Benjamin Rubenstein's Blog, page 15
November 10, 2013
My 'Short' Experiment in Online Dating
As published on The Huffington Post
The only way short guys survive is by knowing that we live longer and can weave through Costco aisles faster than our taller, wealthier, calmer, happier and more powerful, popular, employable, educated and sexually active counterparts.
Shortness is great when we are four years old and get to hold the plaque in our soccer team photo. And when every other kid on the field piles on the ball, short boys wait for it to pop out and score a goal on the opponent's or our own net. In baseball, pitchers can't come close to our smaller strike zone so our on-base percentage exceeds 1.000. We learn to shoot the basketball well because opponents reject all our layups. We win tons of Gushers playing H.O.R.S.E. which we use to barter extra tater tots at school lunch.
Grade school teachers find our smallness endearing and award us extra stickers and desired parts in class plays. Girls, who are often taller than boys until middle school, also find us cute -- although, since our height-valued culture makes us feel insecure, we pretend not to look when our crush lets us sneak a peek at her underwear.
Middle school bullies assume we are brainiacs and threaten to beat us up unless we provide our homework to copy, and then actually beat us up after receiving their unsatisfactory grades. Our friends think they can bully us, too, so we learn to punch them really hard. We begin strength training which stunts our bones further. Older girls at school dances bully us by spinning us in the air like helicopters. We do not return this favor.
We play tennis in high school because the soccer scrum and mini strike zone no longer apply. We become the lucky charm at sporting events which is like an acceptable form of bullying. Girls are curious why other guys rub our head and backside for luck, and they give us attention unrelated to helicopters. These would be our prime years if we understood how alcohol works. Keep reading, here.
The only way short guys survive is by knowing that we live longer and can weave through Costco aisles faster than our taller, wealthier, calmer, happier and more powerful, popular, employable, educated and sexually active counterparts.
Shortness is great when we are four years old and get to hold the plaque in our soccer team photo. And when every other kid on the field piles on the ball, short boys wait for it to pop out and score a goal on the opponent's or our own net. In baseball, pitchers can't come close to our smaller strike zone so our on-base percentage exceeds 1.000. We learn to shoot the basketball well because opponents reject all our layups. We win tons of Gushers playing H.O.R.S.E. which we use to barter extra tater tots at school lunch.
Grade school teachers find our smallness endearing and award us extra stickers and desired parts in class plays. Girls, who are often taller than boys until middle school, also find us cute -- although, since our height-valued culture makes us feel insecure, we pretend not to look when our crush lets us sneak a peek at her underwear.
Middle school bullies assume we are brainiacs and threaten to beat us up unless we provide our homework to copy, and then actually beat us up after receiving their unsatisfactory grades. Our friends think they can bully us, too, so we learn to punch them really hard. We begin strength training which stunts our bones further. Older girls at school dances bully us by spinning us in the air like helicopters. We do not return this favor.
We play tennis in high school because the soccer scrum and mini strike zone no longer apply. We become the lucky charm at sporting events which is like an acceptable form of bullying. Girls are curious why other guys rub our head and backside for luck, and they give us attention unrelated to helicopters. These would be our prime years if we understood how alcohol works. Keep reading, here.
October 29, 2013
Climb or DIE
9:51 a.m.: I don’t feel like rock-climbing, but I had spent hours planning the event under the email subject “Climb or DIE” so I have no choice. After waking, I sip my protein shake and as much water as my wretched stomach allows. Our noon climb 30 minutes away in Golden, Colorado, isn’t nearly accommodating to recover from the Great American Beer Festival. I still must:Wake Pumba next door
Get Pumba ready to climb
Get Pumba ready to drive
Get Pumba to pick up the rope
Get Pumba to pick up quick draws from McScuses
Get Pumba to pick up our other friend, Princess
10:26 a.m.: I email Princess, “Do you know McSteamy’s phone number? I need to pick up quick draws.”
10:39 a.m.: Princess emails me her and McLoaner's numbers, asks how Pumba is, and offers to drive us.
10:39:27 a.m.: I contact McRunningOutOfNicknames about his quick draws.
10:39:47 a.m.: I call Princess. “Pumba is alive I think. I’ll elbow drop her now. A ride would be awesome…You can pick up the rope?...You’re functional this morning?…You’re a lifesaver!…We’ll be ready for you to pick us up at 11:15.”
10:40:51 a.m.: “PUMBA!”
10:41 a.m.: McSomething texts his address and that he will leave the quick draws on the porch.
10:43 a.m.: Pumba makes three calls from bed and then says, “I’m texting Princess where to pick up the rope. I’m sorry I can’t climb with you. I feel deathly.”
10:44 a.m.: I lie on the floor in Pumba’s room. I probably don’t drool.
11:14 a.m.: Princess calls. “I’m here!”
11:15 a.m.: I call Princess. “I don’t see you…Pumba gave you the wrong address and you see me from the end of the street?...You’re wearing pink?...I don’t see you but my vision isn’t superb now…Ok I’ll wait here.”
11:17 a.m.: I enter Princess’ car. “Don’t worry, I’ve never once missed a toilet, trashcan or tree with my vomit. I’ll give you advanced notice if it is coming.”
11:30 a.m.: Mc??? mis-typed his address and the owner of the home we are staring it isn’t happy. Princess speaks. “We are looking for our friend who is leaving us his quick draws (homeowner looks more confused) on his porch. But you don’t look like our friend (homeowner looks frightened)…He just moved in, are you aware of new neighbors?...Across the street?...Thanks!”
11:40 a.m.: I choose Arby’s over 7-11, my only two options for sustenance, and order a plain turkey sandwich with lettuce and tomato. I eat a few bites. “I think it is staying down.”
11:42 a.m.: I had contacted every climbing gym in Denver and posted an inquiry on every climbing forum looking for a lead climber. The owner of one gym forwarded my request to his friend who was happy to lead our group. I email him, and our expert climbing friend who will also join, that we’ll be late.
12:15 p.m.: We pile into one car en route to Cat Slab in Clear Creek Canyon. I don’t feel like rock-climbing or even moving.
12:45 p.m.: We exit the car and I lag far behind as I traverse the steep trail toward our climbing wall. I take my gear, water and remaining Arby’s with me.
1:00 p.m.: Our expert climbing friend and new lead climbing friend set the routes. I can’t believe I’m about to rock-climb.
1:05 p.m.: I need to relieve myself. I have gone in many toilets, buckets and other collection containers, and many people have seen, measured and tested my waste, but I have never gone in nature. What would Bear Grylls do?
1:07 p.m.: I see some large rocks far down a steep, rocky path, next to a stream and across from a walking trail. There is no vegetation. I spot my Arby’s bag and open it. Clearly God had steered me towards Arby’s instead of 7-11 because of the three provided napkins. I pocket them and carefully walk down.
1:10 p.m.: I reach the rock formation and investigate.
1:15 p.m.: There is nowhere to completely hide so I settle on a small rock to slouch on, in front of a large rock to lean against. The crevice between them is my mark.
1:16 p.m.: I look in every direction for humans. Nobody is approaching or across on the walking trail. I turn back toward the climbers to gauge my visibility. I lean lower on the rock and hope just my head can be seen.
1:17 p.m.: Having no experience, I drop pants and drawers close to my shoes and hold my shirt high and tight. I’d rather cut off circulation than allow gravity to place extra shirt material where it doesn’t need to be.
1:19 p.m.: I stare at the three napkins in my hand and pray. The only alternative is sandy granite. (I will only need one napkin, will use them all, leave them there, and apologize to nature for my environmental offense.)
1:20 p.m.: I cannot find my result. I turn my clothes in every direction, check every part of me, double-triple-quadruple-check every part of me, nearly pull a neck muscle trying to confirm that I am not as ignorant as a toddler.
1:23 p.m.: I return to my group and hope the mental checklist I created from watching hours of Bear Grylls footage is not missing a critical step.
1:25 p.m.: I finish my turkey and bread. I hold the sandwich with my other hand.
1:40 p.m.: Full of food and water, clean and free of debris, I secure my harness. I’m up next. Climb or DIE.
October 17, 2013
The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's Man of the Year
I don’t dawdle. Just days after my friend nominated me for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society's 2014 Man of the Year for the National Capital Area Chapter, I accepted. The 10-week campaign will run from April 3 through June 14, 2014. The man (and woman) who generates the most funding for The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society will be crowned champion of the galaxy.
I also don’t make decisions blindly. The Leukemia & Lymphoma Society, founded in 1949, is the world's largest voluntary health organization dedicated to blood cancer. In 2012 it invested $68 million in research. Charity Navigator rates it 3/4 stars overall and 4/4 in accountability and transparency.
By the Grand Finale Gala on June 14, I will be 11 years cancer-free from my second cancer, which was (shocker) a cancer of the blood. Therefore, my goal is to raise $5,000 for each cancer-free year, totaling $55,000!
I will need help. Although donations to help save the lives of people like me are the primary support, I’ll also need:
Friendly conversation;
Motivation;
Candy for sustenance;
Coke Zero for elation; and
Most importantly, help reaching other communities for more donations to help save lives.
I’m looking for campaign team members—you won’t have to invest any money or too much time. Let me know if you would like to be part of this epic adventure!
Sincerely, your friend and hopefully future Milky Way champion,
Ben
October 11, 2013
If Other Things Shut Down
As published on The Huffington Post
The government shutdown has been rough on the hundreds of thousands of furloughed federal employees and laid-off contractors. But just think how much worse it could be if other things shut down.
If Facebook shut down, then fourth quarter GDP in the U.S. would probably grow by 39 percent.
If Google shut down, then I can't think of a scenario in which the world wouldn't end. Ditto for porn.
If Lindsay Lohan shut down, then courts, TMZ, Us Weekly, nightclubs, hair color companies, car and theft insurance companies, and the Promises, Wonderland and Cirque Lodge rehab facilities would all shut down.
If the NFL shut down, then God may not exist.
If coffee shut down, then Starbucks would only serve venti iced skinny hazelnut rum, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, light ice, no whip. God probably exists. Keep reading, here
The government shutdown has been rough on the hundreds of thousands of furloughed federal employees and laid-off contractors. But just think how much worse it could be if other things shut down.
If Facebook shut down, then fourth quarter GDP in the U.S. would probably grow by 39 percent.
If Google shut down, then I can't think of a scenario in which the world wouldn't end. Ditto for porn.
If Lindsay Lohan shut down, then courts, TMZ, Us Weekly, nightclubs, hair color companies, car and theft insurance companies, and the Promises, Wonderland and Cirque Lodge rehab facilities would all shut down.
If the NFL shut down, then God may not exist.
If coffee shut down, then Starbucks would only serve venti iced skinny hazelnut rum, sugar-free syrup, extra shot, light ice, no whip. God probably exists. Keep reading, here
October 1, 2013
If This Blog Reached a Shutdown
I am fortunate to remain working as 800,000 other federal employees are sent home without pay. I deal with catastrophe and hardship with terrible humor and I mean no disrespect…
What would happen in the event of a cancerslayerblog Blog Shutdown?
Its single author, editor, coder, formatter and publisher would have to stop work. He would also continue receiving $0.
Its seven loyal readers and 13 occasional visitors would be forced to reread previous stories such as Chemo Sprinkles and wonder why they ever visited this blog. They would then never visit cancerslayerblog again.
Now with extra time to read other things, one of this blog’s readers would devote himself to studying Justin Bieber. He would then enter depression and be unable to afford counseling. He would forget to clean his teeth and without access to preventive care, they would all fall out. Unable to chew, he would then subsist on Jolly Ranchers. Once his blood glucose exceeds 4,999 while crowd surfing at a Bieber concert, his heart would stop, he would die, and his next of kin would sue Bieber for all his wealth and end up settling on authentic replicas of Bieber’s owl tattoo. Screw tort reform.
All the blog’s stakeholders would bicker over why the Blog Shutdown occurred and pretend they are trying to fix it. In other words, I end up talking to myself a lot.
Media outlets would point fingers at the “bad” stakeholders. I think this means that on Twitter I would demand that health insurers not cover my hip and heart scans. On Facebook I would state that my Twitter account is simply a hindrance to me selling books. Instagram would post selfies and maybe some nudies. Google Plus would play impartial by posting nothing. Goodreads would create its own Twitter account just to post glowing quotes about my book. YouTube would forget it existed and just watch funny videos of guys in wheelchairs picking up chicks. About.me would…hot damn I have too many media outlets.
Without this blog for continued practice, my writing would suffer. I would then lose my actual job as a writer/editor in the federal government, lose my health insurance and then blame Twitter for forcing me to live in fear that healthcare would bankrupt me. I would then enter the health insurance black market by paying my pediatric surgeon-friend, NoCommonSense, Get Out of Jail Free cards in exchange for future surgical procedures. I would target calf implants in 2016.
Jobless and with ample time and no other skills, I would watch Breaking Bad start-to-end at least monthly in order to learn how to cook meth. I would distribute the meth to the 800,000 jobless federal employees. Now without teeth, skills and health insurance, we would all look forward to our respective shutdowns to end so that we could contribute to America again.
What would happen in the event of a cancerslayerblog Blog Shutdown?
Its single author, editor, coder, formatter and publisher would have to stop work. He would also continue receiving $0.
Its seven loyal readers and 13 occasional visitors would be forced to reread previous stories such as Chemo Sprinkles and wonder why they ever visited this blog. They would then never visit cancerslayerblog again.
Now with extra time to read other things, one of this blog’s readers would devote himself to studying Justin Bieber. He would then enter depression and be unable to afford counseling. He would forget to clean his teeth and without access to preventive care, they would all fall out. Unable to chew, he would then subsist on Jolly Ranchers. Once his blood glucose exceeds 4,999 while crowd surfing at a Bieber concert, his heart would stop, he would die, and his next of kin would sue Bieber for all his wealth and end up settling on authentic replicas of Bieber’s owl tattoo. Screw tort reform.All the blog’s stakeholders would bicker over why the Blog Shutdown occurred and pretend they are trying to fix it. In other words, I end up talking to myself a lot.
Media outlets would point fingers at the “bad” stakeholders. I think this means that on Twitter I would demand that health insurers not cover my hip and heart scans. On Facebook I would state that my Twitter account is simply a hindrance to me selling books. Instagram would post selfies and maybe some nudies. Google Plus would play impartial by posting nothing. Goodreads would create its own Twitter account just to post glowing quotes about my book. YouTube would forget it existed and just watch funny videos of guys in wheelchairs picking up chicks. About.me would…hot damn I have too many media outlets.
Without this blog for continued practice, my writing would suffer. I would then lose my actual job as a writer/editor in the federal government, lose my health insurance and then blame Twitter for forcing me to live in fear that healthcare would bankrupt me. I would then enter the health insurance black market by paying my pediatric surgeon-friend, NoCommonSense, Get Out of Jail Free cards in exchange for future surgical procedures. I would target calf implants in 2016.
Jobless and with ample time and no other skills, I would watch Breaking Bad start-to-end at least monthly in order to learn how to cook meth. I would distribute the meth to the 800,000 jobless federal employees. Now without teeth, skills and health insurance, we would all look forward to our respective shutdowns to end so that we could contribute to America again.
September 14, 2013
Ewing Sarcoma and a Purpose Driven Life: Part II
This is the final installment of a three-part short story which spans my 11th and 12th anniversaries of surviving bone cancer. You can read the first two parts here (in order):
The Journey of Ewing Sarcoma
Ewing Sarcoma and a Purpose Driven Life: Part I
Ewing would need an assistant to help him fulfill his purpose. He considered contacting local high schools for cheap labor, but who was he kidding—nobody was as brilliant or fun as Pong. Some of their oxy and sewage-charged evenings were epic. If he returned his brain to that precise chemical imbalance then maybe he would remember the forest trails that led back to Pong.
Ewing had a foreboding feeling about Pong. He couldn’t build the proper bartering wealth to attain his drug concoction soon enough. Full of shame and conviction, he engaged in one more sexual act with a forest creature in exchange for drugs.
Ewing recalled the formula Pong had developed for the perfect high, and re-calculated based on his increased weight (hey, it’s hard to keep the fat off). He mixed his two drugs and waited, though not for long. He saw the path so vividly in his mind, as if it were implanted! Ewing jumped up and hopped through the forest toward Pong faster than he ever had before.
When his vision ended he stopped hopping and was certain the longitude and latitude were precise. He called to his friend, “Pooooooong!” until he couldn’t breathe, and then yelled again, over and over. No response. Ewing feared the worst as his heart ached with regret. He should have taken his small friend with him when he stupidly thought he was dying. Ewing sobbed himself to sleep.
***
Sometimes Ben lost his way. He ate unclean food and allowed unclean thoughts to penetrate his mind. Worst, he sometimes lost sight of where he came from.
On his 11th cancer-free anniversary Ben had recalled the perception of his tumor that he drew before beginning cancer treatment, when he was 16. He had used that picture to motivate him to anger. Ben must have gotten soft in his late twenties because he grew to see that picture as a symbol, a reminder of where he came from. So that he would never again lose his way, Ben got a permanent tattoo of Ewing. I’ll bring Ewing back to life, Ben said jokingly.
Ben laughed out loud at his next thought—tattoos are addictive and it is time for a new one. He couldn’t wait to tell his mom about his new tattoo idea. Maybe he would tell her on his 12th anniversary of surviving Ewing’s sarcoma, on September 14, 2013, at 3:40 p.m. Ben looked at the timestamp of this blog story…er, I mean his watch. Damn time flies!
He picked up the phone. “Hey mom…”
***
Once again, a crying mouse awakened Ewing. He rubbed his big eyes and then had to blink hard. He was staring at Pong! But Pong was sort of grayish, and also wearing a red ninjutsu robe.
Ewing rifled off sentences without breaks. “Pong I looked for you I’m so sorry I left you I shouldn’t have left you I’m sorry my friend Pong oh dear Pong I’m so glad I found you please forgive me!”
Pong spoke softly. “Dear Ewing Sarcoma, I forgive you, though you need not even apologize. You were wonderful to me and I felt you needed space to find you own path.
“I was able to survive for a long time. I outsmarted my predators and talked my way out of being eaten. Sometimes I had to negotiate my survival by committing sexual acts. Oh, that horror and shame, but I longed to live. What can I say—I’m a hopeful motherfu…”
“What do you mean ‘able to survive for a long time,’” Ewing interrupted.
“Ewing: I am deceased, consumed by a rat snake. Of everything I survived and all the potential ways to go, can you believe it was a rat snake? That still pisses me off. But Ewing, my best friend forever, I met my father in limbo. As I suspected, my father is Master Splinter. I do not hate him any longer. With my superior intellectual capacities and his 749 years of crystallized, albeit diminishing, knowledge, we concocted a new drug that lets me straddle life and death.”
“I don’t understand,” Ewing said with tears streaming down his face.
“Ewing, I will always be with you, but only you can see me.”
Ewing’s simple mind still couldn’t understand, but AlternatePong was here, talking with him, and nothing else mattered! Ewing told AlternatePong about his new purpose in life and how he needed help. AlternatePong was thrilled to assist.
Ewing and AlternatePong worked on their mutual life purpose—helping sick children feel comfort, empowerment and joy. They worked on a precise schedule because AlternatePong had to take his quasi life-sustaining drug every six hours, with just a four-minute window before and after. “That’s more intense than the pill schedule for someone with HIV,” Ewing said. “If I had sex organs than I’d ask you to remind me not to get HIV.”
For four hours three times a day, they worked together under their favorite oak tree. They brainstormed, contacted stakeholders, and drafted communications and marketing plans. Ewing and AlternatePong loved children and how they saw the world. Ewing’s journey to find his life’s purpose was long and hard, but every second of their work was rewarding.
***
Ben finished talking to his mom, who congratulated him on 12 years of freedom from cancer. “If you get another tattoo then I’ll be forced to get one, too,” she also said.
“I’ll help you choose your design.” He could always call her bluff.
Ben poured a glass of wine and walked to his community pool. It was 75 degrees and beautiful. A little boy was playing in the pool, splashing and laughing wildly. He swam to Ben and introduced himself as Timmy. Ben’s eyes drifted to the bump on Timmy’s chest, under his skin. Ben would recognize that port, which delivers chemotherapy, any day. “What is that picture on you?” Timmy asked.
Ben thought hard about how to answer. He looked toward his ribcage at Ewing. “This guy? This is Ewing. Do you want to hear more about Ewing?”
“Um, yes.”
“Wait here.”
Ben rushed into his home and printed the design of Ewing that his tattoo artist had used, placed tape on the back of the paper, and then brought it to Timmy. “Timmy, meet your new friend, Ewing. Though he doesn’t have super powers like you do, he can be your sidekick if you let him.”
Ben pressed Ewing onto the front of Timmy’s little bookbag. “Ewing will listen to you when you’re sad, motivate you to be strong, and fight illness with you. Ewing can be your secret protector!”
Timmy loved Ewing. “Can just anyone have Ewing?”
“No, Timmy. Only kids who have to deal with illness can get a Ewing. He knows what you’re going through and how isolating cancer can be. But he also knows that you have a special perspective and a unique story to tell, someday, when you’re ready. You already have a ‘cool’ factor, and now you have a Ewing!”
The next day Ben printed dozens of stickers of Ewing and gave them to Timmy. “Now you can take him everywhere.”
Ben returned to his home and poured another glass of wine, thinking back on his 13 years with Ewing, 12 as a survivor. You gave me motivation, hope and perspective. Now you helped Timmy. So I guess you gave me purpose, too. On this Day of Atonement I am sorry I ever threw you in the garbage can. It turns out I always needed you, Ewing.
***
Ewing woke up hearing Ben’s thoughts. He was so overcome with joy that he hadn’t noticed AlternatePong and Master Splinter next to him, or that his blue spots looked somewhat transparent. “Where are we?”
AlternatePong answered. “Were you able to comprehend that crazy ass Freud when you read his work?”
“Of course not. He was crazy.”
“Well, he was one crazy ass but…”
“Just tell him,” Master Splinter interrupted.
AlternatePong complied. “Ewing: we are all different layers of Ben’s preconscious and unconscious mind. That includes you.”
Ewing began sobbing violently. “What does that mean? Tell me, please!!”
“Ewing, we aren’t real. We are a part of Ben, sometimes guiding him towards right and sometimes just observing.”
Ewing wiped his eyes for the final time. He understood. The purpose he sought had always been correlated with Ben’s desires, morals and purpose. He, both Pongs and even Master Splinter were a part of Ben. And then just like that, Ewing knowingly closed his eyes for the final time, never feeling more at peace.
***
Ben sat down next to Ethan, a quiet 16-year-old boy who he volunteered to spend time with, in Ethan’s transplant room, offering a box of pizza.
“Is it pepperoni?” Ethan asked.
“It wouldn’t be pizza if it were anything else,” Ben said. “Oh wait, are you allowed to have this?”
“Ha-ha, so funny. You better have gotten me more than one slice for that comment.”
Ben arrived at the hospital just in time to watch the analysts’ predictions before the Redskins game. “Well, who ya got?”
“Never bet against RG3,” Ethan said.
“That’s my man,” Ben said to his young friend.
Next to Ethan stood his IV pole which held bags of liquid that dripped, dripped, dripped into him. And on each of those bags was a sticker of Ewing that some little kid was handing out a while back. Ethan used the stickers to cover the IV bags’ biohazard symbols. Oh, Timmy! Ben thought.
Before kickoff Ben looked at Ethan and smiled, and then looked up at Ewing. Ben chuckled. He could have sworn Ewing smiled back.
***
Postscript: If you wish to share then I would be more than grateful to hear your feedback on this three-part short story. After years of blogging I am still honored to have interested readers. Thank you.
Disclaimer: The character Ewing Sarcoma and its likeness are the property of Benjamin Rubenstein. All rights reserved.
The Journey of Ewing Sarcoma
Ewing Sarcoma and a Purpose Driven Life: Part I
Ewing would need an assistant to help him fulfill his purpose. He considered contacting local high schools for cheap labor, but who was he kidding—nobody was as brilliant or fun as Pong. Some of their oxy and sewage-charged evenings were epic. If he returned his brain to that precise chemical imbalance then maybe he would remember the forest trails that led back to Pong.
Ewing had a foreboding feeling about Pong. He couldn’t build the proper bartering wealth to attain his drug concoction soon enough. Full of shame and conviction, he engaged in one more sexual act with a forest creature in exchange for drugs.
Ewing recalled the formula Pong had developed for the perfect high, and re-calculated based on his increased weight (hey, it’s hard to keep the fat off). He mixed his two drugs and waited, though not for long. He saw the path so vividly in his mind, as if it were implanted! Ewing jumped up and hopped through the forest toward Pong faster than he ever had before.
When his vision ended he stopped hopping and was certain the longitude and latitude were precise. He called to his friend, “Pooooooong!” until he couldn’t breathe, and then yelled again, over and over. No response. Ewing feared the worst as his heart ached with regret. He should have taken his small friend with him when he stupidly thought he was dying. Ewing sobbed himself to sleep.
***
Sometimes Ben lost his way. He ate unclean food and allowed unclean thoughts to penetrate his mind. Worst, he sometimes lost sight of where he came from.
On his 11th cancer-free anniversary Ben had recalled the perception of his tumor that he drew before beginning cancer treatment, when he was 16. He had used that picture to motivate him to anger. Ben must have gotten soft in his late twenties because he grew to see that picture as a symbol, a reminder of where he came from. So that he would never again lose his way, Ben got a permanent tattoo of Ewing. I’ll bring Ewing back to life, Ben said jokingly.
Ben laughed out loud at his next thought—tattoos are addictive and it is time for a new one. He couldn’t wait to tell his mom about his new tattoo idea. Maybe he would tell her on his 12th anniversary of surviving Ewing’s sarcoma, on September 14, 2013, at 3:40 p.m. Ben looked at the timestamp of this blog story…er, I mean his watch. Damn time flies!
He picked up the phone. “Hey mom…”
***
Once again, a crying mouse awakened Ewing. He rubbed his big eyes and then had to blink hard. He was staring at Pong! But Pong was sort of grayish, and also wearing a red ninjutsu robe.
Ewing rifled off sentences without breaks. “Pong I looked for you I’m so sorry I left you I shouldn’t have left you I’m sorry my friend Pong oh dear Pong I’m so glad I found you please forgive me!”
Pong spoke softly. “Dear Ewing Sarcoma, I forgive you, though you need not even apologize. You were wonderful to me and I felt you needed space to find you own path.
“I was able to survive for a long time. I outsmarted my predators and talked my way out of being eaten. Sometimes I had to negotiate my survival by committing sexual acts. Oh, that horror and shame, but I longed to live. What can I say—I’m a hopeful motherfu…”
“What do you mean ‘able to survive for a long time,’” Ewing interrupted.
“Ewing: I am deceased, consumed by a rat snake. Of everything I survived and all the potential ways to go, can you believe it was a rat snake? That still pisses me off. But Ewing, my best friend forever, I met my father in limbo. As I suspected, my father is Master Splinter. I do not hate him any longer. With my superior intellectual capacities and his 749 years of crystallized, albeit diminishing, knowledge, we concocted a new drug that lets me straddle life and death.”
“I don’t understand,” Ewing said with tears streaming down his face.
“Ewing, I will always be with you, but only you can see me.”
Ewing’s simple mind still couldn’t understand, but AlternatePong was here, talking with him, and nothing else mattered! Ewing told AlternatePong about his new purpose in life and how he needed help. AlternatePong was thrilled to assist.
Ewing and AlternatePong worked on their mutual life purpose—helping sick children feel comfort, empowerment and joy. They worked on a precise schedule because AlternatePong had to take his quasi life-sustaining drug every six hours, with just a four-minute window before and after. “That’s more intense than the pill schedule for someone with HIV,” Ewing said. “If I had sex organs than I’d ask you to remind me not to get HIV.”
For four hours three times a day, they worked together under their favorite oak tree. They brainstormed, contacted stakeholders, and drafted communications and marketing plans. Ewing and AlternatePong loved children and how they saw the world. Ewing’s journey to find his life’s purpose was long and hard, but every second of their work was rewarding.
***
Ben finished talking to his mom, who congratulated him on 12 years of freedom from cancer. “If you get another tattoo then I’ll be forced to get one, too,” she also said.
“I’ll help you choose your design.” He could always call her bluff.
Ben poured a glass of wine and walked to his community pool. It was 75 degrees and beautiful. A little boy was playing in the pool, splashing and laughing wildly. He swam to Ben and introduced himself as Timmy. Ben’s eyes drifted to the bump on Timmy’s chest, under his skin. Ben would recognize that port, which delivers chemotherapy, any day. “What is that picture on you?” Timmy asked.
Ben thought hard about how to answer. He looked toward his ribcage at Ewing. “This guy? This is Ewing. Do you want to hear more about Ewing?”
“Um, yes.”
“Wait here.”
Ben rushed into his home and printed the design of Ewing that his tattoo artist had used, placed tape on the back of the paper, and then brought it to Timmy. “Timmy, meet your new friend, Ewing. Though he doesn’t have super powers like you do, he can be your sidekick if you let him.”
Ben pressed Ewing onto the front of Timmy’s little bookbag. “Ewing will listen to you when you’re sad, motivate you to be strong, and fight illness with you. Ewing can be your secret protector!”
Timmy loved Ewing. “Can just anyone have Ewing?”
“No, Timmy. Only kids who have to deal with illness can get a Ewing. He knows what you’re going through and how isolating cancer can be. But he also knows that you have a special perspective and a unique story to tell, someday, when you’re ready. You already have a ‘cool’ factor, and now you have a Ewing!”
The next day Ben printed dozens of stickers of Ewing and gave them to Timmy. “Now you can take him everywhere.”
Ben returned to his home and poured another glass of wine, thinking back on his 13 years with Ewing, 12 as a survivor. You gave me motivation, hope and perspective. Now you helped Timmy. So I guess you gave me purpose, too. On this Day of Atonement I am sorry I ever threw you in the garbage can. It turns out I always needed you, Ewing.
***
Ewing woke up hearing Ben’s thoughts. He was so overcome with joy that he hadn’t noticed AlternatePong and Master Splinter next to him, or that his blue spots looked somewhat transparent. “Where are we?”
AlternatePong answered. “Were you able to comprehend that crazy ass Freud when you read his work?”
“Of course not. He was crazy.”
“Well, he was one crazy ass but…”
“Just tell him,” Master Splinter interrupted.
AlternatePong complied. “Ewing: we are all different layers of Ben’s preconscious and unconscious mind. That includes you.”
Ewing began sobbing violently. “What does that mean? Tell me, please!!”
“Ewing, we aren’t real. We are a part of Ben, sometimes guiding him towards right and sometimes just observing.”
Ewing wiped his eyes for the final time. He understood. The purpose he sought had always been correlated with Ben’s desires, morals and purpose. He, both Pongs and even Master Splinter were a part of Ben. And then just like that, Ewing knowingly closed his eyes for the final time, never feeling more at peace.
***
Ben sat down next to Ethan, a quiet 16-year-old boy who he volunteered to spend time with, in Ethan’s transplant room, offering a box of pizza.
“Is it pepperoni?” Ethan asked.
“It wouldn’t be pizza if it were anything else,” Ben said. “Oh wait, are you allowed to have this?”
“Ha-ha, so funny. You better have gotten me more than one slice for that comment.”
Ben arrived at the hospital just in time to watch the analysts’ predictions before the Redskins game. “Well, who ya got?”
“Never bet against RG3,” Ethan said.
“That’s my man,” Ben said to his young friend.
Next to Ethan stood his IV pole which held bags of liquid that dripped, dripped, dripped into him. And on each of those bags was a sticker of Ewing that some little kid was handing out a while back. Ethan used the stickers to cover the IV bags’ biohazard symbols. Oh, Timmy! Ben thought.
Before kickoff Ben looked at Ethan and smiled, and then looked up at Ewing. Ben chuckled. He could have sworn Ewing smiled back.
***
Postscript: If you wish to share then I would be more than grateful to hear your feedback on this three-part short story. After years of blogging I am still honored to have interested readers. Thank you.
Disclaimer: The character Ewing Sarcoma and its likeness are the property of Benjamin Rubenstein. All rights reserved.
Ewing Sarcoma and a Purpose Driven Life: Part I
This is the second of three installments of this short story which spans my 11th and 12th anniversaries of surviving bone cancer. You can read the first part, which I wrote last year, here: The Journey of Ewing Sarcoma
Ewing Sarcoma hopped much of the day and slept all night. He paid no attention to the date, time, angle of the sun, or anything else that keeps creatures grounded in reality. He ate when he felt hungry and found shelter when his bum got cold. He lived a clean life, breathing fresh, forest air and consuming only organic plant products. And he said the Shema for Ben, his creator, every night.
Wow, had time passed since Ben drew Ewing Sarcoma on Microsoft Paint before beginning cancer treatment when he was just a teenage boy! Ewing was Ben’s perception of his tumor, a symbol of how to destroy cancer. Ewing completed his task.
Though Ben didn’t know it, Ewing was alive and when Ben no longer needed Ewing, the little guy left. Ewing returned to look in on Ben many years later, when Ben had become a young man. But Ewing left again to let Ben find his own way. Ben was trying his best to live a complete life thanks to cancer, but what about Ewing’s purpose?
Ewing was a loner, the only breathing tumor perception in the world, maybe the universe! If he could convince other people diagnosed with cancer to draw their tumor perceptions like Ben had, then they would be motivated to survive and live a complete life.
But how did he come to life in the first place? How could he replicate that magic, and who would talk to a blue-spotted blob, let alone be convinced to draw a picture of a tumor? Ah, it was futile. Despite his overwhelming sense of hope, Ewing had some logic below those spikey hairs.
Ewing could only hop so long without his butt callouses erupting into a blue-blooded mess. He spent many of his remaining waking hours reading Friedrich Nietzsche, that crazy ass Sigmund Freud, and of course James Patterson. He also considered a new purpose. Brief epiphanies came to him in dreams or when he hallucinated on psilocybin mushrooms (don’t get Ewing started on their natural health benefits or drug policy). He was just always too high to write his epiphanies, and would forget the next morning.
One morning Ewing was awakened by a crying baby mouse. Memories of his old pal, a small mouse named Pong, pulsed through his mind. Snippets of the previous night’s epiphany also crashed through his interrupted REM sleep and into semi-consciousness. Ewing rubbed his eyes, hair, blue spots; anything to stimulate his senses. Hold on, it was coming to him! Yes, wait...he got it! Ewing found his new purpose in life.
Ewing Sarcoma would help children cope with disease. It’s no fun when kids can’t play with their friends because their illness makes them feel badly. Their friends may not understand why, but I know what’s up. I will watch over them. Kids, get ready to meet your new sidekick, Ewing!
***
I’m a chameleon. I change for self-improvement, and I do this better than anyone in the universe, Ben thought. Change would lead to perfection, which would stymie fears of cancer recurrence or rejection, which would lead to an uncrackable superesteem. Ben chuckled. He chuckles too often, and one has to wonder if he’s becoming as crazy as that crazy ass Sigmund Freud.
Ben shared this theory with a new friend, McNasty, who is a decade older than Ben. Ben even prefaced his “wisdom” by saying, “I know this is weird coming from someone who is younger…”
McNasty called Ben on his bullshit. “You seek perfection to camouflage your true fears. I do the same thing.” McNasty was the wise one.
It had only been a couple years since Ben felt…normal, mature, like a real adult? He couldn’t explain it, whatever it was. He hadn’t forgotten his past, but also needed to move forward. Ben was destined for a tug-of-war between the two.
Ben sighed. When his mind cluttered he turned to cleanliness. His food, attire, appearance, residence: all clean and neat. Even his cancer brought a sense of cleanliness: he discovered his tumor and then became cancer-free a year apart, nearly to the minute on September 14, always around the Jewish High Holy Days. The New Year always brings a clean, new beginning.
It’s as if Ben and Ewing were born of the same genes.
***
Pong was no longer a baby like when he first met Ewing, but he was still small, even for a mouse. He was orphaned at such a young age after an incident involving his bastard dad that is too horrid to write. And while frolicking with Ewing, Pong got into narcotics and sewage alcohol, and there was some sexual abuse that I also cannot mention…no, he was not abused by Ewing! Get your mind out of the gutter.
Pong’s intelligence was an outlier, even on a human scale. I guess since my dad bestowed me with such wits, I can’t despise the old bastard with all my being, Pong thought. After intense research on ancestry.com and genetic blood testing, with a 95% confidence interval Pong’s father was Master Splinter.
Pong missed Ewing, his only real friend and guardian. He remembered playing with Ewing’s hair and poking his blue dots. Pong had never seen anything so gorgeous and blue! And then Ewing left abruptly because he thought he was dying, and wanted to pass away alone. Pong knew Ewing wasn’t actually dying and considered him kind of an idiot for thinking that, but let him go anyway. Pong understood Ewing needed to find his purpose. Except for IQ, they were so similar.
Pong lived in terror of being eaten, barely sleeping at night and avoiding predators during the day. Although he thought crazy ass Freud was a complete sicko, Pong would kill just for the opportunity to read his or anyone’s work. All the forest’s simple-minded creatures who wanted to eat him were stuck in the Stone Age, and were ruining his chance to fulfill any kind of purpose! Such wasted brilliance.
Pong always got the short end of the stick, but he remained hopeful. Maybe one day he and Ewing could be together again.
...Come back and read the powerful and shocking conclusion on my 12-year cancer-free anniversary: Saturday, September 14, at 3:40 p.m.
Disclaimer: The character Ewing Sarcoma and its likeness are the property of Benjamin Rubenstein. All rights reserved.
Ewing Sarcoma hopped much of the day and slept all night. He paid no attention to the date, time, angle of the sun, or anything else that keeps creatures grounded in reality. He ate when he felt hungry and found shelter when his bum got cold. He lived a clean life, breathing fresh, forest air and consuming only organic plant products. And he said the Shema for Ben, his creator, every night.Wow, had time passed since Ben drew Ewing Sarcoma on Microsoft Paint before beginning cancer treatment when he was just a teenage boy! Ewing was Ben’s perception of his tumor, a symbol of how to destroy cancer. Ewing completed his task.
Though Ben didn’t know it, Ewing was alive and when Ben no longer needed Ewing, the little guy left. Ewing returned to look in on Ben many years later, when Ben had become a young man. But Ewing left again to let Ben find his own way. Ben was trying his best to live a complete life thanks to cancer, but what about Ewing’s purpose?
Ewing was a loner, the only breathing tumor perception in the world, maybe the universe! If he could convince other people diagnosed with cancer to draw their tumor perceptions like Ben had, then they would be motivated to survive and live a complete life.
But how did he come to life in the first place? How could he replicate that magic, and who would talk to a blue-spotted blob, let alone be convinced to draw a picture of a tumor? Ah, it was futile. Despite his overwhelming sense of hope, Ewing had some logic below those spikey hairs.
Ewing could only hop so long without his butt callouses erupting into a blue-blooded mess. He spent many of his remaining waking hours reading Friedrich Nietzsche, that crazy ass Sigmund Freud, and of course James Patterson. He also considered a new purpose. Brief epiphanies came to him in dreams or when he hallucinated on psilocybin mushrooms (don’t get Ewing started on their natural health benefits or drug policy). He was just always too high to write his epiphanies, and would forget the next morning.
One morning Ewing was awakened by a crying baby mouse. Memories of his old pal, a small mouse named Pong, pulsed through his mind. Snippets of the previous night’s epiphany also crashed through his interrupted REM sleep and into semi-consciousness. Ewing rubbed his eyes, hair, blue spots; anything to stimulate his senses. Hold on, it was coming to him! Yes, wait...he got it! Ewing found his new purpose in life.
Ewing Sarcoma would help children cope with disease. It’s no fun when kids can’t play with their friends because their illness makes them feel badly. Their friends may not understand why, but I know what’s up. I will watch over them. Kids, get ready to meet your new sidekick, Ewing!
***
I’m a chameleon. I change for self-improvement, and I do this better than anyone in the universe, Ben thought. Change would lead to perfection, which would stymie fears of cancer recurrence or rejection, which would lead to an uncrackable superesteem. Ben chuckled. He chuckles too often, and one has to wonder if he’s becoming as crazy as that crazy ass Sigmund Freud.
Ben shared this theory with a new friend, McNasty, who is a decade older than Ben. Ben even prefaced his “wisdom” by saying, “I know this is weird coming from someone who is younger…”
McNasty called Ben on his bullshit. “You seek perfection to camouflage your true fears. I do the same thing.” McNasty was the wise one.
It had only been a couple years since Ben felt…normal, mature, like a real adult? He couldn’t explain it, whatever it was. He hadn’t forgotten his past, but also needed to move forward. Ben was destined for a tug-of-war between the two.
Ben sighed. When his mind cluttered he turned to cleanliness. His food, attire, appearance, residence: all clean and neat. Even his cancer brought a sense of cleanliness: he discovered his tumor and then became cancer-free a year apart, nearly to the minute on September 14, always around the Jewish High Holy Days. The New Year always brings a clean, new beginning.
It’s as if Ben and Ewing were born of the same genes.
***
Pong was no longer a baby like when he first met Ewing, but he was still small, even for a mouse. He was orphaned at such a young age after an incident involving his bastard dad that is too horrid to write. And while frolicking with Ewing, Pong got into narcotics and sewage alcohol, and there was some sexual abuse that I also cannot mention…no, he was not abused by Ewing! Get your mind out of the gutter.
Pong’s intelligence was an outlier, even on a human scale. I guess since my dad bestowed me with such wits, I can’t despise the old bastard with all my being, Pong thought. After intense research on ancestry.com and genetic blood testing, with a 95% confidence interval Pong’s father was Master Splinter. Pong missed Ewing, his only real friend and guardian. He remembered playing with Ewing’s hair and poking his blue dots. Pong had never seen anything so gorgeous and blue! And then Ewing left abruptly because he thought he was dying, and wanted to pass away alone. Pong knew Ewing wasn’t actually dying and considered him kind of an idiot for thinking that, but let him go anyway. Pong understood Ewing needed to find his purpose. Except for IQ, they were so similar.
Pong lived in terror of being eaten, barely sleeping at night and avoiding predators during the day. Although he thought crazy ass Freud was a complete sicko, Pong would kill just for the opportunity to read his or anyone’s work. All the forest’s simple-minded creatures who wanted to eat him were stuck in the Stone Age, and were ruining his chance to fulfill any kind of purpose! Such wasted brilliance.
Pong always got the short end of the stick, but he remained hopeful. Maybe one day he and Ewing could be together again.
...Come back and read the powerful and shocking conclusion on my 12-year cancer-free anniversary: Saturday, September 14, at 3:40 p.m.
Disclaimer: The character Ewing Sarcoma and its likeness are the property of Benjamin Rubenstein. All rights reserved.
September 13, 2013
Ewing Sarcoma and a Purpose Driven Life: Part I of II
Read this first: The Journey of Ewing Sarcoma
Ewing Sarcoma hopped much of the day and slept all night. He paid no attention to the date, time, angle of the sun, or anything else that keeps creatures grounded in reality. He ate when he felt hungry and found shelter when his bum got cold. He lived a clean life, breathing fresh, forest air and consuming only organic plant products. And he said the Shema for Ben, his creator, every night.
Wow, had time passed since Ben drew Ewing Sarcoma on Microsoft Paint before beginning cancer treatment when he was just a teenage boy! Ewing was Ben’s perception of his tumor, a symbol of how to destroy cancer. Ewing completed his task.
Though Ben didn’t know it, Ewing was alive and when Ben no longer needed Ewing, the little guy left. Ewing returned to look in on Ben many years later, when Ben had become a young man. But Ewing left again to let Ben find his own way. Ben was trying his best to live a complete life thanks to cancer, but what about Ewing’s purpose?
Ewing was a loner, the only breathing tumor perception in the world, maybe the universe! If he could convince other people diagnosed with cancer to draw their tumor perceptions like Ben had, then they would be motivated to survive and live a complete life.
But how did he come to life in the first place? How could he replicate that magic, and who would talk to a blue-spotted blob, let alone be convinced to draw a picture of a tumor? Ah, it was futile. Despite his overwhelming sense of hope, Ewing had some logic below those spikey hairs.
Ewing could only hop so long without his butt callouses erupting into a blue-blooded mess. He spent many of his remaining waking hours reading Friedrich Nietzsche, that crazy ass Sigmund Freud, and of course James Patterson. He also considered a new purpose. Brief epiphanies came to him in dreams or when he hallucinated on psilocybin mushrooms (don’t get Ewing started on their natural health benefits or drug policy). He was just always too high to write his epiphanies, and would forget the next morning.
One morning Ewing was awakened by a crying baby mouse. Memories of his old pal, a small mouse named Pong, pulsed through his mind. Snippets of the previous night’s epiphany also crashed through his interrupted REM sleep and into semi-consciousness. Ewing rubbed his eyes, hair, blue spots; anything to stimulate his senses. Hold on, it was coming to him! Yes, wait...he got it! Ewing found his new purpose in life.
Ewing Sarcoma would help children cope with disease. It’s no fun when kids can’t play with their friends because their illness makes them feel badly. Their friends may not understand why, but I know what’s up. I will watch over them. Kids, get ready to meet your new sidekick, Ewing!
***
I’m a chameleon. I change for self-improvement, and I do this better than anyone in the universe, Ben thought. Change would lead to perfection, which would stymie fears of cancer recurrence or rejection, which would lead to an uncrackable superesteem. Ben chuckled. He chuckles too often, and one has to wonder if he’s becoming as crazy as that crazy ass Sigmund Freud.
Ben shared this theory with a new friend, McNasty, who is a decade older than Ben. Ben even prefaced his “wisdom” by saying, “I know this is weird coming from someone who is younger…”
McNasty called Ben on his bullshit. “You seek perfection to camouflage your true fears. I do the same thing.” McNasty was the wise one.
It had only been a couple years since Ben felt…normal, mature, like a real adult? He couldn’t explain it, whatever it was. He hadn’t forgotten his past, but also needed to move forward. Ben was destined for a tug-of-war between the two.
Ben sighed. When his mind cluttered he turned to cleanliness. His food, attire, appearance, residence: all clean and neat. Even his cancer brought a sense of cleanliness: he discovered his tumor and then became cancer-free a year apart, nearly to the minute on September 14, always around the Jewish High Holy Days. The New Year always brings a clean, new beginning.
It’s as if Ben and Ewing were born of the same genes.
***
Pong was no longer a baby like when he first met Ewing, but he was still small, even for a mouse. He was orphaned at such a young age after an incident involving his bastard dad that is too horrid to write. And while frolicking with Ewing, Pong got into narcotics and sewage alcohol, and there was some sexual abuse that I also cannot mention…no, he was not abused by Ewing! Get your mind out of the gutter.
Pong’s intelligence was an outlier, even on a human scale. I guess since my dad bestowed me with such wits, I can’t despise the old bastard with all my being, Pong thought. After intense research on ancestry.com and genetic blood testing, with a 95% confidence interval Pong’s father was Master Splinter.
Pong missed Ewing, his only real friend and guardian. He remembered playing with Ewing’s hair and poking his blue dots. Pong had never seen anything so gorgeous and blue! And then Ewing left abruptly because he thought he was dying, and wanted to pass away alone. Pong knew Ewing wasn’t actually dying and considered him kind of an idiot for thinking that, but let him go anyway. Pong understood Ewing needed to find his purpose. Except for IQ, they were so similar.
Pong lived in terror of being eaten, barely sleeping at night and avoiding predators during the day. Although he thought crazy ass Freud was a complete sicko, Pong would kill just for the opportunity to read his or anyone’s work. All the forest’s simple-minded creatures who wanted to eat him were stuck in the Stone Age, and were ruining his chance to fulfill any kind of purpose! Such wasted brilliance.
Pong always got the short end of the stick, but he remained hopeful. Maybe one day he and Ewing could be together again.
...Come back and read the powerful and shocking conclusion on my 12-year cancer-free anniversary: Saturday, September 14, at 3:40 p.m.
Disclaimer: The character Ewing Sarcoma and its likeness are the property of Benjamin Rubenstein. All rights reserved.
Ewing Sarcoma hopped much of the day and slept all night. He paid no attention to the date, time, angle of the sun, or anything else that keeps creatures grounded in reality. He ate when he felt hungry and found shelter when his bum got cold. He lived a clean life, breathing fresh, forest air and consuming only organic plant products. And he said the Shema for Ben, his creator, every night.Wow, had time passed since Ben drew Ewing Sarcoma on Microsoft Paint before beginning cancer treatment when he was just a teenage boy! Ewing was Ben’s perception of his tumor, a symbol of how to destroy cancer. Ewing completed his task.
Though Ben didn’t know it, Ewing was alive and when Ben no longer needed Ewing, the little guy left. Ewing returned to look in on Ben many years later, when Ben had become a young man. But Ewing left again to let Ben find his own way. Ben was trying his best to live a complete life thanks to cancer, but what about Ewing’s purpose?
Ewing was a loner, the only breathing tumor perception in the world, maybe the universe! If he could convince other people diagnosed with cancer to draw their tumor perceptions like Ben had, then they would be motivated to survive and live a complete life.
But how did he come to life in the first place? How could he replicate that magic, and who would talk to a blue-spotted blob, let alone be convinced to draw a picture of a tumor? Ah, it was futile. Despite his overwhelming sense of hope, Ewing had some logic below those spikey hairs.
Ewing could only hop so long without his butt callouses erupting into a blue-blooded mess. He spent many of his remaining waking hours reading Friedrich Nietzsche, that crazy ass Sigmund Freud, and of course James Patterson. He also considered a new purpose. Brief epiphanies came to him in dreams or when he hallucinated on psilocybin mushrooms (don’t get Ewing started on their natural health benefits or drug policy). He was just always too high to write his epiphanies, and would forget the next morning.
One morning Ewing was awakened by a crying baby mouse. Memories of his old pal, a small mouse named Pong, pulsed through his mind. Snippets of the previous night’s epiphany also crashed through his interrupted REM sleep and into semi-consciousness. Ewing rubbed his eyes, hair, blue spots; anything to stimulate his senses. Hold on, it was coming to him! Yes, wait...he got it! Ewing found his new purpose in life.
Ewing Sarcoma would help children cope with disease. It’s no fun when kids can’t play with their friends because their illness makes them feel badly. Their friends may not understand why, but I know what’s up. I will watch over them. Kids, get ready to meet your new sidekick, Ewing!
***
I’m a chameleon. I change for self-improvement, and I do this better than anyone in the universe, Ben thought. Change would lead to perfection, which would stymie fears of cancer recurrence or rejection, which would lead to an uncrackable superesteem. Ben chuckled. He chuckles too often, and one has to wonder if he’s becoming as crazy as that crazy ass Sigmund Freud.
Ben shared this theory with a new friend, McNasty, who is a decade older than Ben. Ben even prefaced his “wisdom” by saying, “I know this is weird coming from someone who is younger…”
McNasty called Ben on his bullshit. “You seek perfection to camouflage your true fears. I do the same thing.” McNasty was the wise one.
It had only been a couple years since Ben felt…normal, mature, like a real adult? He couldn’t explain it, whatever it was. He hadn’t forgotten his past, but also needed to move forward. Ben was destined for a tug-of-war between the two.
Ben sighed. When his mind cluttered he turned to cleanliness. His food, attire, appearance, residence: all clean and neat. Even his cancer brought a sense of cleanliness: he discovered his tumor and then became cancer-free a year apart, nearly to the minute on September 14, always around the Jewish High Holy Days. The New Year always brings a clean, new beginning.
It’s as if Ben and Ewing were born of the same genes.
***
Pong was no longer a baby like when he first met Ewing, but he was still small, even for a mouse. He was orphaned at such a young age after an incident involving his bastard dad that is too horrid to write. And while frolicking with Ewing, Pong got into narcotics and sewage alcohol, and there was some sexual abuse that I also cannot mention…no, he was not abused by Ewing! Get your mind out of the gutter.
Pong’s intelligence was an outlier, even on a human scale. I guess since my dad bestowed me with such wits, I can’t despise the old bastard with all my being, Pong thought. After intense research on ancestry.com and genetic blood testing, with a 95% confidence interval Pong’s father was Master Splinter. Pong missed Ewing, his only real friend and guardian. He remembered playing with Ewing’s hair and poking his blue dots. Pong had never seen anything so gorgeous and blue! And then Ewing left abruptly because he thought he was dying, and wanted to pass away alone. Pong knew Ewing wasn’t actually dying and considered him kind of an idiot for thinking that, but let him go anyway. Pong understood Ewing needed to find his purpose. Except for IQ, they were so similar.
Pong lived in terror of being eaten, barely sleeping at night and avoiding predators during the day. Although he thought crazy ass Freud was a complete sicko, Pong would kill just for the opportunity to read his or anyone’s work. All the forest’s simple-minded creatures who wanted to eat him were stuck in the Stone Age, and were ruining his chance to fulfill any kind of purpose! Such wasted brilliance.
Pong always got the short end of the stick, but he remained hopeful. Maybe one day he and Ewing could be together again.
...Come back and read the powerful and shocking conclusion on my 12-year cancer-free anniversary: Saturday, September 14, at 3:40 p.m.
Disclaimer: The character Ewing Sarcoma and its likeness are the property of Benjamin Rubenstein. All rights reserved.
September 11, 2013
Love and Rock Climbing
As published on The Huffington Post
My heart is racing. "How excited and scared are you?" I say.
"On a 10-point scale... 7 and 3. I'm more scared of boredom for when I'm down here all alone. How about you?" Pumba says.
"100 and 100."
Our lead-climbing instructor set the first pitch: "Bailey's Overhang" on Castle Rock in Boulder Canyon. Pumba and I are waiting to climb while the second of our four-person team ascends. Pumba will climb last and clean the cams from the route.
Pumba is named after the sweet warthog who is Simba's guardian in The Lion King. I don't know her given name because we only use nicknames in rock-climbing. My nickname is Hippy because my left hip bone was surgically removed when I was a teenager. This is the last of our five-day rock-climbing trip composed of about 15 strangers.
In between shouts of encouragement to S'mores working her way up, Pumba shares how rock-climbing gave her peace when nothing else worked. I share how it's now the only sport I can succeed at after a childhood saturated with athletics, then a bone saturated with bad cells. Our necks are tiring from staring up at the rock, so we move further from the wall and into the warmth of the early sun. We've completed the most challenging routes in this order, Pumba after me, and the climbing instructors teamed us together on this "graduation day" because of that.
We see a different team from our trip on an adjacent climbing route, and wave up to them. "I hope everyone else takes pictures so we can see their routes," I say.
Pumba's face brightens as she reaches into her bag for her camera. "I totally forgot I'm the photog!" she says.
I love teasing her for forgetting her designated duty, though she has taken plenty of pictures of me climbing towards the sky. Pumba told me that she smiled up to the sky through the window the time she fell ill, her body nonresponsive and her mind stuck in time. "I could have kept that image forever," Pumba said.
S'mores reaches the top so I switch my left sneaker, which has a 2.25-inch lift because my femur migrated up without a bone to stop it, with my much leaner climbing shoe. I shout the proper "belay" and "climbing" commands, then look back towards Pumba and the gigantic Rocky Mountains behind her that make me both so small and grand. Keep reading, here
My heart is racing. "How excited and scared are you?" I say."On a 10-point scale... 7 and 3. I'm more scared of boredom for when I'm down here all alone. How about you?" Pumba says.
"100 and 100."
Our lead-climbing instructor set the first pitch: "Bailey's Overhang" on Castle Rock in Boulder Canyon. Pumba and I are waiting to climb while the second of our four-person team ascends. Pumba will climb last and clean the cams from the route.
Pumba is named after the sweet warthog who is Simba's guardian in The Lion King. I don't know her given name because we only use nicknames in rock-climbing. My nickname is Hippy because my left hip bone was surgically removed when I was a teenager. This is the last of our five-day rock-climbing trip composed of about 15 strangers.
In between shouts of encouragement to S'mores working her way up, Pumba shares how rock-climbing gave her peace when nothing else worked. I share how it's now the only sport I can succeed at after a childhood saturated with athletics, then a bone saturated with bad cells. Our necks are tiring from staring up at the rock, so we move further from the wall and into the warmth of the early sun. We've completed the most challenging routes in this order, Pumba after me, and the climbing instructors teamed us together on this "graduation day" because of that.We see a different team from our trip on an adjacent climbing route, and wave up to them. "I hope everyone else takes pictures so we can see their routes," I say.
Pumba's face brightens as she reaches into her bag for her camera. "I totally forgot I'm the photog!" she says.
I love teasing her for forgetting her designated duty, though she has taken plenty of pictures of me climbing towards the sky. Pumba told me that she smiled up to the sky through the window the time she fell ill, her body nonresponsive and her mind stuck in time. "I could have kept that image forever," Pumba said.
S'mores reaches the top so I switch my left sneaker, which has a 2.25-inch lift because my femur migrated up without a bone to stop it, with my much leaner climbing shoe. I shout the proper "belay" and "climbing" commands, then look back towards Pumba and the gigantic Rocky Mountains behind her that make me both so small and grand. Keep reading, here
September 2, 2013
The Time I Went on a Rock-Climbing Date with a Heavier Girl
I’ll add an extra foot of height and she won’t care after I charm her, never crossed my mind, but other online daters are liars. The most frequent deception is using outdated profile photos.
I met Rocha for a date at Sportrock climbing gym without even having to beg her to participate in my favorite activity. She may be the one. Thankfully Rocha approached me because I may not have recognized her from her profile otherwise. While putting on our gear, I proactively prepared her to see me climb in a funny way and she retroactively prepared me to see a 30-pound-heavier version of Rocha.
I climbed first to prolong dealing with gravity. In rock-climbing, the belayer (the person on the ground holding the rope) should be within a certain weight range of the climber. Beyond that range it is possible for the climber to elevate the belayer, potentially until they meet in the air halfway. To prevent that, the belayer anchors to the ground.
I should have pretended to break a limb during my climb, or actually broken one, to avoid belaying Rocha, but I love climbing too much. I reached the ground and we reversed positions. “You’re really good, especially with one hip! I’m going to climb an easier route,” she said. An easier route reduced the likelihood of her falling. If she fell then I’d have to support her weight plus acceleration.
I looped the rope through my belay device and locked the carabineer. Then came the moment of truth: to anchor or not to anchor. If I anchored then I was guaranteed to embarrass Rocha significantly. If I didn’t anchor then there was a good chance I would embarrass Rocha irreparably if she pulled me off the ground, but there was also a chance I would stay grounded and she would never have to know.
I didn’t anchor. I checked Rocha’s figure 8 knot and told her, “climb on!” I got into a squat position and kept her rope so tight that she barely had enough slack to move.
Rocha’s foot positions were smart enough to make up for her limited strength, and she completed without slipping or having to “take.” When she was ready to come down, I placed my feet even further in front of me and got my ass down low. “On me!” I yelled up to Rocha.
She released from the wall and my feet slipped forward. Just when I was about to instruct her to reach back for the wall because I wasn’t ready, my feet halted. I sighed and began to lower her, each of my limbs performing a precise function meant to get her on the ground without me leaving it.
Mission accomplished. She touched down; I gave her extra slack, and nearly made her jump with my congratulatory enthusiasm.
Rocha lacked endurance and I mentally depleted mine, so we only climbed a few routes each. As is customary, Rocha gave me her phone number. A few days later I contacted her seeking another date, unfazed by our horizontal differences.
I guess she was fazed by my general nature. Add another strikeout to my tally.
I met Rocha for a date at Sportrock climbing gym without even having to beg her to participate in my favorite activity. She may be the one. Thankfully Rocha approached me because I may not have recognized her from her profile otherwise. While putting on our gear, I proactively prepared her to see me climb in a funny way and she retroactively prepared me to see a 30-pound-heavier version of Rocha.
I climbed first to prolong dealing with gravity. In rock-climbing, the belayer (the person on the ground holding the rope) should be within a certain weight range of the climber. Beyond that range it is possible for the climber to elevate the belayer, potentially until they meet in the air halfway. To prevent that, the belayer anchors to the ground.
I should have pretended to break a limb during my climb, or actually broken one, to avoid belaying Rocha, but I love climbing too much. I reached the ground and we reversed positions. “You’re really good, especially with one hip! I’m going to climb an easier route,” she said. An easier route reduced the likelihood of her falling. If she fell then I’d have to support her weight plus acceleration.
I looped the rope through my belay device and locked the carabineer. Then came the moment of truth: to anchor or not to anchor. If I anchored then I was guaranteed to embarrass Rocha significantly. If I didn’t anchor then there was a good chance I would embarrass Rocha irreparably if she pulled me off the ground, but there was also a chance I would stay grounded and she would never have to know.
I didn’t anchor. I checked Rocha’s figure 8 knot and told her, “climb on!” I got into a squat position and kept her rope so tight that she barely had enough slack to move.
Rocha’s foot positions were smart enough to make up for her limited strength, and she completed without slipping or having to “take.” When she was ready to come down, I placed my feet even further in front of me and got my ass down low. “On me!” I yelled up to Rocha.
She released from the wall and my feet slipped forward. Just when I was about to instruct her to reach back for the wall because I wasn’t ready, my feet halted. I sighed and began to lower her, each of my limbs performing a precise function meant to get her on the ground without me leaving it.
Mission accomplished. She touched down; I gave her extra slack, and nearly made her jump with my congratulatory enthusiasm.
Rocha lacked endurance and I mentally depleted mine, so we only climbed a few routes each. As is customary, Rocha gave me her phone number. A few days later I contacted her seeking another date, unfazed by our horizontal differences.
I guess she was fazed by my general nature. Add another strikeout to my tally.
