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 will 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!

My little sweetheart turns four

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 high 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)

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.
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)

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.

The first time I had cancer I went through five weeks of radiation directed at my hip region, including some of my bowel. This caused mild diarrhea by the second or third week, which gradually intensified to the atomic variety. The hospital was about an hour from my house, so it was never a bad idea to use the toilet before my departure, even if I didn’t have an acute urge to shit.

The bathroom was very large for one person. It had only one sink, one toilet, a lock on the door and tons of open space.

I remember one specific afternoon toward the end of the five-week period. I expected heavy traffic on Interstate 66, and I also needed to poop. Waiting it out wasn’t an option, regardless of how much I preferred the comfort of my own home. I turned the light on, closed the door, and dropped trow.

I wouldn’t wish for anyone to be in the bathroom on that warm, sunny afternoon. No matter how bad a person he is, or how terrible a transgression he has committed, that punishment would not fit the crime.

After finishing I rested a couple minutes before cleaning up and going home. That’s when he walked in because I forgot to lock the door. He was a large man somewhere around 5’11 and 240 pounds. He was in his forties with glasses. He wore a shirt and tie. He opened the door and turned 90 degrees to his left, at which point he had a direct view of me and my junk.

The normal response would have been for the man to say “Whoops,” and immediately walk out. Not only did this large man not utter a word, but he also stuck around long enough for the door to close behind him. We stared at each other for multiple seconds. I can’t remember exactly what came out of my mouth, but I know it was along the lines of “Dude!”

or “Dude?”

or “Dude get out I’m taking a fucking shit here.”

Pooping Your Pants Is Cool
Like a Rock
Quarter Mile of Shit

Again (Part I of III)
Again (Part II of III)

As I said in Welcome to the Good Life (Part II of II), during my original cancer I had few responsibilities, and thus not much to worry about. When I got home at the beginning of March, and when I was still at UVA in a sense, I had even fewer responsibilities. I didn’t have to think about schoolwork. I didn’t have to plan for nighttime activities because my friends were mostly away at college. I didn’t have the pressure of hitting on girls and consequently getting shot down. All I had to do was find ways to entertain myself and get blood counts and transfusions. I was actually at peace more than any other point in my life. Bearing in mind I was in the process of finding a bone marrow donor and would need a transplant for long-term survival, that sounds absolutely insane. But it really was a very happy and peaceful two months.

Certainly, part of what made it so peaceful was all the snow we got that winter. There were two large snowstorms while I was still at school and another 20-incher when I got home. There is something about those oddly shaped flakes falling from the sky and the white landscape that makes me feel lively.

The transfusions were keeping my hemoglobin and platelets at manageable levels, and I had no other side effects, so I actually felt fantastic. I didn’t feel sick, tired or weak in the least bit. During clinic visits I wasn’t Ben, the patient – I was Ben, the friendly visitor. I talked to and joked with my doctors and nurses as if they were my buddies. I mostly ignored the other patients, who were probably jealous of how normal I looked. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I enjoyed the clinic visits, but I really didn’t mind them.

Johns Hopkins, one of the best health systems in the world, diagnosed my disease without much trouble. My parents, brother and I had a meeting with one of the doctors to discuss the disease and treatment options. It was there that I asked about my chances – for my particular disease there was a 30% universal chance of survival, he told us.

30% chance of living. 70% chance of dying.

After the meeting my brother and I talked about what he said. Many old people get that disease, so we immediately bumped my survival chance up to 50%. And since I was Superman, that number jumped to 80%. And an 80% chance of survival for a normal person meant an almost 100% chance for me. In a flash my 30% chance of survival became nearly 100%.

Call it ludicrous, idiotic or psychotic if you’d like, but that’s the way my mind worked. I couldn’t give a fuck what the official statistic was. As long as my chance of survival was more than 0%, in my mind I was going to live.

I can understand why some athletes think they’re invincible. And don’t assume they’re unaware of how unbelievably arrogant they are. They know just as I knew. But it was that arrogance that made me believe I’d survive, which then helped me to actually survive. It’s during those potentially discouraging times that I wouldn’t give up my Superman complex for all the friends, girls, money and success in the world.

We went to ESPN Zone in Baltimore for dinner. We got there just in time to see my two favorite sports shows, Around the Horn and Pardon the Interruption. We sat in a circular booth in perfect view of the projection screen. I switched between looking at the huge screen and the smaller LCD attached to our table. I ordered the chicken cheese steak and fries, the same as my brother. Why do I remember all this? Because it was one of the most enjoyable meals I’ve ever had. I was thrilled about my upcoming journey, knowing it would be hard, but also knowing I’d take care of business. I was so happy that I had such a “high” chance of survival.

Was I nuts? Hell yeah, I was. But I’m as proud of that 19-year-old Ben as any other. I challenge myself and anyone else to take such horrible news and immediately manipulate it into a positive. I seriously doubt I could duplicate that now. That’s motherfucking Superman for you.

I didn’t want things to change. That’s not to say I didn’t want to find a donor match and survive. I just didn’t want my peaceful world to change. That’s why when my mom told me a match was found, I was kind of sad. I’ll also admit that I was pretty fucking scared.

Several days before my parents and I left for our new apartment located two blocks from my transplant center, I went to the Orioles Opening Day game with my dad, brother and Uncle Joker. It was the coldest I’ve ever been at a baseball game, mostly because there was a snowstorm that left our clothes drenched. A blizzard during a baseball game – what an awesome sight. Uncle Joker let me borrow a pair of his Gortex gloves, which I still have because he left early and I never gave them back. “I stole Uncle Joker’s gloves,” I always joke with my dad. That was the last time I saw my uncle before my transplant.

From left: my brother, JD; me; my dad; Uncle Joker

The last time I saw many of my friends was at a going away party at Bubble’s house. Bubble was a high school friend whom I became better friends with at UVA. Some of my friends showed up to her house that night, including several from UVA, T2theZ who drove all the way from Virginia Tech just for the party, and a couple lovelies, Orange and Red. Much love to those who came; I’ll never forget it.

Many of my friends didn’t show up, including some of my really good friends. If they knew I was given a 70% chance of dying, then maybe they’d have come running.

The following day more friends came to hang out and watch the Final Four. Dirty-D was reluctant to leave when the games were over. Maybe he understood what a 30% chance meant more than I did.

Two days later, the peaceful world that I didn’t want to end did just that. I left my house for a four-month journey of a lifetime.

Again (Part I of III)

I was almost certain I wouldn’t finish the semester, so I barely went to any classes. I also had restrictions on exercising. And the one time I partied I was terrified the alcohol would cause internal bleeding because of my low platelets. That left my days about as unproductive as you can imagine. My roommate and I used to leave our door open, but I began closing it because I felt like such a loser when people passed by several times and I was still sitting in my chair playing Tiger Woods PGA Tour 2003 and Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. The most productive thing I did was make a compilation CD of the best Vice City songs and copy it for my hall mates. There was some kickass 80’s music on that game.

My bone marrow was dying so fast it was scary. Within weeks of finding out there was a problem I was already getting blood and platelet transfusions regularly. If I wasn’t in my dorm room playing PlayStation 2, I was probably hooked up to an IV at the UVA hematology/oncology clinic.

I don’t know why it took me so long, but at the end of February I realized that by being at school instead of at home, I was simply wasting my parents’ money. Fortunately, I came to this realization while they could still get a refund on my tuition and other expenses. So, when everyone else was leaving for spring break, I packed my things and went home for good.

It was embarrassing the way I handled my departure. My friend, PingPongGirl, said, “I would’ve made my hall mates throw a huge party for me.” But, there was no such party. Instead, I sent this email:

What up fellas,
I'm sorry to say this, but I will not be coming back here after spring break. I'm leaving Friday and I'm leaving for good. I will be back next year, I'm living in a house near the Subway at the end of JPA. If any of you have any of my stuff, I'd appreciate it if you gave it back. The only thing I know I'm missing is the Friends Volume 2 DVD. I’ll still have my screen name if you want to keep in touch. Also, I don't give a fuck if you ask me what the problem is, you just won't hear me bring it up much. Peace out fuckers.
Ben
Projected Wes reaction: Naw man, naw.

Won’t hear me bring it up much? How about not at all. My roommate, Dirty-D, asked questions, but I left with most of them absolutely clueless. After some of my hall mates helped load stuff into my dad’s van, I went back to my room one more time to look. It was like I was never there to begin with. The room looked so empty, mostly because Dirty-D barely had anything with the exception of a 13-inch TV that could’ve been confused for a 7-inch. Other than one decent academic semester and some new friends, there wasn’t much proof I was ever a Wahoo.

Again (Part III of III)

I am king of these parts. All the doctors and nurses know me and tell me how healthy I look. It’s been 28 months since my original cancer diagnosis, and 16 months since I became cancer-free. This is actually more of a social visit than anything else. I haven’t seen these friends of mine since the summer, about six months ago. They ask about my first semester at UVA. They know the reason I’m here is simply following the protocol. I defeated cancer with such relative ease, it’s expected that I’ll remain healthy forever. I feel as strong as I’ve been since before it all started when I was 16.

It was the most common of blood tests that changed everything – the CBC, or Complete Blood Count. It showed that my bone marrow was dying without me even knowing it. No clue, no idea, never crossed my mind, impossible. IMPOSSIBLE. And yet, it was really happening. My nurse practitioner said it could’ve been a fluke and wanted to redo the test, but I knew it wasn’t. I was already mentally preparing myself for going to battle with my second severe illness. I was the self-proclaimed Greatest Cancer Patient Ever and I had to live up to my reputation.

How do you tell people that instead of being perfectly healthy, your blood counts are plummeting for unknown reasons? I didn’t have to share much bad news during my first cancer. My family and friends did that for me. To be honest, I have trouble remembering how the word got spread the second time. I know I told my family and some of my good friends. I told my roommate I wouldn’t make it back to school for a week or two. I’ll never forget the message my good friend, Infinicuralier, left on my answering machine after he heard the news. He had trouble believing it. That was evident in both his words and his tone. He offered to help in whatever way he could. That was probably the feeling most people close to me felt – helplessness and disbelief.

My doctors rushed to diagnose the problem, even bringing me back just three days later for a bone marrow biopsy. This showed nothing, so they did it again a week later. After the second biopsy they sent me to Johns Hopkins because they didn’t have the technology to diagnose it themselves.

I went back to school in between hospital visits. Unlike in high school, where almost everybody knew of my cancer, I hadn’t told many people in college. The “no complaining” rule that basically governed my life prohibited me from doing so. I told my roommate and two or three others I was tight with, and only after they asked about my scar. I always wondered who they told, who else knew. That rule held me back in terms of gaining personal relationships, maturing, and assimilating into college. At times I’ve thought it generally held me back in life. But more importantly, the rule - not talking about cancer and never complaining about anything - was part of why I felt so unique, special, strong, and anything else that created the Superman cancer destroyer that I was. If I were to abolish the rule then I'd also be letting go of that force within me. It wasn’t even a choice, meaning I wasn’t aware life existed outside the rule. That was just the way I was. If you seriously thought there was something in you that made you better than every other human on the planet, would you be willing to let that go?

Since I still wasn’t at school by the time classes started, I knew all my hall mates must’ve asked my roommate and found out about my old cancer, my new problem, everything. I was so nervous the first time back that I had to stop once I got near campus to calm myself down. The thought of being looked at once again as the sick kid made me want to fucking puke.

Again (Part II of III)

After my bone marrow transplant I developed fungal pneumonia. Actually, I got it twice. But, that's not what this story is about. This story is about my dad and his fondness for mushrooms. He ate them on his chicken and with his kasha varnishkes. I, on the other hand, have never eaten mushrooms. They look disgusting. And I don't like the thought of eating fungus.

After my transplant my dad continued eating mushrooms. When he asked me if I wanted any I replied, "I don't eat fungus."

Gradually, my response evolved into, "I don't eat fungus – I had fungal pneumonia," finally culminating with, "I don't eat fungus – it causes fungal pneumonia."

That statement is totally untrue, but I said it so often that I brainwashed my dad into believing it until one day he stopped eating mushrooms. Do you know what his response was when I asked him why? "Mushrooms cause fungal pneumonia," he said.

I hadn't wanted to ruin his taste for mushrooms, and I probably should've told him that I'd brainwashed him and they were in fact safe to eat. But, it was just too funny and I played along. "That's right!" I encouraged with glee. "We don't eat fungus because it causes fungal pneumonia."

At some point I started to feel bad and eased up on the anti-fungus comments. I also told him the truth that they don't cause fungal pneumonia.

"Are you sure, because you got fungal pneumonia twice, probably from eating mushrooms?" he asked like the cooperative believer I molded.

"Yeah dad, it's not possible."

To this day he rarely eats mushrooms. He only eats them when they're very well cooked and from his favorite restaurant. He says that particular restaurant knows how to cook out the pneumonia-producers. That sounds ridiculous, but it's not atypical for my dad, who will eat split pea soup even though he hates peas. He claims that splitting the peas removes the toxins. When he first made that statement, I didn't even know how to respond. It was one of the silliest things I'd ever heard. Amazingly, I briefly had an allergist who told me that cooking and manipulating foods "de-naturizes" them, so I guess it's possible there is some truth to his pea-splitting theory.

Then again, that nice old man "tested" me and said I was allergic to over 25 different foods. According to my new allergist, nobody has ever been documented to have more than a few food allergies. He was in his upper 80s, a little kooky yet kind as can be, and may he rest in peace.

When I was six, give or take, I told my friend Zeke the truth about Santa Claus: his name was Mr. and Mrs. Zeke, he rode in a motor vehicle instead of a sleigh, and he didn’t have enough money to buy gifts for the other five billion people on the planet. Zeke didn’t take it very well, and replied with, “Oh yeah, well I don’t believe in Hanukah!”

As the story goes, Zeke’s mom later called my mom to complain that I shouldn’t be telling her son such blasphemy. Was it wrong of me to share my innate knowledge with my friend? Perhaps. Is it wrong to force little Jewish boys to lie about flying caribou and an old man who trespasses and steals cookies? Absolutely.

That said, I’d like to wish you all a belated Happy Hanukah, Merry Christmas, Happy Kwanzaa, Happy Forefathers Day, Happy New Year, Happy early Birthday to Sandy Koufax, Tiger Woods, LeBron James and me (all December 30), and a Happy Boxing Day.

The parents of graduating seniors in my high school were able to publish a message to their child in the yearbook. Pictures could be added along with the message. My parents chose to use two pictures: one taken recently, and one from when I was a youngster.

When I picked up my yearbook at the end of the year, I flipped to the back to see what kind of embarrassment I should brace myself for. Luckily, there was nothing awkward or humiliating. However, there was something that made me angry – my parents submitted a toddler picture of my older brother, JD.

“I can’t believe my own parents don’t remember what I looked like,” I complained to my friends. “Everybody knows I was a better looking two-year-old.”

When I got home I called my mom into the kitchen and opened the yearbook to my segment in the back. “Notice anything wrong with this?” I asked, pointing to young JD.
“No, it looks great. You and JD were both such good-looking kids.”

“That’s just it…you sent in a picture of JD!”

There was a long pause as my mom looked hard at the page.

“…No, I didn’t!” she yelled. “That’s you!”

Bullshit, like I wouldn’t recognize myself.

I then began to argue with my mom that the picture was NOT me, and even made her prove it, which she gladly did.

Apparently, I don’t even know what I looked like. And as to who was a better looking kid, I have no idea because I can’t tell who is who.

When I was 16 I nearly got in collisions on a daily basis. Zeke was often in the car with me during these frightening experiences and would give subtle warnings such as “pole,” “car,” or in one case, “big black guy.”

I was giving Zeke and Big Easy a ride home after school one afternoon. We met in the lobby where I told them I had "phat jams" we could listen to – I got the new CDs of Jay-Z, Eminem and Dr. Dre. We couldn’t have been more stoked to cruise through the mean streets of Northern Virginia with the windows down and the stock stereo system rocking.

Shortly after exiting the school parking lot, I turned left onto Liberia Avenue and accelerated to 50 mph as sounds of Dr. Dre’s Chronic 2001 filled the warm air. Once my car climbed over the hill and began its descent, I saw that the light up ahead was red and there was a long line of cars. I was given no warning and there really wasn’t much room to stop. I was also going 15 over the limit. I slammed on my brakes as hard as I possibly could and came to a complete stop no more than 2 centimeters behind the Honda Accord in front of me.

Two seconds later we heard a loud screeching sound. I looked at my rear-view mirror and saw the car behind me rocking from side to side, and the driver horrified. “Oh man, that’s RightStuff!” Big Easy exclaimed.

Our friend, RightStuff, had just turned 16 and was driving by herself for one of the first times. She made a soft stop the correct distance behind me and then got slammed by the car behind her. Then, a Ford Ranger collided into the second car, creating a three car fender bender. As the light turned green I asked Zeke and Big Easy, “Should I go?” Before anyone responded I gunned the accelerator and left the scene of the accident.

The three of us blamed the crash on me and my incredibly hard stop. We also found weeks worth of humor in RightStuff’s facial expression after getting hit, as well as the fact that she got in an accident on one of her first days driving and through no fault of her own.

The following school year I wrote a story about the incident in my Honors English class. The story’s focus was on the priceless entertainment Zeke, Big Easy and I gained at the expense of RightStuff. The day we had peer editing I happened to be absent for cancer tests, and RightStuff happened to edit my story. I wish I was there to see the look on her face.

A few months after the collision, an electronic sign was installed on the hill on Liberia Avenue which warns drivers when the upcoming light is red. I can’t describe the pride I feel, knowing that I was part of the incident which led to what was surely a costly project. You’re welcome, Virginia Department of Transportation.