Living Out Loud

by Craig Sager

  When my sisters and I, along with my Aunt Candy, got tested at Northside Hospital on May 6, the second the blood started to come out, I felt myself getting ready to pass out—an uncontrollable response. My vision was the first to go, followed by the irritation and pain of pins and needles all over my body. I started to sway, and then boom! The next thing I know, I’m coming to with the help of the nurses. Somehow, before I passed out, they had collected enough blood in the vial.

  On May 22, Dad called to tell me that I was a perfect six for six on the original indicators, and further testing had shown that I was a ten for ten, or, in the transplant world, “a perfect match.” It was confirmation of what I had always known—that we were even more deeply connected than our names.

  “When are we doing this thing?” I said, clapping my hands together. We were looking at early July for the date of the bone marrow transplant. I knew what the timing meant: that my family’s tradition of running the Peachtree Road Race in Atlanta every Fourth of July was in jeopardy.

  Dad hadn’t missed a race in thirty years. I had run it at his side the past nine, and had been training for six months to improve my time. No matter how busy we were, we always had the Fourth of July off, and I could count on my dad being at the finish line, ready to throw down a couple of ice-cold 8:00 a.m. beers with me. The thought of our first beer at the finish line shaved minutes off my time every year. It was hard enough knowing he wasn’t going to be running it with us this year, but if I couldn’t do it, either? I had already purchased an extra bib number to run with, in his honor, to make sure the whole family still had our annual matching Peachtree Road Race finishers’ T-shirt.

  While I was in San Antonio covering Game Three of the NBA Finals for work, my dad called. “I’m sorry, Junior,” he said. “July third. That’s the date. I tried, but I won’t be ready anytime sooner.”

  “Don’t you worry,” I responded. “I am running that race no matter what.”

  I returned from my trip to the Finals for a day of pre-transplant prep work on June 11. Six hours, eighteen vials, and two bags of blood later, I finally walked out of the hospital. I couldn’t believe I had made it through all of that without passing out this time. But I also realized that if I couldn’t donate blood, I was going to be screwed trying to donate bone marrow.

  The next three weeks leading up to the transplant were eye-opening for me. I knew I wasn’t the first person to donate bone marrow, but this was my father. I was able to see both perspectives of the transplant on a deeply personal level. I saw him undergo the chemotherapy and radiation that killed him from the inside out so he could be reborn and grow a new immune system. It is an overpowering emotional medley with nothing else I could possibly compare it to. Love, fear, hope, and excitement all blended together in an actual life-or-death situation.

  On July 2, the eve of the transplant, I visited him in his room. Dad had been admitted five days earlier for some precautionary chemotherapy and antibiotics. The first thing we did was our own version of the Peachtree Road Race. We walked twelve laps around the isolation floor, which amounted to a full mile, and then went back to his room so he could detail the day ahead of us. My checkin was at 6:00 a.m., and he was going to receive the bone marrow once they retrieved it from my room, two buildings and seven floors away.

  When I got home that night after our visit, I opened a handwritten note that my father had penned and given to me at the hospital:

  Dear Craig II,

  I want to be like you, you want to be like me, and now we’re going to become “blood brothers”—explain that one! You’ve always made me proud, but there is no way to put in words your miraculous gift that will save my life.

  Well done my son, well done!

  Transplant day was tense. I didn’t get to see my dad that morning before I was wheeled back for the harvest. I’d had four football-related surgeries in my lifetime, but those were all to fix something. This time I was perfectly healthy. It was strange to know I was about to get bone marrow sucked out of my body while being out cold, but I was relieved to finally be getting this day over with.

  An hour and a half later, I woke up in a waiting room. They had drilled a hole into each of my hips, just above where the pockets would be on the back of a pair of jeans, to extract the marrow. I had a thick pad pressed into my hips and up to my lower back, locked in place with a corset of cohesive bandage tape. In all, doctors had extracted 1.5 liters of liquid bone marrow, which was a lot.

  To say I was uncomfortable was an understatement. I was lying down on my back, which had two holes in it. Shifting slightly in any direction pressed the bulky padding right into what felt like a deep bone bruise. I couldn’t move. While I recovered, they detected premature ventricular contractions—abnormal heartbeats that began in one of the heart’s two lower pumping chambers. I was held in the recovery room for two hours while I begged them to at least let me call my dad and family to let them know that I was okay. Other patients in the recovery room were groggy and fighting off the wake-up attempts by the nurses, but I couldn’t have been more wide-awake. I was ready to get the hell out of there.

  I was taken to a separate part of the hospital for further testing with a cardiologist who told me that I was going to have to stay overnight until my 11 a.m. post-op blood tests the next day, because they were concerned about my heartbeat. Word had been passed on to the doctor that I was going to try to run the race on July 4, and he was not going to let me risk it. A visit from Patient Relations, the head of cardiology, and the lead doctor of the transplant led to my eventual release, on the stipulation that I would not run in the race.

  They wheeled me out of the hospital at 5:00 p.m.—the exact same moment my dad was walking out to the parking lot. It felt like the universe had aligned to give us this moment. I hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might be able to go home that day. All the delays and all the struggling to get out of the hospital led to a perfectly timed discharge. We were standing in the parking lot, enjoying the fresh air together, free from the hospital’s walls. He had a birthday cake hat on his head, to commemorate his “first day of birth” with my DNA. A lifetime of being shown how to enjoy the moment couldn’t describe what I felt seeing him outside of the hospital walls once again. The air felt fresher, the world looked brighter, and all the things we’d be able to do once he was fully recovered filled me with an endless supply of hope.

  *

  I had two holes in my hip bone, with no painkillers. I had no energy, because of my depleted bone marrow and a massive anesthesia hangover. None of that mattered as I crossed the finish line of the Peachtree Road Race. Against all advice, medically and parentally, I completed the 10K in 1:18 that next morning. It was obviously brutal. In addition to the race, I had to walk two miles just to get to the starting line. I couldn’t stand up straight because of the bandage that was locked in place for someone who was not meant to be moving at all. I ran a 6.2-mile race with the thick bandages pressing against my tender lower back every step of the way. I was hunched over the whole time, which hurt my back even more. But I made it. My dad had my bone marrow in him, but I showed him that I have his spirit in me.

  16

  A NEW BIRTHDAY

  The transplant procedure day was not much different from a typical day for me in the hospital. The doctor came in with a nurse, who wheeled in some equipment and a portable X-ray machine. They connected an IV tube to my catheter and, after a first burst of cold in my veins, it felt like a typical transfusion or chemo as my son’s stem cells poured into my body. I had O positive blood, and Junior had A positive, so if the transplant was successful, in two to three weeks, my blood would turn to A positive, producing healthy blood cells and hopefully keeping leukemia out of my body forever.

  True to its word, Northside discharged me that very same afternoon and, as Junior says, we ran into each other in the parking lot. The thrill of going home was soon diminished when Dr. Holland called a few hours later to let me know that the la
b had detected C. diff in my stool, a possibly life-threatening infection in my situation, for which they prescribed some antibiotics to fight off the infection.

  The rounds of chemo over the past few months had wiped out my immune system, and I was very susceptible to the tiniest of infections—many of which could lead to death. We were instructed to take all kinds of precautions at home. Among the prohibited activities for six months post-transplant: no working in an office, no movie theaters, no sporting events, no animals, no lawn work, no swimming, no alcohol, no visitors outside of family, and no restaurants. Even hugging my kids was risky, as children are often carriers of multiple germs. Despite all of the restrictions, I couldn’t wait to be back home.

  Riley and Ryan were waiting with WELCOME HOME! signs and arms outstretched for hugs as we pulled into the driveway. With the transplant behind me, and my family in front of me, I felt renewed.

  For the next week, I grew accustomed to a routine at home: watching television, spending time with the kids and Stacy, and, when I was up for it, riding the exercise bike in the basement to rebuild my strength. The antibiotics seemed to be working on the C. diff, and I was feeling better each day. On July 12, however, I came down with a fever, and Stacy was under strict instructions to get me back to the hospital for any temperature above 100.5. We raced to Northside and I was back in an isolation room. Within a day, doctors had diagnosed pneumonia in my lungs, which can be fatal in a transplant patient.

  The most critical days after a transplant are the first nineteen to twenty-one days, while the donor blood and stem cells overtake the patient’s. When patients hit day one hundred after transplant, doctors feel comfortable that the transplant was successful. I was still medicated up: tramadol, Colace, hydrocortisone, NeutraSal, Uloric, Actigall, Pepcid, Klor-Con, acyclovir, Flomax, and dozens more. Some I took multiple times a day, some once a day, and some only as needed. My pillboxes looked like a Rite-Aid store shelf, and the medications changed daily or weekly depending on what the doctors ordered.

  I tried to remain upbeat, but these were difficult days. Every time I seemed to have won a battle, something would pull me back down. I never thought of giving up, but admittedly, I was sad and frustrated. After a few more days in the hospital, fighting off the pneumonia, doctors thought I was well enough to return home, but a few days later I was right back at Northside, with a high fever caused by the pneumonia that I thought I had just beaten. This time, I wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while.

  Doctors conducted two bronchoscopies and multiple CT scans to determine whether the round mass detected in my lung, caused by the pneumonia, was viral or fungal. They put me on eight strong antibiotics to cover the bases, though they never came to a conclusion. In addition to the pneumonia, my feet had swelled and turned purple—I had developed a serious case of gout in my feet, making it very painful to take even one step. But as an active man and avid runner, I couldn’t just lie in bed all day. I got an old man’s walker and took a few steps in the hospital ward. I wasn’t embarrassed by using the walker; I was just thrilled to be moving. I was, however, upset that the nurses insisted that someone must walk next to me in case I lost my balance and fell. I started out with one lap on the first day, then three laps the following day, then four laps, then six laps three times a day. Despite all this, I loved my walks.

  My stay in the hospital was longer than anyone had expected. July turned into August, August into September, September into October. Stacy gave me daily companionship while Mary Jo, my seventy-nine-year-old motherin-law, who defies her age and who had moved to Atlanta from Chicago, helped care for Riley and Ryan and our eighty-pound boxer, Princess Jasmine. Because the kids were too young to visit me in my room, on special occasions, Mary Jo and the kids would appear on the yard outside of my fourth-floor hospital room blowing kisses, holding signs, and waving. Although the windows on the floor did not open, a safeguard against outside germs getting in, the sight of Riley and Ryan was like a breath of fresh air, reminding me that I was not imprisoned, that this confinement was temporary.

  I spent ninety-three straight days in the hospital before doctors thought I was well enough to continue my recovery at home. I said my goodbyes to the nurses and fellow patients on the floor as they wheeled me to the main entrance, to where Stacy had pulled the car around. I could feel the rays of sunshine hit every inch of my body, I could smell the flowers from many feet away, I could hear the chirps of birds, and I began to cry as I slowly got up out of the wheelchair and took the final few steps on my own.

  I spent my days at home going back and forth with Stacy to the clinic or sitting on the sofa watching television. For a guy who has been on the move his entire life, I had to change my lifestyle dramatically. The hospital walls and my own house felt like a prison at times, though just being out of the hospital was a relief. I fought back the forces of depression by focusing on tomorrow and by unequivocally believing that not only would I make it back to the NBA sidelines but that I would beat leukemia altogether. I had lost fifty-seven pounds and, frankly, was grateful just to be alive.

  There was a positive side to my confinement, of course: I got to spend a lot of time with my children and my bride. Keep in mind, I had rarely been in the same city for more than a week or two since I’d married Stacy, and certainly since we had Riley and Ryan, so we all adjusted to being together. I snuck out to the golf course and tried to hit some balls—swinging and missing three straight times my first time out—and putted on the greens with Ryan. I watched my kids practice and play tennis, seated courtside with my mask, and I occasionally broke the rules about not driving and made quick trips to the McDonald’s drive-thru to grab a double cheeseburger with no onions or a grilled Filet-O-Fish sandwich with no lettuce.

  Doctors typically tell transplant patients that they can’t return to work for twelve to eighteen months after the procedure. Although I really wanted to be back on the NBA sidelines for the opening of the season in late October, I came to accept the fact that it would not happen, so I set my sights on another goal: the 2015 NBA All-Star Game in New York City, in mid-February. Sure, it was still well before most patients are given the green light to travel and return to work, but maybe I could rewrite the rules a bit.

  In October, I received a one-hundred-day certificate from the transplant nurses at Northside:

  CONGRATULATIONS

  CRAIG SAGER

  ON REACHING THIS MILESTONE WITH YOUR TRANSPLANT THERAPY

  I have been honored to receive awards and certificates throughout my life for various accomplishments, but at the time this one meant more than all the others. Despite the dark days, the setbacks, the C. diff, the pneumonia, I had made it one hundred days post-transplant, and doctors were optimistic it was working. Junior had literally and figuratively saved my life.

  One of the greatest threats to a transplant recipient is the appearance of graft-versus-host disease (GVHD). In plain terms, this is when the stem cells from the donor (or graft) form a new immune system in the recipient but the new system recognizes the recipient (host) as being different and, instead of protecting the body, attacks it. GVHD can be fatal. I was fortunate that there was no evidence of GVHD in my body. However, doctors put me on Prograft, an immunosuppressant, for six months to avoid GVHD, which meant that any travel was too risky for my immune system. The six-month period would end March 1, 2015, two weeks after the All-Star Game in New York City.

  By late January, after regular treatments at Northside, I had gained some weight back, my hair had returned, and my gout was gone, as was my pneumonia.

  The transplant had taken hold, although there were some concerning signs in my blood, as my white blood cell numbers were trending down, though doctors believed that it could just be a side effect of the Prograft. Nevertheless, I was ready to return to work.

  17

  “I’M BACK, BABY!”

  I met with Dr. Holland on January 31, and we discussed my return to the airwaves. Well, it really wasn’t much of a dis
cussion. Dr. Holland, concerned about my frail immune system, did not want me to go to New York for the All-Star Game. When I pushed back, he suggested that I could drive to New York or take a private plane, to avoid the germ-infested airports. However, when he also stipulated that I could not shake any hands, give any hugs, or have any human physical contact, I decided it wasn’t worth it.

  Though my goal of the All-Star Game didn’t happen, TNT did arrange for me to interview Carmelo Anthony over satellite during All-Star Weekend—me from Orlando, where Dr. Holland had allowed us to drive, and Carmelo from outside the locker room in New York before tip-off—so I could continue my streak of being a part of one of my favorite weekends of the year.

  In March, doctors finally cleared me to travel, and I marked Chicago for my first game back, on March 5. I had not been on-air since the game in Dallas in April 2014, before my diagnosis, and I was a bit nervous about being back on the sidelines. I wanted Stacy with me, so we flew out a few days before so I could get acclimated, go to the shootarounds, and otherwise find my footing. The night before the game, Stacy and I had a quick bite to eat and came back to the hotel, a deviation from my regular routine of staying out late with friends or the Turner crew at a local watering hole. But that night was different, and I understood that rest was critical.

  Unbeknownst to me, Mike Bartlett, Chris Chattin, Mike Joehl, Ricky Haynes, Dave Pasterz, Tony Sarallo, Barry White, and Steve Zahorodny, eight of my golfing buddies from Georgia, had flown in for the game, and many friends from Batavia drove over as well. I put on my ensemble and made my way over to the United Center. My phone was blowing up with supportive texts:

  WELCOME BACK my friend. The NBA is not the same without the INCOMPARABLE SAGS!!! The BEST TEAMMATE EVER!!!

  —Doug Collins, former NBA head coach and Turner broadcaster

  Craig, I heard you are back to work tonight! I can’t tell you how happy that makes all of us in Cleveland and as well as me personally. There has been “something missing” since you left to fight your medical challenge. Welcome back and stay back!