Benjamin Rubenstein's Blog, page 16

First Descents, Rock-Climbing & Frisbee Golf: A Picture Story

Last year I went on an amazing rock-climbing trip through the organization First Descents (FD), which you can read about here and especially here. A few weeks ago I climbed in Estes Park, Colorado, again through FD. I have written a far more thoughtful story about this FD2 trip which will be published somewhere at some time in the semi-near future, but in the meantime I offer my trip in cool pictures and terrible captions:



Welcome to the Rocky Mountains, so overwhelming and humbling and spectacular.



Our beautiful lodge, Overlook Ranch, had an 18-hole frisbee golf course, but only had two bathrooms for the nine female and two male participants. Tbar and I showered real quick for the sake of our safety.



The FD staff and volunteers had arrived the day before us. My boy and one of the camp's lead staffers, Pedro, busted his scalp on the zipline (yes, seven-year-olds can grow mustaches) and the FD doctor, McSteamy, stitched Pedro using his hair. A "no zipline rule" was implemented thereafter.



Poison, the head chef, and I schemed when we would break the rule and use the zipline. We two rebels became fast friends.



Mission accomplished, caught red-handed.



The view from Overlook Ranch. And hey, worst-case is there's always nature as a bathroom.



It is up in the air whether we frisbee-golfed or rock-climbed more...



...Seriously. I was one of the worst golfers at first, but I dropped my score from 57 to 43 in consecutive games on our last day. I'm confident I can eventually match McNuggets. I can match Pedro only if he busts his skull first. He's good.



Pedro threw a dance party in his SUV wherever we went, thanks to Aimster the Gangster's playlist. McCreepy knows all the words to everything. I don't know about you, but he's feeling 22. I recorded him dancing to Taylor Swift like the maniac he is, but I either lost it or McHacker deleted it.





There was some rock-climbing, too, including in the cold rain. Cancer People don't mess around when it comes to popping pills, watching 50/50 and rock-climbing.



KMac also doesn't mess around when it comes to reading. KMac ain't got no time to belay other climbers.



I climbed in a hula skirt, an award I earned. I didn't mind showing off what was under the skirt.



I also didn't mind McSneaky giving me a butt-boost on the most challenging route of the trip.



I failed that route from two different approaches, and depleted my energy before the day was half over. If my hula skirt were a cape here then Soulja Boy would need to rethink his definition of The Superman. 



I envy Dealer's actual cape and Superman impersonation.





I completed every climb besides the 5.9+ route shown above, in part thanks to my most frequent belayer, Pumba.



Pumba was the camp photog. She got artistic here, capturing the ropes on our "graduation day" multi-pitch, five-hour climb.



Princess, the camp's "general support," generally supported us really well. I've never met an FDer whose nickname was more fitting. Just kidding, Princess...well, generally.



My multi-pitch team was psyched before our graduation day climb: "Bailey's Overhang" at Boulder Canyon in Nederland, Colorado. From left to right: S'mores, Hippy (me), Tbar, Pumba and Author (our guide).



Many of us performed unique climbing moves that were then named after our nicknames. This is me performing "The Princess." I don't know how I got my hipless leg on the wall like that, but it worked. Sadly, "The Princess" was not successful for Princess. She is bitter that her move was named after an unsuccessful effort. On the other hand, "The Hippy," which was basically a shimmy using just my stomach, worked. Sorry, Princess...generally.



After completing the third pitch, four-and-a-half hours into my climb, I had to rest from 250 feet above the ground. This was among my most incredible views, challenges and days, and you will be able to read about this soon.



My team was the last atop Boulder Canyon, two hours later than the team that arrived earliest. The group wanted a photo. My priority was devouring the soggy, smushed, and then-delicious tuna salad sandwich.



Ahh, a better group photo.





FD2 Estes Park, July 2013: one of the best weeks of my life. Goddamn I love that organization and rock-climbing.

Unspoken: Cancer's Dehumanizing Late Effect

As published on The Huffington Post



I watched a 33-year-old man sobbing. He stared at me, tears pooling in his eyes until they streamed down his cheeks and he looked away. He buried his face in his hands, his charcoal suit jacket and wedding ring restricting the body convulsions and flow of the tears. I stood frozen watching him, unable to look away or console or forget what he had just told me.



G. asked me to join him for a beer following his professional organization meeting where I had been the guest speaker that evening. I share my story of surviving two childhood cancers anytime audiences will have me. I hope everyone regardless of your medical history can relate to my story, but G. really connected, and our bar tab accelerated.



"I know we've never met, but I feel closer to you than my best friends," G. said. "I got cancer in my left testicle when I was a teenager, around the same age as you when you had your first cancer. Several years later it returned in my other testicle. I've been cancer-free for a long time, now.



"I've never told anyone this besides my wife. I refused to discuss it. I know I'm a stranger to you and this must seem really weird. It's just something about your speech that touched me, and talking with you now I feel a powerful urge to tell you.



"Because of cancer treatment I can no longer get an erection."




***


Sometimes people share things with me because I had cancer.



During a rehab session, my physical therapist told me about the time he nearly burned his house down as a kid. He would set the large field behind his house alight just to watch the fire trucks, but one time he left something smoldering in the rubber trashcan in the back of his house, and it started burning. "Somehow we noticed the huge flame and managed to contain the fire," he said as I lost count of my leg lifts to strengthen my hip flexors. "It could've been really disastrous."




***


G. provided me with graphic and personal details, while teaching me. I sensed that he needed to share so I listened, and later researched what he shared on my own.



G.'s dysfunction was slow and progressive so he could not pinpoint when it began. The first time it registered was during a date with his now-wife, after they'd been seeing each other for a few months. He even detailed for me the precise moment his dysfunction registered, which I think haunts him: they had each had a couple glasses of wine at a bar with a live jazz band. She reached for his hand and their fingers locked. He knew he would get to share her bed that night.



An erection begins in the brain. Mental stimulation cause nerves in the brain to tell nerves in the penile blood vessels to relax so that blood can flow freely. He imagined undressing her, button by button; her soft skin, warm to the touch.



Once blood flows into the penis, high pressure traps it within both corpora cavernosa. This causes the penis to expand and sustain an erection. G. would turn off the lights and take her under the sheets. He would explore her with the senses other than sight.



Then he stopped imagining because he felt nothing. Keep reading, here

Restricted

I watched my family eat delicious food on our first night at the beach two weeks ago, also my first day off-diet. Fried everything, cornbread, hush puppies: the foods we permanent restrictors see in visions of heaven, awaiting our arrival on La-Z-Boy couches with live goat-pillows while Dumb and Dumber plays on repeat. I grew an immediate ache in my gut as I wondered if my lifelong decision to restrict was wastefully, abnormally, sufferingly incorrect.



Adult males and females are not meant to maintain mid-single- and mid-teen-digit body fat percentages, respectively. I have accomplished the feat several times, only to see my leanness slip away.



I slimmed down in preparation for my First Descents rock-climbing trip next week in Estes Park, Colorado, as my fundraising challenge. My goal was to reach about 7% body fat. Here are some observations from my nine-week challenge:


I’m getting too old for this shit.
I have an addictive personality.
I love food.
I must rededicate myself to exercise, as evident by a drop in my average beats-per-minute. Maybe I’ll just blame watching Homeland and Breaking Bad, which are too engrossing and cause me to stop cycling on my spin bike.
Ain’t nobody got time to work out for two hours a day.
I now need almond butter before bed so I can sleep (see #1 above).
I now require weekly mini-cheats (see #1 above), which may be beneficial by spiking glucose and metabolism, but once I flip that food switch, I struggle keeping the cheats mini (see #2 above).



My dieting cycle seems to be six months off, two months on. Maintenance requires a severe and permanent lifestyle change which I have generally implemented during all my off-diet cycles, but each time I developed different loopholes, and each time I regained at least one pound per month.



I am hopeful I have turned a corner and can extend my off-diet to eight or 10 months. I now accept a consistent and small caloric deficit, while only occasionally eliminating the chains of restriction. Over the past two weeks I have felt more at peace with watching others eat heaven while I just barely participate.



Crafting a physique is a science: to gain muscle mass you need to eat more than you burn, but in order to maintain minimal body fat that extra amount must be precise. The protein/fat/carbohydrate ratio must also be precise. Ain’t nobody got time for that precision, so (at the moment) I accept the following order of priorities:


Leanness
Food
Coke Zero
La-Z-Boy couches
Muscle bulk



My priorities are reinforced each time a gay man hits on me. Seriously ladies, do you not see where I live?



Lower abdominal veins, the hardest to visibly achieve = fitness challenge accomplished

Problems of the World’s Greatest Freerider

“It has an elevator,” Aunt FloJo had said in April, referring to her friend’s condo in Dupont Circle, my next housesitting residence.



“That’s good,” I said.



“No, I mean it has its own, dedicated elevator. You’re going to be very comfortable this summer.”



My Mansion Hopping continues—last week I moved into one of the most expensive condominium communities in Washington, D.C. Many people don’t understand the concept of housesitting, and if I haven’t lived it then I would be confused, too. “Who goes away for months at a time and lets you live in their home for free? How do you get these opportunities?” they ask.



“It’s because I’m Jewish,” I say, though the real reason is that my Aunt FloJo and Uncle Joker are gracious as all hell, have gracious friends, and create opportunities for me. They landed me the mother of Mansion Hops this time:

Pool
4.5 floors
24-hour security and fire-lit courtyard
Viking oven and Sub-Zero refrigerator
Creepy carousel horse (see video below); and
A location where one female friend said, “If we met at a bar, all you’d have to say is ‘I live in Kalorama’ and I’d go back with you.”


Hence, my first problem: I’m barely around this summer due to several trips. I’ll just have to go out to bars and restaurants more while I’m here, dropping the “Kalorama” line everywhere. I’d love and usually prefer company, so if you want to then come hang out at the Mansion and surrounding establishments! However, I am prepared to explore as if this were a solo vacation, which goes outside my comfort zone and is a challenge I embrace.



If only I didn’t have a second problem: I seem to be far more desired by gay men than straight women. And did I mention I was in the epicenter of D.C.’s gay community? In fact, I am the King of Dupont Circle:

My First Descents Challenge

Everyone comes down from cloud nine. Last year I went on a group rock-climbing trip through the nonprofit organization First Descents to Moab, Utah, and it was among my most fun weeks. First Descents’ mission is to “offer young adult cancer fighters and survivors a free outdoor adventure experience designed to empower…reclaim their lives and connect with others doing the same.”


On the trip I gained a new favorite hobby, self-discovery and stalwart friends. Afterward, someone posted on our group webpage daily and we were already planning for this year’s trip—called “FD2” for those who attended “FD1” the previous year.



There are still weekly posts on the group webpage. And at least half from my Moab FD1 will return for an FD2 adventure, though only a few others will be on my specific FD2 rock-climbing trip in Estes Park, Colorado, this July 28 through August 3. Life has gotten in the way of our continuous high. The amazing Lings is learning to live with her disease, Lil Wayne has too many new family members, and I suspect others have gotten what they needed out of First Descents.



I understand that feeling. Expecting my FD2 to be as magical as my FD1 would be as unfair as expecting The Ugly Truth’s sequel to be as horrid as the original. But I’m not done with First Descents: there’s still too much climbing left in me.



First Descents gets much of its funding from participants paying it forward. In order to provide first-time participants with a free trip, returning adventurers fundraise by starting a “challenge.” Most challenges are runs or bike races. That’s either because participants lack creativity or they have their bone structure intact.



My hipless skeleton prevents me from that type of challenge, so I’ll stick with what I excel at: getting ripped. I’ll be cutting fat from my body through exercise, determination and mostly suffering. Eliminating my fat makes me feel clean, which I’ve come to understand is one of my most powerful drivers. Cancer and poison and other filth don’t belong in me.



My challenge is to slim back down until my abdominal pinch using body fat calipers is 5 millimeters, or roughly 7% body fat. Right now I’m at 10 millimeters. Please consider contributing to First Descents as I suffer to reach this goal. You can contribute on my Team FD page here.



If you’re on the fence about contributing, then read my story or my friend Ripple’s story about how impactful First Descents is on our lives.

Damn You NoCommonSense!

Two of the four times I’ve walked into a women’s restroom had something to do with NoCommonSense, this time while in Hawaii for his wedding. Damn you NoCommonSense for infecting me with your personality trait me for having always shared that personality trait with him.



I walked over to the buffet at the Waikiki Starlight Luau at the Hilton Hawaiian Village for a second helping, and saw that it was already closed. Blazed that my ability to carb-overload was stolen and not from the fire knife dancers, I detoured to the restroom. Down the long hall, I scanned the wall for the men’s restroom symbol at a two-sided entrance. I entered on the left.



There were no urinals, which I figured were on the right side of this apparently very large men’s restroom. The water conservationist in me was smothered by rage thanks to NoCommonSense Hilton workers cleaning up the buffet early in order to get off work sooner, so I entered a stall. There was one other man pooping in a different stall.



While washing up, a mother and her young daughter entered the restroom. Some people just have no common sense, or are too young to read signs, I thought. They quickly exited upon seeing me.



I finished rinsing and grabbed a paper towel as the mother and daughter re-entered the men’s restroom and kept walking. I stared at them in the mirror, shocked by their gall, and then it hit me: NoCommonSense has done it again I actually just peed in the women’s restroom. I passed two more women as I hightailed it out.



There is one activity left for me to do in there, which I’ll accomplish when I’m around NoCommonSense again someone offers a grande blonde roast with sugar-free mocha to do it.

Top 10 Weight-Loss Mistakes

Since I reached 6 percent body fat last year, friends have asked for tips on how to lose weight. After I share the sacrifices and lifestyle changes necessary for the most efficient and maximal loss, they stop talking to me. To ensure I still have some friends left, instead of providing detailed tips here are my simplified weight-loss mistakes:


Telling others you're on a "diet." Losing fat and keeping it off requires me to remain on a permanent "diet," which I might as well define as "permanent judgment and loss of friends." I'm better off proclaiming I actually enjoy eating broccoli.
Saying you want to lose "weight" when what you really want to lose is "fat." Fellas, if your loss comes from muscle instead of fat then you'll still be soft. And ladies, despite what some of you have told me about fearing a muscular appearance, unless you rub against a testosterone-deficient cancer survivor's prescription steroid gel, you won't gain unattractive muscle. Having the strength to lift small objects is also useful.
Trying fat-loss tricks or drugs, which probably only reduce caloric absorption by 10-15 percent. After I perform 90 seconds of air squats before a big meal, my friends move to another table. And then after downing three cups of coffee, I am incoherent and would rather not share the result of my subsequent peristalsis.
Counting calories burned minus calories consumed. When I ride my spin bike to Homeland I get too engrossed to pedal, but "forget" to reduce my calories burned. I also pretend that 60 ounces of Coke Zero really does have zero calories. Keep reading, here .

Dancing With Fear: A Day in My Life Without a Left Pelvic Bone

I walk like a penguin, I think, chuckling at my short stride. The pain in my hip is significant when I shift weight to my left leg. The pain ascends rapidly the further I step forward, so I shuffle. This sensation is not deep inside like the lightning strikes I felt when my tumor was growing long ago, but instead it shoots out towards my abductors.



I envision my pain as an iron plate, compacted by the burden of cancer, consuming the space formerly occupied by cancerous bone. This plate does not respect my orthopedic oncology surgeon's handiwork -- muscle stapled and taped to other muscle -- and is waiting to explode downward, like it is playing Don't Break the Ice against my soft tissue.



I think back on recent events to uncover the pain's cause...



Days ago I danced at a wedding. Historically I had been the loner watching the dance floor from afar, but this time I visited YouTube, where a smooth Asian gentleman taught me basic moves.



Mary was so wildly attractive that it slipped my mind to baby my left hip. How could that happen considering that my subconscious has always protected my hip even when intoxicated by alcohol, Benadryl or prescription narcotics?



Mary and I hopped around to Kool and the Gang. When the DJ switched to oldies, I wrapped my right arm around her lean waist and swung my hips, looking through her brown-rimmed glasses that matched her hair, wondering how she looked without her spectacles and other apparel. Her glistening red lips sang all the words, and then teased me for not knowing any.



I wish that smooth Asian gentleman was in my ear. I know he would suggest I take Mary to the bar between dancing. At the end of the night, he'd tell me to charm her into coming to my hotel instead of letting her vacillate. She was waiting for my persuasion, but I am incapable of acting in a way that feels un-gentlemanly.



I don't remember feeling pain the next morning when I slid off my bed and went down to the gym, where I contemplated measures to prevent another Mary from sliding away. Did my hip hurt the day after that? Yes, definitely, because I considered going on crutches, but I was with my family and didn't want them to know. Instead, I penguin-walked when no one was looking and masked the pain when they were around.



I crutched for the next three days. Simple movements caused explosions in my hip, so I kept my left leg limp. It is now the third night and I am lying in bed. When I wake up tomorrow I will take my first step on my left leg to test it. Keep reading, here

RIP ‘I’ve Still Got Both My Nuts’

“The name of my book is I've Still Got Both My Nuts: A True Cancer Story. My goal is that someday John Doe will complain to his buddy about his day. John’s friend will listen and may even sympathize a little. Then he’ll say, 'Yeah, but you’ve still got both your nuts, right?'" – my first blog entry titled Cancer People, Feb. 27, 2007


PingPongGirl and I sat in one of UVA’s libraries brainstorming titles for my book. I kept my writing a secret from most people, but she was one of my brightest friends and studied literature, so I had asked if she would edit it. I couldn’t pay her, but we did make a deal which I later described in an article for my university’s newspaper.



PingPongGirl circled the title “I’ve Still Got Both My Nuts” in her notebook which sat on the library table, between her coffee and my manuscript. She remained seated after that to study Russian literature. I left to neglect my schoolwork and complete my life’s greatest work. Naturally I used the same title for this blog when I began it months later.



The title demonstrated my writing’s raw edginess, and my openness no matter how disturbing or embarrassing the experience. PingPongGirl and I were unable to see that nobody would buy a book by that title; that my blog's title would lead to hits from internet searches like “I want your cock inside me my true story.” We lacked knowledge about brand management and target audiences.



The book’s title changed when I landed a publisher, but I kept “I’ve Still Got Both My Nuts” for this blog. I later added the subtitle “The Super Man Cancerslayer Blog” to correlate with my book’s superhero theme.





Now eight years later, I am letting go. This blog’s new title matches its URL: cancerslayerblog. I slayed cancer twice. Some of my stories are about slaying cancer. I speak about growing into young adulthood after having slayed cancer. I am beginning to understand branding, or at least the value of simplicity. Robots will soon crawl the internet and replace “I’ve Still Got Both My Nuts,” but it will live on in my heart (and in small writing under my new blog header).



To you wonderful readers who subscribe to my old blog feed: you will still receive my stories without having to do anything! And to you other wonderful readers who don’t subscribe but are considering it: check out my awesome new feed at http://feeds.feedburner.com/cancerslayerblog.



I am very grateful to you for reading my stories and following my life journey. I will continue trying to amuse and inspire you in different ways, including a special one later this year, though I can’t reveal any more than that.



Sincerely, your still-both-nutted friend,

cancerslayer