Fix Me (Part IV of IV)

Fix Me (Part I of IV)
Fix Me (Part III of IV)

I ate almost nothing for a length of time you probably wouldn’t even believe. Humans can survive a month without food? I finally started to feel better when summer fruits were just hitting the markets. Of all the foods I could’ve eaten, it was fruit that I wanted most. I couldn’t stop thinking about how amazing it would taste, how juicy it would be on the first bite, how I’d let it run down my chin.

A nice man who volunteered to help out patient’s families brought me plums, nectarines and peaches. I may not have slept at all the night before because I was so excited. But, the day he delivered them I got a bad cold with yellow fungus growing on my tongue. I couldn’t taste or smell anything. I tried so hard just to sniff the nectarine, but I couldn’t. It was crushing, something I perceived as a major setback. I was so close, but it would be several more weeks before I could enjoy my first nectarine.

My hospital discharge also kept getting pushed back. It seemed like every week my doctor would give a new timetable for my departure. I kept having issues out of my control that delayed things. I developed problems I hadn’t heard of or known were even possible.

And then, one day almost out of the blue, everything cleared up and I was discharged to our apartment two blocks away.

I was in the hospital so long I forgot what fresh air felt like, or what the world looked like without glass in front. I’ll never forget the view when I took my first step out of the hospital’s rotating doors that cloudy afternoon. I took a mental picture so I’d never forget. The colors, the smell, the feeling were spectacular. It was my single happiest moment which I doubt will be surpassed, which isn’t a bad thing. During those few seconds I was high as shit on the greatest drug of all – life.

At the apartment I turned on my computer and listened to a song I couldn’t get out of my head the entire day: Travis Tritt’s It’s a Great Day to be Alive. I wasn’t angry that I got a second cancer at 19, or that I was poked and prodded every which way, or that I lived in a single hospital room without ESPN for far too long. Remember in City Slickers how they talk about their “best day?” That may have been mine.

Unfortunately, that was all short lived. I was back in the hospital two days later in a very demoralizing situation. If I had it my way, not a single person would see me like that. Not Biel, Keibler, a friend, brother or mother. Actually, it was Keibler who was there when the tube finally got pulled from my dick, which then didn’t resemble a penis at all. I looked down, looked back up at Keibler and asked in a shocked tone, “What the fuck is that?” It was the first and only time I used that word to a doctor or nurse.

She looked at it and said, “I don’t know.” Keibler then asked the other nurse present if it was common for the tip to look like that. Yes, she responded, and it would go back to normal in a few days. Not even Wilt Chamberlain had as many people see his junk in such a short period of time as me those few weeks.

My only joy was watching the Arnold Schwarzenegger marathon on TV in honor of Terminator 3: Rise of the Machines. We saw the movie in the theaters later that summer. In my and my dad’s opinion, it completed the Terminator series as one of the greatest ever. We were pissed Arnold became governor because he could no longer do movies. He’s the best.

There was nothing joyous about my release that second time. I was so furious that I probably would’ve left even if my doctor didn’t properly discharge me.

The rest of my time in Minnesota was very pleasant. My brother’s good friend, NoCommonSense, came to visit and we all saw Pirates of the Caribbean: The Curse of the Black Pearl. My family and I also saw one of my favorite people, Will Smith, in Bad Boys II. A couple times I laughed so hard I almost puked.

Even though I could barely eat, JD took me anywhere I wanted to get food, which happened to be everywhere. I’d been dreaming about food for so long I just had to taste it all, no matter how few bites I could finish. The food tasted fantastic, but I was extremely disappointed that I could eat so little. I didn’t know it, but I was still really fucked up.

My mom became friends with a woman who worked for the Minnesota Twins. She set us up in a secluded press box for two games. My name was shown on the jumbo screen the first, and my family got the privilege to meet Harmon Killebrew the second.
Minneapolis is a beautiful city. I say that without having gone in the winter, which I’ve heard is brutally cold. The people are kind, the city is clean, and downtown is modern with large skyscrapers. My dad took a walk every day along the Mississippi River and said the scenery was great. He also said the geese were very angry and would chase him around. They can be mean critters.

As long as everything stays status quo, I only have to return one more time this spring. But, I expect to go back some day on my own accord. Gopher country will always hold a special place in my heart.

That goes for the hospital, as well, and all the people who worked so hard to keep me alive. When I got back to Virginia, if I had trouble sleeping I would prop myself up with pillows and try to visualize lying on the retractable bed in my old hospital room. I normally felt very safe and peaceful there. I’d also try to listen to the buzzing of the huge HEPA filter in the ceiling. That combination put me right to sleep. I still do the pillow trick, but forgot what the HEPA filter sounded like. I think that’s a good thing.

I was given a 30% chance of surviving and I'm still here. I didn’t do it with superhuman abilities like my first cancer, but I survived. Maybe that fact alone means I still have a little Superman in me.

Fix Me (Part III of IV)

Fix Me (Part I of IV)
Fix Me (Part II ov IV)

The other patients hung pictures on the outside of their doors, mostly from when they were healthy. I added one decoration to my room, but it wasn’t a self-portrait – it was a Rocky poster. One doctor joked that he wanted to see me throw a few punches. I’m certain he didn’t understand the reason I put it up. He probably thought it was because I enjoyed the movie and admired Rocky Balboa. Both are true, but not the major reason. The movie is widely considered a classic. And the character, Rocky, was one of the easiest to root for of any movie I’ve seen. Not only do I admire the character Rocky, but I also admire Stallone for playing him beautifully and creating him. Stallone forwent guaranteed wealth to act the role instead of selling the script, a huge risk on his part.

The major reason I hung the poster across from my bed was inspiration – more specifically, the fear that some time during the transplant process I would need to be inspired. I had the same fear during my first cancer, and kept the soundtrack with me at all times. Just in case. I never listened, though. I didn’t need it. It was evident by the third cycle of chemotherapy that I was supremely capable of battling cancer. I was The One. I was Superman. That self-concept didn’t go away when I was diagnosed with the second cancer.

The ideal that I was Superman did take a hit, though. Physically, I wasn’t extraordinary the way I was the first time. To the best of my knowledge I didn’t recover faster than others, didn’t avoid problems more than others, and didn’t survive easier than others. No bullshit, the transplant fucked my shit up, just as it was supposed to. I was just an ordinary bone marrow transplant patient. At the time I was okay with being normal. Surviving was all I cared about.

I did use Rocky for inspiration, even though I may not have needed him. I looked at him during the day since the poster was right across from my bed. And I finally listened to the soundtrack while receiving my anonymous umbilical cord stem cell transplant.

On Transplant Day, Biel brought in my bag of stem cells and I did a double take. It was a tiny volume of red liquid. This little motherfucker is really supposed to save my life?

Biel asked if I wanted to say anything before she began infusing. I wanted to say the Jewish prayer called the Sh’ma, but felt stupid and instead said, “Do your job, little fella.” My “no complaining” rule prohibited me from making a big deal out of it. Instead I had to make a joke out of it.

It was no joke and I knew that. When Biel unleashed the cells I went into a deep fantasy of the cells rapidly duplicating and repopulating my bone marrow. The fantasies of my nurses taking off their clothes didn’t pan out, but I sure hoped this one did.

I was given memorabilia sports fans would slobber over. For my Transplant Day gift, the hospital gave me a football the Minnesota Vikings played with in a regular season game. My immune system was nonexistent, so the ball was wrapped in two bags and had to be taken out of my room immediately. It now sits on my dresser at home in front of my Wall of Fame. Right next to that is the mini-basketball signed by former University of Minnesota men’s basketball head coach, Dan Monson. And a Harmon Killebrew-signed baseball. Killebrew is ninth on the all-time home run list. On the Wall is my shrine to former Vikings Randy Moss and Daunte Culpepper (even though I’m a Redskins fan for life). A hat signed by the quarterback Culpepper, who in 2004 had the 3rd highest passer rating of all-time. And a paper signed by Culpepper, Chris Hovan, Michael Bennett and Randy Moss, who in my opinion is the most talented wide receiver ever.

Later I was also given an autographed picture of Frank Howard, the two-time American League Home Run King. And the football signed by Marcus Allen, the tenth leading rusher in NFL history. And the baseball from Lou Brock’s 3000th hit. He autographed it, of course. Last but not least, the Goldy Gopher bobblehead. Goldy is the delightful University of Minnesota mascot.

Fix Me (Part IV of IV)

Fix Me (Part II of IV)

Fix Me (Part I of IV)

My first night in the hospital was the night before treatment began – the treatment that would wipe out my existing bone marrow. Once my parents and Aunt Marchi left, I watched Training Day before going to sleep. That night it was easy to forget that I would soon be getting inhumane doses of chemotherapy and radiation, “Ten times more toxic than for your previous cancer,” as one doctor described it. I had my own room with an adjustable bed, a large chair with a footrest, a TV, my PlayStation 2 and DVDs up the wazoo. I had pretty girls looking over me from their desk just outside my room. In every facet except one, I was in heaven.

And that one facet was terrible, horrible, intolerable, and fortunately only one week long because it would’ve killed me if it was much longer. Even though it was only a week, its effect on me lasted far longer.

The conditioning regimen temporarily left me unable to taste. My saliva no longer resembled a liquid – my spit stuck to my puke buckets like caulk. I wouldn’t be surprised if it hardened. I went days without eating anything except a few ice chips. I went weeks without eating anything except a few Ritz crackers. I shit and puked so hard I was depleted of all energy and had trouble getting back into bed. I had a treadmill brought into my room so I could stay active, but after three minutes of light walking I could barely breathe and had to stop. It took a good 5 minutes of sitting before my heart rate dropped below 100 beats per minute.

On one occasion I nearly accepted the offer to be wheeled down to my radiation session. In the end I declined. I’d rather crawl on my fucking hands and knees than be pushed in a wheelchair. By the fourth session my nurses knew I would never take the seat and stopped ordering the wheelchair valet.

It was the constant chills that were worst of all. I was cold down to my core for days or maybe even weeks. I was fucked up for so long it’s hard to even remember at this point. I wore double-layered warm-up pants and a hooded sweatshirt, and was under five or six blankets, and that still didn’t stop the cold.

For my own safety, I was isolated from the world and rarely even caught a glimpse of another patient. By nature we’d ask our nurses about the other kids, since we ourselves would probably never meet even though we shared the same house, roommates, and sometimes the same wall. There were two other patients I was friends with. I never saw them. I never spoke to them. I just kept tabs on them.

One younger teenage boy was stationed in the room next to mine. I heard him puke as I’m sure he heard me. For some reason we would get the same ailments, almost at the same time. After I got released for the first time I ended up back at the hospital two days later. I wanted the same room, but it was occupied by my old next-door neighbor who was both discharged and readmitted slightly before me, for the exact same condition. In a fucked-up way I found that hilarious.

A different, much younger boy had Racecar as one of his primary nurses. Racecar told him all about me, and apparently he looked up to me. For his Transplant Day gift the hospital gave him a toy car. I think it was remote control Hummer. Racecar said he was so anxious to play with it that once he was allowed to walk in the halls he immediately drove it around. Racecar said he’d specifically take the hall outside my room just in case he could see me, or maybe even just to see the door with my name on it. I don’t know why he looked up to me, but it was touching that he did. I wanted to continue exuding that quality, whatever it was. I hope I still do.

I know for a fact one of my friends died.

Fix Me (Part III of IV)

Fix Me (Part I of IV)

On the plane ride I wore a high school Senior Buddy t-shirt that said “Need Help?” on the front, and “Follow Me” on the back. I wasn’t actually a Senior Buddy, but in homeroom I saw an extra shirt lying around so I snagged it.

As I walked to my window seat a stranger looked at me and said, “I need help.”

“What?” I asked, wondering if he was even talking to me.

“Help me…it’s on your shirt.”

“Oh. Yeah. Follow Me,” I said pointing to the back. He laughed.

I wasn’t used to that kind of friendly, albeit strange, conversation. But I was headed to the Midwest for my umbilical cord stem cell transplant and my mom, who grew up in Springfield, Illinois, said that’s how people are out there. She’ll be the first to tell you it’s the exact opposite of Brooklyn, where my dad is from. She likes to tell a story of when they were in a grocery store and asked an employee where an item was located. He turned away from my parents, stuck his nose high in the air and answered their question, refusing to look at them.

A few days later we went out to dinner and the waitress asked what we were doing in Minneapolis. “Benjamin is getting a bone marrow transplant at the University of Minnesota,” my mom responded. The waitress took a seat on the booth, wrapped her arm around me and sincerely wished me luck. Before I just thought she talked with a funny accent, but afterward I thought she lost her marbles.

After landing at the airport, we went to McDonald’s for breakfast on the way to the clinic for my first day of intense testing. I wasn’t hungry and barely ate any of my hotcakes. How could I be hungry? If my ideal bone marrow transplant was in the least bit accurate then in two weeks I was going to be fucked up beyond a masochist’s wildest dreams. Of course, I didn’t think that would happen to me. That still didn’t make me want my hotcakes, though.

The first test performed at the clinic was a blood draw. I could just as easily call it a blood drain considering there was a basketful of vials. The nurse did something wrong because it felt like the needle punctured my bicep. It was a bad way to start the whole process. Your confidence can only remain so high when you statistically have a better chance of dying than living.

While sitting in one of the countless waiting rooms for one of my countless tests, another future transplantee took the chair next to my brother. He was an eight-year-old from Georgia with a thick southern accent. He struck up a conversation with JD about his four-wheeler and his plans for when he got home. He talked so fast I’m not even sure he was breathing. Every once in awhile my brother would say, “Yeah,” or “Mmm-hmm,” just to show he was still listening even though he probably didn’t want to. The boy, who we called Georgia, was annoying to the point of being amusing, at least from my bystander perspective.

There was something so refreshing and innocent about Georgia. Whereas I understood my chances of survival but didn’t think they applied to me, he didn’t even comprehend. To him, the transplant was simply a means of temporarily halting his playtime. It reminded me of something written in one of Lance Armstrong’s memoirs about children being able to cope with cancer better than adults because all they want to do is finish treatment so they can go out and play.

JD and I later joked that he and Georgia were best friends. Georgia shared as much of his life story with JD as he could fit in 20 minutes of continuous talking. He probably just thought JD was friendly enough to talk to. What a fucking tragedy that Georgia had to go through such hell just so he could once again ride on his four-wheeler, or even worse, if he didn’t live to ride again.

I’ll never know if Georgia lived. I didn’t even know his real name. He and I were both on the bubble, meaning we had a fighting chance. I bumped into a couple others who might as well have been stuffed in a body bag because they had no shot. They were too fucked up to begin with. You better be in tip-top shape before you get a bone marrow transplant because it will FUCK YOU UP.

I give my hospital tremendous credit for conveying a sense of peace and happiness. It was as pleasant an environment as I’d ever seen in a hospital, notwithstanding a floor dedicated to transplants where I’m guessing half the patients die. The layout was very informal; there wasn’t a hierarchy with the nurse’s desk in a separate location. It was basically right outside my hospital room. There were no dull colors, either: the wooden doors were a lively brown and the walls were blue, pink or white. Part of the pleasantness probably had something to do with it being a pediatric transplant unit.

The same can be said for the disproportionate number of pretty nurses who, in my experience, are more prevalent in pediatric than adult units. Some of them were GORGEOUS, and I don’t use that term often. One nurse looked nearly identical to Stacy Keibler.

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Another looked a bit like Jessica Biel. As much as I liked many of the nurses and don’t want to put any one down, if I had to choose my favorite it would be Biel. In fact, she was one of my favorite nurses ever.

Off the top of my head I can think of five others I’d consider hot, one of which was absolutely in a world of her own. Definitely one of the hottest girls I’ve personally seen. They probably all thought I was a quiet dork because I’d get so nervous around them. That goes double for Biel, who I had a crush on for the next two years. Needless to say, the actual Jessica Biel jumped to #1 on my Top Five List, and has since traded back and forth with Jessica Alba. And to think that she had to measure my puke, piss, and shit on a daily basis. If I got another crack at it now I know I’d act cooler around them. Years of female scorn have trained me. A couple shots of vodka wouldn’t hurt, either.

An older nurse, Racecar, thought I reminded her of her own son and adored me from the start. She sometimes took Biel’s shift, which pissed me off. Racecar grew on me, though. Like all of them, she really knew her shit. She treated me almost like her own child, once even holding my hand through one of the more painful experiences of my life.

Fix Me (Part II of IV)

Their Perfect Legacy

During the Giants final drive I looked at my dad and said, “If the Patriots keep blowing opportunities, they’re going to lose this game.” They let an interception slip through their hands and let Eli slip out of a critical sack. They lost the game because of these and other missed opportunities, as well as a relentless Giants pass rush.

I don’t know how the Patriots will bounce back from last night’s Super Bowl loss. I doubt they, or any other team, will ever again go 16-0 in the regular season. This was their one chance to go down as an elite team in American sports history. It would’ve been the pinnacle of success – an undefeated season. Even if they win another Super Bowl they may always think, “What if.” They’ve already won three, and a fourth championship will still be just a fourth championship. It won’t be perfection. I think they’ll be sick about this loss forever.

For the legacies of Tom Brady and Bill Belichick, it would’ve been better if they had never gone perfect and hadn’t reached the Super Bowl. Losing one looks so much worse than not making it. If they had won they would’ve been viewed as one of the best quarterbacks and head coaches ever, respectively. That will have to wait, if it happens at all.

People will downplay the Patriots' 18-1 season, maybe even calling them chokers. I think that is unfair. Winning 18 straight before losing the last game of the season is an incredible feat. If they had lost their only game earlier, they would've been considered one of the best NFL teams ever. Now, they're not even in the running. It's funny how the placement of that single loss changes everything.

I commend the Patriots for providing such a memorable and exciting football season. I watched many of their games, and they either blew teams away putting up incredible numbers, or went down to the wire with each play as intense as the last. If nothing else, they were fun as hell to watch.