in more than a decade.^{4, 5}
• In 2005, nearly 15 percent of employees had no employer-sponsored health coverage available to them, either through their own job or through a family member.⁶
• In 2006, 37.7 million workers were uninsured because not all businesses offer health benefits, not all workers qualify for coverage and many employees cannot afford their share of the health insurance premium even when coverage is at their fingertips.¹
• The number of uninsured children in 2006 was 8.7 million - or 11.7 percent of all children in the U.S.¹ The number of children who are uninsured increased by nearly 610,000 in 2006, the second year that the number of uninsured children increased.
• Young adults (18-to-24 years old) remained the least likely of any age group to have health insurance in 2005 - 29.3 percent of this group did not have health insurance.
• Nearly 40 percent of the uninsured population reside in households that earn $50,000 or more.¹ A growing number of middle-income families cannot afford health insurance payments even when coverage is offered by their employers.

source: National Coalition on Health Care

Who wants to move to Canada?

My own "True Life"

MTV may have gone off the deep end (sorry Lauren Conrad followers) with their bevy of reality shows, but one of the few shows that remains refreshing is their "True Life" series.  Always entertaining, whether they are following soldiers coming back from Iraq or overweight teenagers, one of the most interesting episodes was "True Life: I'm moving back home."  The show chronicled three young adults as they moved back in with their parents after stints of independence.  Even though I came home with a duffle bag and a small suitcase (and no intention of ever moving back in) - that show has been feeling all too familiar in my own life over the past 3 1/2 weeks.

Independence, like many other aspects of life, is a funny thing in that you don't truly appreciate it until it is taken away from you.  Living in my own studio apartment by myself for the past 8 months has worked out great for me.  It's nice to come home to your own space after work.  I have a gym down the street.  I have a nice TV.  My bed is comfortable.  Cool, right?  Well, mix one part surgery, one part recovery, one part short term disability, and one part recuperating at your parents house and that nice little world (of independence) that I've created for myself has all of a sudden disappeared.  But, what could be so bad - it's just taking it easy at home with the 'rents for a few weeks?  Well, New York City has a reputation for being the "city that never sleeps," and as cliche as that saying is, it still spawned from some sort of truth.  Unfortunately for me, my house in suburban New Jersey really really values sleep, and I'm not exactly used to being yelled at for watching TV too loud past 9:30.

Most important, however, hasn't been the mild noise violations I have incurred, but rather my slowly but surely returning need for independence that is being thwarted by the parental influence that reigns supreme at 22 Olden Drive.  As I find myself able to move around more and more, I also find myself butting heads with the powers that be as if I was 16 again.  Just like the MTV series portrayed, it's not easy for grown children to take orders again after they have come so accustomed to living on their own dime and own itinerary.  Hey, I love my parents and they're great, but there is a point where enough is enough and it goes without saying that the itch to get back to living on my own feels like the product of a full fledged head to toe rash at this point.  

 

The 5 Stages

Thus far in my life I have been lucky enough not to deal with too much grief.  I have lost 3 grandparents and a dog, and as sad as it may sound, I was probably closest with the dog.  Regardless, the stages of grief, in my own personal opinion, can also be applied to other traumatic experiences in one's life.  In returning to the MSKCC after a couple weeks at home on the mend it got me thinking: I have certainly come a long way since my initial appointments, and the surgery - nearly 3 weeks ago.  In a very stripped down and raw tone, I think my own progression goes something like this...

• Denial - "Look, I appreciate my family physician referring me to a good doctor in NY, but I think he overestimated my condition.  I mean, everyone in here has cancer.  I don't belong here.  A chemotherapy suite?  Um, yeah.  I need to get the hell out of here.  I'm not sick like them."

• Anger - "Alright, I've had to come back here 3 times now.  Why the hell are they treating me like I have cancer?  This is bullshit.  I've had this stupid thing on my side for a while now, and it's not causing any pain, so how the hell could it be something dangerous.  I'm wasting my time."

• Bargaining - "Ok fine, what if I do all the research, take tons of vitamins and all types of things that will make me really healthy - maybe when I have the surgery the doctor's will realize it's not that serious.  Could that work?  I mean, it might.  I'll just be really prepared, and maybe it will turn out to be nothing."

• Depression - *laying in a hospital bed, trying to move around* "umm. this sucks."

• Acceptance - "I've come back to the hospital and the word 'cancer' doesn't make me cringe anymore.  This isn't so bad.  The worst is behind me.  The people in the waiting room no longer look desperate and sick to me anymore, but rather people with hope to recover and people I can relate to.  Yeah, it's rough, but best case scenario they'll be just fine - like me.  Thank god my doctor's are smart, capable, and skilled.  I owe them a lot.  But, oh yeah, the coffee in the waiting room still sucks."

I'm extremely happy that I'm at a place much closer to "acceptance" than "depression," and I think a great deal of that goes to the fact that I had doctor's that not only knew how to use a sharp tool to cut me open, but also knew how to explain things, answer questions, and listen.  Dr. Pusic, the plastic surgeon, showed great empathy and managed to take the issue of moving an entire muscle in my back and make it something I understood. Dr. Park had to kind of figuratively slap me across the face a few times because of my blatant ignorance.  In my first appointment with him I asked if I could have the surgery on Friday so that I could return to work on Monday - only missing one day.  In hindsight, I'm not sure a cross between the Terminator and Cal Ripken could have pulled that off.  But, it just goes to show how much of denial I was in that this "thing" on my side was anything serious.   Yeah, I'm pretty lucky.

word

Basford

When it drains it pours

Returning back to Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center for my follow-up appointments, I knew it was going to be a long day.  We set out on the open (read: traffic) road at 8:30 am.  The first appointment was with the plastic surgeon at 10:45 (read: showed up at 10, didn't go in until 11:30), followed by a chest x-ray at 12:30, followed by another appointment with my main thoracic surgeon at 1pm, followed by ensuring my apartment was in one piece, followed by driving (read: me sleeping in the passenger seat) home.  It was a process to say the least, but the goal was to get it all done in one shot.  

While my main incision has been really healing nicely, and the percocet has been holding up it's end of the bargain taking care of the internal pain, the most annoying thing about my condition is that I have two drainage tubes in my back.  They make sleeping, sitting, moving around, etc. a pain because they are not exactly in the most convenient place.  My big goal with these appointments (besides obviously being told I am doing well) was to get these tubes removed and finally be detached of all things foreign to my body (except for the mesh and cement that now serve as 4 of my ribs, of course).  Well, the doc took a look and made the executive decision that one of the tubes can be removed, but the second one needs to stay, at least for a few more days.  

So, while I thought my energy level has risen to a near-normal level, this trip to NYC landed me comatose in my bed for 4 hours upon immediate arrival back home - and I need to do it all over again on Thursday.  However, I understand that things must be kept in perspective and they could be much much worse.  The main surgeon was very pleased, and, in fact, told me he didn't need to see me for another 5 or 6 months; for another CAT scan to ensure the tumor is not growing back.  The pathology report confirmed that the tumor was a desmoid cancer, but it also confirmed that removing it ridded my body of that cancer.  Maybe I'm being a drama queen about having to make another day trip into NY for a dr's appt.  It's not so bad.

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