Last year, soon after I created this blog, I promoted it at my school, the University of Virginia. It began with an article I wrote for The Cavalier Daily. Then there were the flyers.

If I had it my way I would’ve hired The Martin Agency—the advertising firm that created the GEICO caveman ads—to market my blog. I imagine a Jewish fellow frolicking through cyberspace minding his own business playing with cashews, almonds, or his own testicles. “So entertaining you’ll even visit on the Sabbath.”

But that would cost loads of money, a resource I didn’t have. I had time. One day I created four flyers, each with a different catchphrase and picture. I wrote my blog URL on tear away slips at the bottom. One flyer said “ONE HIP WONDER,” two had something to do with Superman, and the fourth looked something like this:


I printed over 50 of them, many in color, purchased with my Cavalier Advantage account that my parents paid for. Then I posted them in different locations around campus on bulletin boards, telephone poles and pillars. By the evening, after six grueling hours on a Sunday in April, my job was complete. I went home exhausted, proud of my accomplishment and hopeful that my StatCounter would explode from overuse.

Sadly, I watched that week as my StatCounter showed the same pathetically low numbers as before—the same numbers that I continue to see. Nothing changed. How could that be? The flyers were placed in multiple locations, they were diverse and catchy, and had convenient tear away strips. I had the most perfect, brilliant, genius plan, except…

Sunday nights were when old flyers were trashed to make space for new ones. I guess I missed that flyer.

These are my new mirrored, polarized, aviator sunglasses.

I request that I now be referred to as Maverick.

I am currently accepting applications from anyone who wants to be my Goose. And my hot teacher-girlfriend.

“I think I’ll go embarrass myself with Goose.”

“Goose, even you could get laid in a place like this.”

“Sorry Goose, but it’s time to buzz a tower.”

“Goose: the need for speed!”

Nice Sunglasses, She Said

When I was younger I’d get frustrated at myself for playing poorly in games like putt-putt or bowling. And I sucked. My average putt-putt score was 20 over par and I never broke 100 in bowling.

Fortunately, it no longer bothers me when I stink, which isn’t to say I’m not competitive. I want to win and I want to do well, but I know that win or lose, I’ll still have both my nuts in the end.

My skills, as well as my mindset, have improved. On my last putt-putt outing I beat my friend, Hamburgers, by one stroke. I got three hole-in-ones and finished one under par. Hamburgers got upset for losing, just like I used to get. I’m assuming that he, too, still has both his testicles, although, unlike him, I’m not going to ask for proof.*

The last time I bowled, I stuffed it. I gobbled. I buttered it up. I got a turkey—three strikes in a row. With 3 strikes and a spare in the first 5 frames, I was on pace for a score of 200. I slowed down, ending with 150, still my personal best. If only everyone could’ve seen my turkey dance.
I should take my newfound skills to the assisted living homes and play the residents in Nintendo Wii Bowling. I’ll take those old-timers to school. I’ll show them what it’s like to have two working testicles. Wait. No. Mine work less than theirs do. Damn chemotherapy.

If things get too rowdy then I’ll retrieve my former cane from my closet and cane-fight them. I’m sure Hamburgers and his excessive anger would want in on that action. He’s a sick fuck.*

*Hamburgers’ comment from Angelina Jolie, Will You Marry Me?

When are we going to get visual proof that you still have both your nuts? How do we know this isn't some 'Million Little Pieces of Bullshit' sham? I'm just saying I want a few pics, high resolution. I want to see the nut sweat.

Summertime (Part I of II)

This is the first year when the excitement of another school year ending, of my summer break beginning, isn’t there. I can no longer section the calendar year based on my school status, like which semester I’m in, which makes each day flow into the next like a continuum. The last day of spring has turned into the first day of summer without me even realizing it. Maybe even because of that lack of separation, time seems to go faster.

When I hear Summertime or Boys of Summer, or even How Bizarre, I can’t help but smile. The music must trigger neural pathways in my brain that lead to happiness. The same thing happens when I think of summer activities of my youth, like when Big Easy came up with his rapper name Da Bones, or when I played tennis with Zeke and his parents. “Not in my house!” his dad said every time he spiked the ball.

I won’t be riding my bike around Infincuralier’s hilly yard, or swimming in PepperoniNip’s pool at the houses neither of them live at anymore. Age has caught up with me, at least a little bit, as I search for a job (if anyone knows of environmental or energy analyst positions in Virginia or DC, please let me know).

In January I saw one of my surgeons for my annual checkup. He had forgotten whether he took part in my surgery. “Of course you did,” I said. Dr. Phil was a fellow at the time and has probably done hundreds of surgeries since. I was saddened that he forgot. He’s one of my favorite doctors and I like to think I’m one of his favorite patients. It’s a testament to how far I’ve come. It’s been so long since I’ve had cancer that I’m becoming less classified as a cancer survivor and more as a young adult.

I’ve always had an extraordinary episodic memory, which makes me more prone to miss the old times and probably think of them as better than they actually were. As an example, I still remember the first time I saw a trailer for Independence Day. It was on Mother’s Day, after eating dinner at Romano’s Macaroni Grill and before seeing Broken Arrow. I ordered a pepperoni pizza (what a shocker) and loved the movie (what a shocker). I saw Independence Day while on vacation at Disney World. On the way to our auditorium, located on the far right, we passed a poster for High School High.

My memory is one reason I have not gotten my book published. I remember so many details, maybe even more than normal because of the heightened mental awareness cancer provides. I remember, and therefore to me the details are important. But most people will see them as pointless. The problem is I have trouble deciphering which are important and which aren’t, so I write them all down.

My book is beginning to lose its relevance. I’m no longer twenty-one looking back on cancer like it was yesterday. The way the story was written three years ago, just like my yearning for a summer of old, doesn’t agree with my current age. Even after 13 drafts and an estimated 1,500 hours working on it, some parts are still juvenile. If I can’t get it published soon I may have to go the disgraceful route of self-publishing. I can always rewrite the story, the next time under the tutelage of my friend, author of The Woman Who Never Cooked.

I think I’ll go listen to some Fresh Prince and Don Henley.

The new movie Wanted made me rethink the one thing in this world I knew to be true. I’m not talking about the secret to life, or the purpose of human existence in the universe, or how to survive cancer.

Is Angelina Jolie, and not someone else who goes by the name of Jessica, the sexiest woman alive?

It was more exciting than the gorgeous Orange talking to me, or sitting down with my own pepperoni pizza. I stepped off the bus and for the next 12 weeks I was on summer break.

I didn’t see time the way I see it now. There was the school year and then there were the summers when suddenly I was defined by the next grade level. “Isn’t it crazy that now we’re seventh graders?” I said to Colossus. At least we had three months to wrap our minds around that truly outrageous idea.

I wanted to be the first to hear the “summer song,” like Biggie’s Mo Money Mo Problems or OMC’s How Bizarre of the late 90s. I watched SportsCenter more than once each morning, back when it actually showed game highlights and wasn’t just an advertisement for Gatorade and Budweiser.

I played traditional sports and made-up ones, both outside and inside, hopefully without breaking much of the house. My older brother, JD, and I shot penalty kicks with a Nerf ball against the back of the couch. The trusty window blinds gave us the rebounds if we missed.

After he got home from work, my dad threw the baseball with me and JD to prepare us to be Major League infielders. No matter what, my dad always found the time to play with us.

We did things based on tradition. Several weeks each year JD and I went to an indoor sports camp where I was the king of dodgeball. The camp director was from England, so we played crazy shit like cricket and badminton. We had some fierce games with that shuttlecock.

The four of us drove to Carol Stream, Illinois, for a family reunion. When JD turned sixteen we joked that we should go in a separate car than our parents to see how much earlier we’d arrive. “We may get there before they even reach the Pennsylvania Turnpike.” We also took a trip to New York where my dad suddenly found his Brooklyn accent that had been hiding for 20 years.

In late July we went on our summer vacation, usually to a couple amusement parks, some boring museums and Virginia Beach. It wasn’t my mom’s ideal vacation, but sadly she had little hope of changing it. I used to look forward to it 11.5 months in advance. We stayed at the same hotels as always, ate at the same restaurants, did the same activities. I think it was nostalgia that kept us coming back; keeps us going to an extent.

At the amusement parks, with the exception of one or two shows they made us see, my parents waited for me and my brother on all the kitty rides. When we got older they waited for us on the roller coasters where very long waits weren’t uncommon. They still seemed to enjoy it, maybe because of how much fun JD and I were having.

The nights before we went to Busch Gardens or Kings Dominion I could barely sleep, I was so excited. This past Sunday I went to Kings Dominion and it was sad how different the experience was than it used to be. Riding in the front row of Volcano—one of my all-time favorite coasters—was enjoyable, but when I was in middle or high school it was earthshaking fun.

When Volcano opened in 1998, JD and I waited 3.5 hours to ride it. It was worth the wait. On Sunday, Kings Dominion was virtually empty. The park was cutting back costs, like fewer waterfalls on White Water Canyon and an absence of shows at the theater. One of my childhood loves is deteriorating.

My days were carefree as I pushed my summer reading back until the last weeks before the new school year. My biggest concern was which friend I’d hang out with, or whether we’d play Monopoly or American Gladiators with Nerf guns. Decisions life depended on. One year I broke a window playing baseball and Zeke’s parents caught us watching the stripper scene from True Lies. I didn’t get in much trouble for either.

My mom often took JD and me to lunch or the mall on a rainy day where I was guaranteed a stop in the candy store. At night I could stay up late and have sleepovers. Zeke and I would go through the yearbook and select the girl we’d most like to do from each row. If the row had only dudes then we still had to choose. I picked the goofiest looking guys so I could feel less gay.

Aside from a little boredom—okay, a fair amount of boredom—life was great. We were in our youth, innocent kids with the simple goal of having fun. As I aged, that goal, as well as summer traditions, didn’t change much. When I was 16 I think I saw 12 movies in the theater. If it wasn’t for me hanging on to my traditional summer I would’ve gotten a job with Regal. Then they would’ve paid me to watch the movies.

Most of my friends had no problem moving on, playing the part of their age. That left me with fewer people to spend time with. I wasn’t about to let go of my summer break, the same one I had since my mom was still picking me up at the bus stop.

I had my summer break in college. The activities changed and there were even fewer friends to hang with, not to mention that it wasn’t cool unless there was a group or alcohol was involved. But I clung to my summer breaks the way a cancer woman clings to her last wisps of hair before chemo takes it all.

Summertime (Part II of II)

Like any good statistician, I looked for the numbers that would prove Kobe Bryant is better than LeBron James and I would disregard the rest. It turns out Bron Bron is a statistical freak. He was even better on efficiency ratings like assists to turnovers and points per shot attempted.

I try to like LeBron James. After all, he and I share the same birthday. It’s not his incessant whining or the way he plays the victim role when he’s fouled that makes me dislike him. He is 250 pounds and built like a truck, and I don’t think he needs to check for blood every time he hits the floor.

The reason I can’t embrace LeBron is not his fault. It’s that some people legitimately feel he’s better at basketball than Kobe. Every knowledgeable analyst calls Kobe the best basketball player on the planet. Hubie Brown said he’ll end up one of the five best guards ever. Phil Jackson said he’s one of the two best guards he’s ever seen. We all know who the other one is.

I could make an argument that Kobe is a more polished offensive player than Michael Jordan, that he’s an artist with the ball and can create whatever shot he wants. I could refer to his higher three-point and free-throw percentages to show that he’s a better shooter than Jordan. Of course I won’t say that. That would be Un-American. I’d be deported to Canada.

Three-point shooting and free-throw shooting are also the two stats I’d use to show that Kobe is better than LeBron will ever be. This past season Kobe’s three-point percentage was 5 points higher and his free-throw percentage was 13 points higher. LeBron’s field-goal percentage was slightly higher because of the kind of shots he takes, not because he’s a better shooter.

LeBron’s only offensive weapon, with the exception of some streaky shooting nights, is to get in the lane for a layup or dunk. I expect over time opposing defenses will adapt to his style and force him to shoot more jumpers. LeBron’s jump shot can improve, but it still won’t be close to as good as Kobe’s.

Just as a reminder, Kobe once scored 81 points in a single game, the second most in NBA history. In 2003 he scored 40+ points in 9 consecutive games. In 2006 he scored 45+ points in 4 consecutive games, and a year later Kobe scored 50+ in 4 consecutive games.

Eight years ago I made the claim that Kobe is the next Mike, in the sense that he’ll be as close to Jordan as anyone can be. I may have been correct. Or, maybe I’ve just had a man crush on Kobe Bryant for eight years.

Postscript #1: I also have a man crush on Will Smith.

And Leonardo DiCaprio.
And Ken Griffey, Jr.
And Brad Pitt.
And Tom Brady.
And Josh Holloway.
And Adrian Grenier.
And of course William Hung.
Postscript #2: I’m not gay (not that there’s anything wrong with that).

I was the overwhelming favorite to beat Nookie, curb stomp him and leave him for the vultures and other various scavengers. Nookie was massive, a defensive end at a local high school, and I was just a little old Jew, three years older than him, but in this case size and age and religious views meant nothing.

Everyone was staring at us, and even the Hollywood Video customers – technically called our “guests” – knew that what we were doing was not in our job descriptions. Nookie and I were Guest Service Representatives having a race at the cashier counter to see who could unlock twenty DVDs the fastest.

If it wasn’t an official race for a coveted prize then I would’ve unlocked 100 DVDs before Nookie got to 20. I had Chad Johnson caliber arrogance, but I also had Randy Moss speed. My hands were fast as fuck.

But not on this day. My normally calm hands quivered under the hot lights and menacing customer eyes, unable to get a strong hold on those tricky 2004 summer DVD blockbusters like Mystic River and Paycheck. Yes, as hard as it is to believe, a Ben Affleck movie was one of our most rented.

My expectations, like for Big Brown, were too high. Instead of a slaughter, Nookie and I were tied after unlocking our first five DVDs. How is it possible that this big dude with his thick fingers is able to keep up with me, who took piano lessons for half my life and can type 100 words per minute with no errors?

When I unlocked my tenth, Nookie was already at his fifteenth. When I got to thirteen he was done, looking over at me with the grin of a champion. I angrily paid him his earnings, the coveted candy money. He used it to buy Zours, which was my favorite, just to rub it in.

“Rematch tomorrow,” I said.

When I lost that contest and one more two days later, I quit playing. If it were a video game my Speed rating would’ve been a 99, but my Clutch rating would’ve been a 5. I was the Alex Rodriguez of video store DVD-unlocking competitions.

Freezing sales so we could have our races wasn’t the only reason I was a stellar Hollywood Video employee. Once I forgot to give back the customer’s driver’s license and she left without it, only to come back hours later fairly upset. Several times I played a non-cartoon movie on the TVs that was not only frowned upon, but was blatantly against the rules. “But Top Gun is rated PG,” I said. “I even fast forwarded the sex scene.”

Apparently there were anonymous complaints. I don’t know what the problem was. Top Gun only uses the word “shit” 21 times.

Messing with customers was the most fun part of the job. I dabbled with a fake accent, especially of the British variety. I used a lot of “bloodies,” “chaps,” and “jolly hos.” I was checking out a couple, probably in their 30s, when I turned to the back counter to answer the phone and heard the man whisper “fake British accent.” I couldn’t switch in the middle of the transaction so I continued using my terrible Brit voice, giggling all the way through.

I got several odd requests, one from two middle school boys. “So, um, where are your adult movies?”

“You mean rated R? They’re sort of spread out around the store.”

“What about, like, uh, naked movies. Don’t you have a side room or something?”

I couldn’t tell if they wanted to rent porn or whack it in my store, and either way I felt bad ruining their plans. “We don’t carry that. Sorry.”

Another time a small, Indian man in his fifties said he wanted to ask me something. He then walked around the counter to the employee side, unbuckled the red rope that was meant to prevent these very incidents, and got very close to me, so close that I could smell his breath. He whispered, “Where’s your porn, I know you got porn.”

I was afraid to let him down out of a legitimate fear of being stabbed for our store not carrying porno. “We don’t have that here, but you might want to try Manassas Video Club. I’ve seen commercials.”

He left the store, but not before kindly buckling the red rope. He should’ve just bought Zours. They’re orgasmic.

I hold down the lever and yank back on the cord as I hear the rumbling, feel the vibrating in my hands. The lawn mower shakes off brown dust the way a dog shakes off water. It roars at me in anticipation of the blades of grass it will soon eat. The mower knows it is time for its weekly meal. It is Saturday.

My dad wants me to use the riding lawn mower, but I don't for two reasons: I enjoy the walking, the pushing. The act of being the mower. Also, when I was younger I tried the rider and I couldn’t reach the brake and almost collided with my mom’s car.

For years I mowed with this same push mower – a professional, I called myself. Then, abruptly, I stopped mowing because my left hip was removed and I could no longer walk. It was my job, my duty, my responsibility no more. For years I was used to someone else using my lawn mower, or worse, not using it and instead relying on the riding mower.

It was not easy getting my job back, not because my dad loved mowing so much, but because he didn’t believe I was able. I had to prove it.

I grab the mower and pull it out of the garage. The thin, black handle is just as I remember it. The slightly messed up front right wheel is just as I remember it.

Gasoline? Check. Collection bag secured? Check. Long grass ready to be eaten? Check.

I start it up and take off down my front yard, making a straight line like at Oriole Park at Camden Yards. I reach the corner at the back of the yard and wonder how I’ll handle it, when previously learned instincts take over. I plant with my good leg and stop, transfer the mower’s weight to the back wheels, pull it back and pivot so I can turn around. I start down the second row and make another perfect line adjacent to the first. It is Saturday and I am a professional.

It took Will Smith just a few minutes to complete the Rubik’s Cube in The Pursuit of Happyness while it took me 18 years. That makes me 3 million times smarter than him, 17% of the time. Think about it.

I still remember me and my brother playing with it when we visited my dad’s friend, Coach, when we were youngsters. If only we knew to match the colors instead of make smiley faces.

Last year my roommate, Mr. Mountain Dew, practiced the Rubik's Cube so many times he could finish without the instructions. I could tie my Velcro shoes without instructions. That was obviously more impressive.

On two separate occasions I reached the next-to-last step and then fucked it up. It took over four hours each time. I vowed to finish the cube one day, then cross it off my list of life goals, just like I did for the "Hell" level of difficulty for Sudoku.

Each is officially checked off. Getting as ripped as Will Smith is next.

"Bosssss-tuuuuun!" we screamed countless times on the way to Boston last January to visit our old roommate, T-Unit. Mr. Mountain Dew and I had been meaning to pay him a visit for over a year. Vodka/Benadryl tagged along because, honestly, who wouldn't want to hang out with T-Unit?

T-Unit's two-year-old son was excited to see us, and showed off by running around the house until snot poured from his nose and he could barely breathe. Unfortunately, he had a cold. Lil’ T-Unit wanted to touch me and I looked at him like he was nuts. "Don't you know that sharing your microorganisms will spread your respiratory viral infection?" I asked him. He understood. Lil’ T-Unit is so smart.

My other friend, Zeke, still kept in touch with a girl we met at spring break in Mexico almost a year before named Kandy. She lived in Boston, so I asked Zeke for her number. I called Kandy the second night we were there. "Hey, it's Ben Rubenstein."

"…Who?"

"From spring break last year."

"…Who?"

"Remember, we went on the zip line where the movie Predator was filmed."

"…Who?"

"…I'm friends with Zeke."

"Oh yeah! Hey Ben!"

The three of us met Kandy at a bar near her school, Boston University. Mr. Mountain Dew took no time before hitting on her. But the quantity of alcohol he had already consumed made him very touchy-feely. Kandy avoided his creepy ass as much as possible.

T-Unit, Vodka/Benadryl and I let Mr. Mountain Dew do his own thing, and he quickly found his way into a friendly group of four guys. Every once in a while he would look over at the three of us with a smirk. We would've gone over to hang out with him, but Kandy came back to talk and we didn't want him to scare her away, again.

We finally made our way over to Mr. Mountain Dew to see why his new friends were so much cooler than us. It turns out they weren't friends at all; the four guys wanted to fight Mr. Mountain Dew. For over an hour he took their verbal abuse because he didn’t give a shit. Also, the Boston guys were chumps: Mr. Mountain Dew was calm as can be, not even finding the need to call us over.

I tried to decipher why they disliked Mr. Mountain Dew. After careful observations and short talks with my incoherent friend, I gathered that Mr. Mountain Dew became touchy-feely with a second girl, the sister of one of the four guys and girlfriend to another. They told Mr. Mountain Dew to leave, but out of principle he wouldn’t back down. They continued berating him until the rest of us showed up.

Vodka/Benadryl wanted to fight, but he didn’t want to drag T-Unit into it. Vodka/Benadryl asked T-Unit how he felt about fighting. T-Unit, always thinking thoroughly before speaking, said, “I'm married, I have a little boy at home and I'm 29. I would rather not fight tonight…but if we fightin', we fightin'."

The Boston guys wanted nothing to do with us. It was probably my huge Abe Lincoln beard that scared them off and not the killer look in the eye of Queens’ own, T-Unit.
Everything was cool until a new girl came by screaming at Mr. Mountain Dew. I think she was friends with the other girl he made uncomfortable.

I had enough. When she told Mr. Mountain Dew "Fuck you," I yelled it back at her. She didn't see that the words came from me and assumed Mr. Mountain Dew said them. So, she yelled it even louder right in Mr. Mountain Dew's ear. "No, FUCK YOU!" I screamed a second time.

The bouncer heard us. He, too, thought Mr. Mountain Dew said it, when really he was just having a very bad night. I'm pleased to say that thanks to me we all got kicked out because I said "fuck you" to a pretty college girl I had never met before. Twice.

Maybe I could’ve won her heart if I let her spend time with Lil’ T-Unit. Chicks dig virus-ridden toddlers with green, gooey snot covering their faces.

As part of my five-year cancer-free celebration, I attended the drunken debauchery known as the Foxfield Races in Charlottesville. Unfortunately, this year I didn’t get to see anybody passed out on the ground, but I did see girls squatting to pee. Some squatted and faced toward instead of away from people. Those were the special* ones.
*completely sloshed

The piss troughs are where the real excitement is. I’ve never had the opportunity to witness guys do trough slides – frolicking through a shallow pool of urine collected from hundreds of dudes’ johnsons. Last year a guy dropped his sunglasses in the massive urinal while he was pissing. Everyone started chanting, “PUT THEM ON! PUT THEM ON!” Sure enough, he reached into the piss, grabbed his sunglasses and put them right back on his head. Don’t worry – urine is sterile and good for the skin.

The good people at CancerFreeTees.com also contributed to the celebration by sending me one of their t-shirts. I should’ve worn it to Foxfield. It would’ve been one hell of a conversation starter.
Better yet, maybe I should’ve worn a Bob Saget shirt.

www.BobSaget.com

It’s an arbitrary date, a point on the concave function that always approaches cancer deliverance but never quite reaches it.

For the risk of recurrence, two years cancer-free is better than one year. Five years is better than two. And ten years is better than five. But the risk of recurrence gets exponentially smaller to the point where some doctors – people who are trained to be cautious with words – say we’re cured at five years. Many doctors and patients themselves are reluctant to use that word, including me. I’m not superstitious, but maybe the Cancer fairy is.

Five years ago those pure, clean stem cells with no sign of leukemia, no sign of mutation at the seventh chromosome, entered my bloodstream in a flurry like that of a Muhammad Ali combination. All those tiny, microscopic cells honing in on their target, the center of my large bones, fending off any unwanted intruders, cooperating with the rest of my body, repopulating, saturating. Giving me a new chance, new hope, new life.

Hospitals graduate patients when they reach five years cancer-free, kick them to the curb and tell them not to come back. It already happened to me once, and may happen again in Minnesota next month when I see Dr. Andre Million for the final time. Graduation sounds good. Graduation from my second and final cancer sounds even better. Never graduating again, unless I go to graduate school, sounds the best of all.

Right now my risk of getting cancer is nearly as low as it will be for the rest of my life. In eight years my risk of developing soft tissue tumors rises. The same goes for colon cancer in 10 years and prostate cancer in 20. But fuck it. I’ve never concerned myself with negative thoughts like that and I’m not about to start now.

It just so happens that I’m also about as healthy and physically strong as I’ve ever been. But a preschool immune system and less than 10% body fat do not protect me from cancer. That’s what my organic Gala apples are for.

Today and this weekend I celebrate my graduation, my accomplishment, the same one so many others would do anything for, have done everything for, some successfully and some coming up short. I celebrate the point on the curve that some, not I, call “CURED.” And I celebrate life. L’chayim!

Happy [Fourth] Birthday, Bone Marrow

My bone marrow is so excited for her fifth birthday. When I told her, "Calm down, it's still two days away," she made me anemic. What a spoiled brat.

Back to Bob Saget, it looks like all that time spent with Michelle is finally paying off.

*note: There used to be a blog widget counting down the time until the fifth anniversary of my bone marrow transplant.

I wonder what the countdown timer* will show at 11:30 AM on Thursday? Maybe a Chinese fortune. "You will remain healthy, the Redskins will win the Super Bowl and Bob Saget says hello."

If I ruled sports I would ban Bill Walton from, well, everything. The same courtesy would be extended to the entire Walton family.

There is little incentive for NBA teams to play hard in the regular season when 16 of 30 make the playoffs. If I ruled sports I would reduce the number to 12, matching the NFL playoff system.

Teams surely played hard in the Western Conference this year where the top six teams were separated by a mere two games. But we all knew those six teams would make the playoffs, anyway. And home court is not enough incentive for teams to play hard all 82 regular season games, or for fans to be fully engaged. There needs to be a first-round bye for the top two teams in each conference. Then they’d really be playing for something.

The NBA doesn’t want to take my advice because that would reduce the total number of playoff games, thus reducing its biggest source of revenue. The owners are only thinking about the short-term. Fewer people are watching the NBA than in the past, in part because fans know the regular season is meaningless. The longer fans tune out of the regular season, the more likely they’ll tune out of the NBA altogether.

If I ruled sports I would’ve called traveling on LeBron James two years ago when he beat my Washington Wizards with two buzzer beaters in the playoffs. Maybe I’d let it slide on the third and fourth steps, but not when he walked half the court without dribbling.

If I ruled sports I would force batters to stay in the batter’s box throughout their entire at bat. I’d also put a time limit on how long pitchers can hold the ball without throwing. Five hour baseball games are great, but six hours is really pushing it.

If I ruled sports I would allow intradivisional games to take place in the first round of the MLB playoffs. For example, let’s say the Baltimore Orioles win the AL East with the best record, and the Tampa Bay Rays win the wild card with the fourth best record. Under current playoff rules the Orioles would not be allowed to play the Rays in the first round. The Orioles are being punished by having to play a better team simply because the Rays are in the same division.

Just for fun let’s say the Yankees and Red Sox have the first and second worst records in baseball history. Babe Ruth comes back from the dead to curse both teams for eternity. While he’s at it, Babe has his way with some goats – sorry, Chicago Cubs.

If I ruled sports I would create a salary floor for baseball teams. The Yankees payroll is $165 million more than the Rays. Sorry Rays, but you’re never going to sniff the World Series, or the wild card for that matter. The beautiful thing about the NFL is its parody, which is at least partly achieved by each team having a payroll somewhere between the floor and the cap.

If I ruled sports I would stop bashing players for signing huge contracts. Professional athletes earn a smaller percentage of company dollars than employees in other industries. Owners make bank, and with the media on their side, they have the public’s sympathy, too. Besides, who wouldn’t want Alex Rodriguez money if he could have it? It’s not his fault he’s exceptional at hitting a ball with a stick. Imagine how that would sound if we weren’t talking about baseball.

If I ruled sports I would stop using Barry Bonds as a scapegoat. Everybody juiced. He was better before steroids and he was still better when everyone was on steroids. Don’t hate the player, hate the game.

The only people to blame for The Steroids Era are baseball officials and team owners. The players were following the money that was laid out for them. If you had a chance to make $3 million per year playing baseball instead of working in an office for $40,000, you’d probably juice, too.

If I ruled sports I would create an eight-team playoff in college football. This is the only sport where there are 32 winners instead of one. The NCAA is worried about losing money from bowl sponsors, which is probably accurate. Instead of the Tostitos Fiesta Bowl it would be the Tostitos Spicy Quarterfinal Bowl – not quite the same. They could still have sponsored bowls for the shitty teams. I’m already raising funds for the BenjaminRubenstein.blogspot.com Music City Bowl. Let’s pray my UVA Cavaliers can make it.

In the long run the NCAA would make much more money from the TV contract because so many more people would watch the playoff games. I’d make the first bid to broadcast one game on my blog if I didn’t already go broke. Fucking Nashville.

If I ruled sports I would put Scarlett Johansson in all the commercials. Scarlett Johansson drives Toyotas. Scarlett Johansson drinks Bud Light. Scarlett Johansson takes Viagra, but keeps a lookout for priapism – a persistent and painful erection that lasts longer than four hours.

I was at Zeke's house when I saw my first episode, just as I was for The Drew Carey Show and Wings. As much as I enjoyed watching Timothy Daly and Monk, I laughed a little harder when we saw "The Chinese Restaurant." "Cartwright!" gets me every time.

Watching Seinfeld became a Thursday night tradition for my brother and me, along with a few Fudgesicle pops. When it went off the air in 1998, NBC tried to fill the hole in my heart with pathetic replacements like Frasier and then Will & Grace. What a fucking joke.

I'd been watching – "spending time" – with Jerry, George, Kramer and Elaine for so long that they felt like friends of mine. My favorite character changed by the year, although I could relate to all of them at one time or another. Any time I saw the actors on other TV shows or interviews I expected them to behave the same way as they did on Seinfeld. I expected the same from the main four as I did from Newman, Peterman, Puddy, and one of the funniest people I've seen on television, Frank Costanza. "Serenity now!"

My disappointment in them is not limited to Michael Richards' racist rant last year. It's equally upsetting watching Jason Alexander on Real Time with Bill Maher. He's so serious, too intelligent, and when he tries to be funny he's often not. It's not the George I know and love.

I understand they were just people acting out a role, but that’s not the way I saw it when I was going through cancer treatment. So many of my days were uncomfortable and forgettable. I watched movies or listened to music simply to pass the time. But when Seinfeld came on at 7:30 PM every weekday, I perked up. I had seen all the episodes countless times, so it wasn't a matter of getting new jokes and new laughs. It was my familiarity with the characters that made those thirty minutes so rewarding. It was like hanging out with my funniest friends. They were real to me and that’s all I cared about.

My parents didn’t watch Seinfeld before cancer and even had a bad impression of it, but when they were with me in the hospital they had no choice. They became huge fans, laughing out loud and referencing it when possible. I even got some of my doctors and nurses to watch a few minutes here and there, forgetting, if only temporarily, that their jobs were as serious as cancer. I imagine Seinfeld similarly touched the lives of other people with cancer. If a cancer person happened to have never seen an episode, then I would advise him or her to buy the seasons on DVD and watch them when they’re feeling sick. Seinfeld made living with cancer easier than it could have been.

The show’s true beauty lies in its inability to take itself seriously. Even in “The Pilot” where George thinks he has cancer, I laughed at him when I had cancer as I laugh now. The same goes for “The Scofflaw” where Jerry’s friend pretends to have cancer in order to get sympathy. When I started writing my book I wanted to emulate Seinfeld and only enter serious subjects with humor. Who was I kidding? I’m no Jerry Seinfeld or Larry David.

When I finished writing my book it was sent off to Jerry. The plan was for him to read it, be impressed with my fondness for him and his show, and give me a blurb I could use to sell the book to publishers. Unfortunately, he didn’t respond. I don’t know if he read it, or even if he is aware it exists. I’m guessing his manager tossed my manuscript in the trash. And if Jerry himself tossed it in the trash, then that’s fine, too. Maybe he’s teaching me a lesson. He’s telling me to find humor in that.

Thank you, Jerry.

Some health insurance companies cover interesting things, like prescription contraceptives. Sometimes plastic surgery to correct asymmetrical breasts, droopy eyelids and deformed ears is also covered. That all makes perfect sense. Birth control is a necessity for nymphomaniacs, unless they want to be in a constant state of pregnancy. And plastic surgery is a necessity for people with funky looking boobs. Don't even get me started on people with deformed ears – they should have their own schools.

One thing health insurance won't cover: the shoe lift I wear because my femur migrated up due to a lack of hip bone. Insurance would cover the lift if it fit inside the shoe, but not mended to the sole. That was fine when I had a quarter inch insert, but now my lift is one and three quarter inches. That wouldn't even fit inside Shaq's size 23s.
The lift costs $175. I purchased my latest New Balance 574s for $20, meaning the lift was over eight times the cost of the sneakers.

That's okay. It's not like walking is a necessity.

I didn't begin watching college basketball until high school, and even then I was willing to miss a few tournament games to eat dinner with my parents at Bob Evans. Their spaghetti and garlic toast was irresistible.

By my junior year it was a sin to miss March Madness games. I even caught most of the conference tournament games the week before the madness began. I watched teams from the mid-major conferences like the Atlantic 10 and Conference USA – whatever was on TV.

I remember that weekend like it was yesterday. It was my seventh cycle of chemo and I did it outpatient. The clinic was closed on the weekend, so I had to get my two hours of chemo on the gloomy hospital wing. There were very few other patients. It was so quiet and dark. Before leaving it took forever for my nurse to put my leg brace on.

How stupid can you be? Pull the strap and secure. Hurry the fuck up. Get me out of here.

If it wasn't for the soothing sounds of raucous fans and lame announcers, I might've acted on those thoughts and yelled at her. I'm glad I didn't. It's bad enough that I felt the need to think so poorly of her. That woman was spending her Saturday on a depressing hospital floor administering chemotherapy to children. How much worse did I need to make her day?

Zeke, Ho-Train and I hosted a 3-on-3 charity basketball tournament in our school gym in January for our DECA – a marketing club – project. We raised over $1,000 for the Make-A-Wish Foundation. The tournament was featured on the front page of our local newspaper, Potomac News and Manassas Journal Messenger. Thirteen teams entered the tournament, including one with The Stumbler and HollaAtYoBoy called “The Stumbler Sucks,” although HollaAtYoBoy was actually worse. Much to nobody's surprise, they were pitiful.

At the tournament Mr. Spunkmeyer, our DECA advisor, wanted me to meet a friend of his. It was a young boy who had cancer. The boy's mother expected me to give him inspiration. I was hesitant at first, having no clue what to say. I finally found my balls, sat on the bleachers and told the little boy everything would be okay. In a short time his cancer would go away and he'd play basketball again. I felt ridiculous, like a fake ass cheerleader. Mr. Spunkmeyer later told me I had a very positive effect on him. If he's still alive then he's probably in middle school by now. And hopefully still playing basketball.

It was the perfect way to start March Madness – friends, wings, and beer. I should've counted the number of beers we finished. I know it was well over 100.

When the afternoon games ended, we went to the dining hall, drunk and giddy. The girl at the table next to us tripped and dropped her tray, her food flying everywhere. HollaAtYoBoy, already on his way to 20 Budweisers, laughed in her face. I tried to keep from smiling, but the harder I tried the funnier I found it. In the end, our table was laughing so loud that everyone in the room was looking over at the food sprawled over the dirty floor. That poor, poor girl.

Some friends and I continued watching games through the night, throwing empty beer cans at each other when necessary. Others went out to party. Thinking that HollaAtYoBoy didn't want to leave, they came back from the party without him. What they didn't realize was that since HollaAtYoBoy didn't go to UVA, he didn't know where I lived. When my friends went back out to get him, HollaAtYoBoy was just about to leave on a cross-state trip with strangers. His possessions, car, and ability to walk straight were still at UVA.

I sent this email to the showman himself after he hit a ridiculous go-ahead shot to beat tenth-ranked Duke last February: "I'm sure you get this a lot, but you're fucking awesome. Tomorrow morning when I eat my Cheerios and turn on the TV I expect to see you number one on SportsCenter's Top Ten."
I got all warm and tingly when Sean actually responded with, "Thanks for the love."

Last year, my friend Hamburgers and I drove to Columbus, Ohio to see Virginia play Tennessee in the second round of the NCAA Tournament. It was the first time Virginia made the tournament since 2001. Our sharpshooter, J.R. Reynolds, scored 22 points in the first half alone, but then got injured. Singletary tried to rally the team to victory, but unfortunately came up just short on the final shot.

At the game, Hamburgers got into some shit talking with a Tennessee fan in his fifties. Hamburgers got the final word when he made fun of the man's education with, "At least I didn't go to high school at the University of Tennessee, son!"

It was the summer of 1994 and I was on vacation with my family in Niagara Falls, New York. While out to dinner at Perkins Restaurant, I got up to pee. I pushed the bathroom door open and walked in, searching for the urinals, but there were no urinals. How can a men's bathroom not have urinals? I was the only person in the room, except for one dude taking a shit. I did one more search, scanning my eyes from wall to wall, but still no urinals. I wondered if Canadians pissed in the sink and maybe that rubbed off on these northern New Yorkers. Look what the world has come to, pissing in sinks. That Canada sure is a crazy country.

I was about to pee in one of the numerous empty toilets, when I heard the dude taking a shit make a grunting sound, only it was high-pitched. He made the noise a second time and I realized it wasn't a dude at all, and she may or may not have been taking a shit. There were no urinals because I was in the women's bathroom. Back in middle school I dreamed of being invisible and walking into a girl's locker room, but this wasn't nearly as cool.

I rushed out and fled for my table, forgetting the reason I was there to begin with. The woman on the payphone dropped her jaw and nearly the phone when she saw me. I wasn't trying to peak, I promise. Ever since then, I've triple-checked the sign on bathroom doors. Outback Steakhouse tries to screw me with their fancy "Blokes" sign. Why can't they call it "Men's" like every other restaurant? Those silly Canadians.

That was the only time I entered the wrong bathroom. My old coworker, F4 (office hottie), has done it too many times to count. Our office was small, so all bathrooms were single-person. Since very few men worked there, the women used the men's bathroom at will. One day I forgot to lock the door and F4 walked in on me urinating. Fortunately, I played it cool.

Wait, no I didn't. Not at all. Not even close.

When she opened the door she yelled, "Oh God."

What I should've said: "Would you like to shake for me?"
What I actually said: "SHIT FUCK!"

As I approached her cubicle on the way back to my desk, she said, "Did I terrorize you? Don't worry, I didn't see anything."

What I should've said: "You're not the first female to barge in and try to see my donger."
What I actually said: "It would be best if we never mention this again and pretend like it didn't happen. Alright, good talk, I'll see you out there."

Later in the day F4 followed me to the mailroom, which was across from the men's bathroom. "See, I always use this one, not just when you're in it," she said. F4 opened the door, screamed and then walked right back out because there was a different dude in it. "Why don't you boys lock the door!"

What I should've said: "One look at Benjy donger and you can’t get enough."
What I actually said: Nothing. I couldn't stop laughing.

When I asked F4 what the other dude did when she walked in on him, she said, "He didn't care. I think he wanted me to see him naked."

What I should've said: "I know I want to see you naked."
What I actually said: "You're gross."

Twice in the same day is quite a coincidence. F4 must be Canadian.

I recently finished a two-month stint working in the items processing department of a bank, my first office job. I won't get into how boring and tedious it was. The only thing worth mentioning was I saw a personal check for $9 million. When I looked up her phone number and asked if she'd marry me, she said she was in her late 60s with 3 grandchildren. I was strangely okay with that.

For a while, the other employees pretty much ignored me. They'd been working together for years and didn't need some young punk entering their gossip loop. But after a few weeks I became friends with a girl there, F1 (office gossip queen), and she spilled the beans. I realized what I'd been missing by never having an office job, especially one with mostly women – the drama. I couldn't get enough of it.

F1 had immense knowledge of the office. She worked there for four years, then went off to college and came back to work part-time during her breaks. She was faster than me at every task, except using the stamp machine in the mailroom. I rubbed it in, with struts and several “In yo face!” comments.

F1 told me everything about everyone, including people who no longer worked there. My mom's People subscription had been preparing me for this for years. Nothing in life beats high quality gossip.

F2 (office joker) and F3 (office pessimist) appeared to be good friends, but it was all a show. Years ago, F3 invited F1 and F2 over for drinks, and F2 left early, leaving F3 with a bitter taste in her mouth. Never one to let go of grudges, F3 has been angry ever since.

By the end of my gig, F2 was my favorite coworker. My first impression of F2 was that she was extremely kind, but once she became comfortable with me she showed her sarcastic side. She wasn't shy about her dislike of F3 – behind her back, of course. When F3 talked, F2 rolled her eyes. When F3 left the room, F2 would ask me, "Don't you hate her?" I didn’t know how to respond so I just laughed – behind F3’s back, of course.

F3 complained about everything, including her job which she constantly threatened to quit. She complained about the diet she was voluntarily on. She complained when F4 (office hottie) got a haircut – not about her hair, but that everyone wouldn't stop talking about it. I think she was jealous of F4’s attention, and possibly her good looks.

I worked in a small room outside of a larger room, where F4 was. In order for me to go anywhere I had to pass F4’s cubicle. That was way too much pressure. I had something funny to say 1-2 times a day, but I was speechless the other 10 times. I either tried to sneak around her cubicle so she didn’t see me, or pretend like I was in a hurry and had really important mail to stamp.

M1 (office sleazeball) came down from a different floor just to talk to F4, even though F4 wanted nothing to do with him. My gossiping friend, F1, thought M1 was a jerk. I think F1 was just jealous of F4, and I actually admired M1 for his persistence. F4 used to date a different guy from the office, M2 (office genius). He had a long-term gym membership, but bought a membership to a second gym just because F4 used it. M2 never told F4 of his other gym, though. F1 thought M2 was even creepier than M1, but I just say he was more persistent. I was impressed he was willing to pay two large gym fees just for F4. That's a lot of money, especially for a girl who may not deliver on the investment. F4 dumped M2 for a personal trainer. Go figure.

F1 thought that M3 (office pedophile) was having an affair with F5 (office perk). This is because F5 doesn't work directly for M3, but she was always in his office, even at his desk. According to F1, there was no reason for her to be there at all. Sometimes they even closed the door. F1 expressed her dislike of F5. "She's such a bitch," F1 told me several times. "She seemed nice to me," I responded. F1 got mad at me for disagreeing, and temporarily cut me off from the gossip. I learned my lesson. Never disagree with your office drama gossiping ally.

F1 went on a couple dates with M4 (office gum-chewer), who got married to a different woman a year after they split. F1 thought M4 still liked her, and that M4's wife was jealous. She claimed M4 got awkward when the two of them were in the same room together. I didn't see it, but I knew better than to disagree. "He's still so in love with you," I told her. I couldn't afford to lose my gossiping privileges, again.

F1 and F2 talked shit about F6 (office 'look at the baby, you gotta see the baby'), when she was on maternity leave my first month. They said she and her husband fought too much. They said she didn't know shit about parenting.

F1, F2, F3 and F6 all talked shit about M4. They said he was too bossy. For one thing he was their boss. And from what I saw he was pretty chill. M4 was cool to me from the start, unlike the Fs, so I felt the need to share my disapproval of their M4-bashing.

New lesson: never take the boss’ side. F1 thought I was a traitor and stopped feeding me gossip. In retaliation, I stamped one envelope on the wrong side. In yo face, F1!

The sweet smell of redemption.

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 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 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)