by Stuart Scott
This is what caregivers do. They’re the forgotten ones in the cancer fight. Let me tell you, they’re there every step of the way, often for little or no thanks. They suffer, too—but people seldom think of the caregiver when their hearts go out to those battling cancer.
Relationships are hard enough when cancer isn’t in the picture. When it is, it impacts things in big and small ways every day. For example, one thing it’s taken me a while to learn is that having cancer means having to be selfish. Ever since my first round of chemo, I’ve had neuropathy, a numbing in the hands and feet. That means I’m always cold. So when Kristin’s comfortable and I’m freezing, I’ve got to get comfortable and she’s going to have to be hot—just one of the countless compromises she’s made. If we’re in the car, I’m freezing if it’s 74 degrees. I need it to be 80 degrees—which means she’s sweating.
On Sundays, Kristin visits her dad, and I’m sure she’d like to have her boyfriend with her. But I do SportsCenter on Sunday nights, and I know the best prep for me is to do nothing during the day. I’ll get in a morning workout and then lie around until I’m Bristol-bound. I know that if I’m on my feet all day, I’ll burn out by ten o’clock at night. And I know the difference between doing a sportscast rested and doing it tired: When I’m rested, I’m really good at what I do. When I’m tired, I slump in my chair and close my eyes on the SportsCenter set when we go to commercial and try to summon the adrenaline I’ll need to take the show to the next level.
Man, sometimes I just want to be silent. I talk a lot at work, then I’m looking into the camera and talking, then I’m “talking” on Twitter. When I don’t have to talk, guess what I like doing? Just being silent. When you’re in a relationship with someone, though, they want to talk. It took Kristin a while to realize it’s not that I’m mad or in a bad mood—sometimes I just don’t wanna talk. And when I do talk to her, I always want it to be an authentic conversation. I don’t want to talk for talking’s sake.
Probably the biggest reason I like just being silent is that what’s on my mind is cancer. That’s what’s there. It doesn’t leave. I can’t make it leave. I can’t act like it’s not there. Some people say, “Put it out of your mind.” Man, you try putting it out of your mind. That’s a Pollyanna world. You don’t put this out of your mind, not when you’re peeing blood and your stomach is churning all the time and you always feel like this thing is inside you, moving, growing, taking over. I can fake it—but I ain’t gonna fake it with the people I love.
Sometimes I’ll start to tell Kristin something about my cancer—how, this one day, I couldn’t stop thinking about that day when the Lawd comes to take me, and I started to worry: How complicated would the estate paperwork be for my girls? Would they be okay if that dragged on? … and then I’ll just stop.
“Tell me about it,” Kristin will say. Or: “You don’t talk about it. You don’t let me in.”
’Cause I feel like a damned broken record: “I’m scared; I’m going to die; my stomach hurts.” That’s every day. Why would you want to hear that over and over again? Man, I’d rather just be quiet. I’d rather just play golf.
That’s pretty heavy stuff to put up with, no? That’s what I mean when I say there are three of us in this relationship. Just like cancer is always with me, it’s always with Kristin. Yet she remains so positive about life. She likes to say that your life consists of two dates and a dash—so you’d better make the most of the dash.
So … we do. We travel all over; whether we’re at the Ritz-Carlton Dorado Beach in Puerto Rico or kickin’ it on the Spanish Steps in Rome, we’re making the most of the dash. I know it may sound like I’m liking cancer—trust me, that’s not the case—but it is one of the things the disease gives you: an awareness in the moment of what truly matters. Whether we’re looking out at the waves hitting the shoreline in Laguna Beach or just sitting at home watching TV, I’ll look at her and think: These are the moments I love. Before cancer, I would have fun—but I wouldn’t stop and take note of the moment. This is especially true for our simple pleasures at home. We’ll spar or do P90X and then lie on the floor for dinner and watch The Walking Dead. Nothing could be better for my spirit.
• • •
THE 2013 NBA FINALS were shaping up to be a series for the ages. Since 1994, when the Houston Rockets clamped down on the Knicks’ John Starks, there had been only two Game Sevens: in 2005, when the Spurs outlasted the Pistons, and in 2010, when Kobe’s Lakers handled the Celtics.
Now the Heat and Spurs would make it three, after LeBron pulled off an overtime Game Six win in Miami. The series was the first in twenty-six years that featured four former Finals MVPs (Duncan, Parker, Wade, and LeBron). And it was also a sign of the changing times: a record ten players on the two rosters were of international flavor—pretty cool. What wasn’t cool was that I wouldn’t be there for Games Six or Seven. I watched from a bed at New York–Presbyterian Hospital instead.
During the Finals, I started having stomach issues, a lot of churning and bloating. Before Game Five, on Father’s Day, I had a full-on blockage. I was in severe abdominal pain. I did the pregame show and then spent the rest of the game lying down in the production trailer. I pulled it together enough to be able to do the postgame interviews after Danny Green went off from downtown to beat the Heat. It was two a.m. when I was done with work and I told my bosses: “I don’t know if I’m going to make it to Miami.”
I was in constant pain. It may have been due to the scar tissue that developed after the last two surgeries or it could have been another tumor—we’d never know if I didn’t head back east. So I chartered a plane, and once we landed in New York, I went straight to the hospital.
The scans showed nothing. As Dr. Milsom explained, that didn’t mean there wasn’t a new tumor—just that he couldn’t detect it. And he didn’t want to open me up again unless he absolutely had to because that would only ultimately create more scar tissue—it was a vicious circle.
Instead, they treated me with meds and I watched the Finals in my room. That’s when, after Game Seven, I watched my colleague Doris Burke host the trophy presentation. As I mentioned, she’s a pro and she did well, but, damn it, that’s my job.
By the end of summer, I was still having regular flare-ups. My stomach had hardened and you could see rises in it. I called Dr. Milsom: “I know you don’t want to go in again—”
“No, it’s time,” he said.
This time, I was headed for the mother of all surgeries. It took ten hours. There was a cancerous tumor and a ton of scar tissue that came out. Afterward came the pain. I was in the hospital for sixteen days—every one of those nights, Kristin slept on a cot in my room.
I had an IV, some type of special IV, an epidural for pain, and other wires coming out of everywhere. The worst was waking up with a catheter in my manhood. Man, I’m telling you: If catheters are playing the Ku Klux Klan in a football game, I’m rooting for the Klan. I had to have three different catheters put in during those sixteen days. It was hellacious, the most crucifying, intense pain I’ve ever felt. I stuck a cloth in my mouth and screamed when they put it in. Then they take it out to see if you can pee on your own. I’d start to pee, but then the flow would cut off—so back in went the catheter. And, to top it all off, my old friend the Wound VAC was back—and would be with me this time for eight whole weeks.
My mom is a worrier. I had told her she didn’t need to be there for the surgery. But Barb, God bless her, chartered a plane for my mom and dad to fly in, and she put them up at her house in New York City. Susan came in and gave the medical team hell when I was too weak to speak for myself.
But even with all this love around me, I had my moments of total despair. “I’m tired, I can’t do this anymore,” I’d tell Kristin. “It hurts too much.” What an SOB cancer is. I’d now had three major surgeries in five years, not to mention a few minor operations and multiple chemotherapy treatments. It hit me: This is what it’s going to be forever. I grew less confident ab
out having many more years. Cancer is so relentless, you can’t help but start to question your faith.
But, somehow, it’s never a total loss. I had more of those moments of despair in the aftermath of this surgery, when I was down, crying, pissed … but then something would happen and I’d start to rebound, ever so slightly at first.
The girls would pick me up. When I used to do P90X in the living room, Sydni would roll her eyes. I’d monopolize the TV. “You’re so weird,” she’d say before going to her room. Now, when I was going home attached to the Wound VAC, back down to 160 pounds, she asked, “Dad, aren’t you going to do P90X anymore?” It was like—no matter how annoyed she was before—she needed me to be that strong again.
It took a couple of months to get back. This was the hardest comeback yet. By Thanksgiving, I was supposed to be on a new chemo. But I wasn’t ready. I felt so battered by my surgery, I didn’t feel strong enough. As fall 2013 gave way to winter, I don’t think there was a moment that I made the conscious decision not to do chemo. I just wasn’t emotionally ready. I was still skinny and traumatized. I needed time to heal.
My doctors told me of two other options I could consider. One was a chemo drug called Erbitux. It’s strong—the only concern was, would it be too strong? In a high percentage of cases, it causes disfiguring acne. In 2 percent of patients, heart attack or sudden death occurred after the first dose.
Some of my doctors recommended it. Dr. Baker was lukewarm on it. I couldn’t get past the disfiguring acne. “You can always wear makeup to cover it up,” Dr. Shah told me. “The people who love you, they’re not going to mind.”
I told him it’s not about them—it’s about me. It wasn’t just that I’m on TV—though that’s part of it. It’s also that I know me. The doctors made it clear we’re not talking about a bunch of pimples. The word they kept using was “scarring.” Here’s the thing: No doubt, makeup could cover up the scars when I’m on TV. But I know me. I won’t go out of the house if I’m all messed up. I just won’t. From the beginning, I pledged to do everything I could to beat cancer—but that I wasn’t going to sacrifice my quality of life. I was still going to live my life. I knew that disfiguring acne would keep me from doing that.
They also told me about a clinical trial being done at Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. It’s for a new type of medicine that has some promise, my doctors said. I applied and didn’t get right in but hoped to be accepted in a few months.
Just after New Year’s, I was starting to regain my strength when my friend, Nike’s Amy Bartlett, called to pitch an idea. “If you’ll let me,” she said, “I’ll round up a group of friends for a golfing trip to Florida. You don’t have to be Stuart Scott. In fact, there’d be one rule: No one is allowed to talk about cancer.” She said it would be like a grown-up Make-A-Wish weekend—golf and people I love.
I was resistant at first, but, man, I’m glad I went for it. We stayed at the Breakers Hotel and Resort in Palm Beach. Kristin and I were joined by Amy; my buddy Brian and his wife, Ericka; Doug Ulman; and our friends Michelle Bemis, who helps run Tiger’s foundation, and Shannon McGauley. We played golf in the rain, giggling the whole time. “When it rains, you dance in the rain,” Amy said.
Amy called Tiger and got us onto the exclusive course at nearby Medalist Golf Club. It was designed and founded by Greg Norman in 1995. It’s probably appropriate to pause here for a word about my golf game: I have a picture-perfect swing. But the overall game? Not so picture-perfect. My short game is okay, but I can be a mess off the tee. Andrew Copeland of Sister Hazel once said when we were playing: “That’s the prettiest swing I’ve ever seen on a crappy golfer.”
Anyway, Tiger, Medalist’s most famous member, lives about twenty minutes from the course, on Jupiter Island. When Amy told him we were in town, he met us at Medalist. We hung out and had some great laughs. He didn’t play with us—probably afraid of being shown up by a cancer patient.
• • •
BACK HOME, I started an oral chemotherapy in March that tore me up, man. I’d gotten back up to 169 pounds, and then I started this oral treatment that had me running to the bathroom every half hour. I quickly dropped back down to 160. And I mean quickly; Kristin and I were getting ready to go to Hawaii—making those dashes between the dates worthwhile—and I got my clothes taken in before we went. Midway through our trip, we noticed that my pants were already loose in the waist.
I gave up on the chemo after a month. I’d wait for the clinical trial. I concentrated on getting my body back to a healthy state: If my body felt good, the mind would follow. So back to my real medicine I went: a steady diet of MMA, P90X, and sparring.
Soon I was feeling like me again. I got back to 170 pounds and was starting to look cut again. I took a photo of me flexing and sent it to my mom, my dad, my sisters and brother, with this note: “48 years old. Cancer Survivor. Father. Son. Brother. Friend. I couldn’t have got back here without you all and without you all showing me the love that you all have shown me. I just want you to know I’m still working and trying to beat this thing. Holla, Stuart.”
Again: It’s funny, what cancer gives you. It makes you more open emotionally, more vulnerable. Before I got cancer, I’d never have sent such an earnest note to my family. Oh, I would have taken the photo of me flexing, but I would have sent it to my brother, Stephen, just to give him a hard time. And the note would have read: “Yo, dude, come get some of this.”
Because even though we were now both middle-aged men, Stephen and I still competed and talked trash. Once, when I was pretty cut and Stephen was all fat, I said, “Man, I didn’t know you was pregnant.” That got his butt back into the gym right quick. If we’re in front of a mirror with each other, one of us will say, “Man, I’m bigger than you”; the other: “Damn, I’m more ripped than you.” That’s what we do.
As summer approached, everything seemed to happen all at once. The NBA Finals were once again approaching—it would be a rematch between the Heat and the Spurs, and a chance for me to make up for missing out on the last two games of last year’s series.
I got accepted into the clinical trial at Johns Hopkins—so I’d soon start flying to Baltimore for an infusion every other Monday.
And, one day, Maura Mandt called to give me some news. Maura, executive producer of the ESPYs, is one of the most connected women in entertainment. She is also highly feared. She takes charge—if she were a man, everyone would be talking all about her leadership skills. But I also knew what few others did: that, somewhere behind that Type A personality and the barking orders, was a real soft spot. She was calling to tell me that, this year, I’d be the recipient of the Jimmy V Award for Perseverance at the ESPYs.
Man, I’d presented that award. Now I was going to get it. I was stunned and honored and even a little embarrassed: I didn’t feel like I deserved it. I was just doing what I had no choice but to do.
But then I thought of all the cancer fighters I could represent that night, and I realized getting the ESPY didn’t have to be about me. It could be about this army of fighters I’ve been in for the past seven years.
It was going to be one helluva summer.
CHAPTER TWELVE
POUNDING THE ROCK
Spend as much time as I have in professional sports team locker rooms and you’re bound to see a whole lotta motivational quotes on the walls. They tend to be either part of the scenery or cringe-inducing clichés: Yeah, yeah, I get it, there’s no “I” in “team.”
But the San Antonio Spurs have this different kind of quote up in their practice facility, from Jacob Riis, a nineteenth-century journalist and photographer I’d never heard of: “When nothing seems to help, I go look at a stonecutter hammering away at his rock, perhaps a hundred times without as much as a crack showing in it. Yet at the hundred and first blow it will split in two, and I know it was not that blow that did it, but all that had gone before.”
Now, that’s deep. When they dismantled LeBron’s Heat in the 2014 Finals after coming so
close the year before, the Spurs were all about what Riis was talking about: They were resilient, relentless, prepared. Try as he might, LeBron couldn’t rattle them; the Spurs were unflappable ’cause of all the rock pounding that had come before.
Like I said, I was pulling for the Spurs in that game, for personal reasons: so I could fly home with Sydni and do the clinical trial at Johns Hopkins. But after the Spurs took the title in Game Five, and after the trophy presentation with Sydni just off-screen, I realized how much I admired this Spurs team. It wasn’t about me, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that the moment was meaningful to me. A year ago, I had to watch this from a hospital bed. Now it was Father’s Day, and my baby girl was with me while I did my job.
When Tim Duncan sat down with me for a postgame SportsCenter interview, he came with his two kids, Sydney and Draven. Sydni and I took a photo with them. Duncan has been called “the Daddest star of the NBA,” and I could feel him on that. Just as I was celebrating with my girl, he was basking in the moment with his kids.
Not to overthink this, but back to that quote: We’d both fought back to get to this moment. But this is why I love Duncan and the Spurs: They ain’t about the drama. When I asked Timmy what the difference was between this title and his first one back in 1999, he didn’t get all theatrical about it. He simply said: “About fifteen years, I guess.” That was funny, but it also felt familiar to me. Kristin teases me about how often, when talking about my medical situation, I’ll say: “It is what it is.” ’Cause that’s the truest thing I can say. This is the deal. Gotta handle your business. Gotta keep pounding that rock, and maybe, one day, it will split in two.
• • •
MY FIRST CLINICAL TRIAL session was uneventful, but before my next one I developed another urinary blockage. So it was time for another look-see in my manhood. The morning we were supposed to leave for Rhode Island for Sydni’s playoff soccer game, I had another of those I can’t keep doing this moments. My urologist, Dr. Kennedy, knowing how I hate this stuff, had me take a Valium before the procedure, which consisted of a catheter-like microscope being stuck down there.