Today is my first anniversary of being chemo and lymphoma-free.

This past Monday I was in Boca Raton, Florida, speaking at a fundraiser for the Lymphoma Research Foundation. This, the second annual LRF fundraiser in Boca, raised over 100K, bringing their two year total to over 200K. Yay, good ladies of Boca Raton, thank you for your efforts on behalf of this important cause.  

Thank you very much for that introduction Sue. And, Sue, I thank you and the entire staff of the LRF for taking such good care of me last year while I was in chemo. There are many wonderful causes out there, and this one is obviously personal for me, but I want all of you know that the money raised here today goes towards an important organization overseen by a group of people with giant hearts.

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It is an honor to be here with you today. I want to thank all of you for your efforts on behalf of the LRF, especially Judy Bronstein and the Committee that helped put together this wonderful event. Together you have raised more than 200k in the last two years. I can only hope that you continue your efforts on behalf of lymphoma survivors like myself far into the future.

For those of you who were not here last year, and do not know my story, in August of 2006 I began a grueling eight month regimen of chemotherapy to rid my body of a slowly growing but very dangerous form of lymphoma. There are more than thirty types of non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, and despite being a triathlete, a healthy eater, and even someone who regularly meditates and does yoga, I was struck with a form of it—mantle cell lymphoma—that normally hits men in their late 60s and can be very difficult to treat. So there I was, my wife Jacqueline pregnant with our first child, and me, checked into the University of Pennsylvania Hospital every three weeks for three nights for over eight months. And as if that weren’t enough, in the middle of all of this craziness two very separate events defined our lymphoma year: Sophia was born on November 30th and the very next morning I found out that the chemo that had made me sick, rendered me unable to take the best care of my lovely wife during her pregnancy, had worked and had quickly put me into remission; BUT, at that same time, during that same week of miracles, my wonderful father, who many of you knew well, who himself had battled cancer for almost nine years, had a recurrence. He declined quickly, and would pass in late February while I was tethered to an IV, unable to be with him at his end. My only solace in that is that in the months before he died he was able to spend some nice time with Sophia, singing to her, tickling her, and giving her kisses, and knowing that despite the cruel timing of his illness, he got to be a grandfather.

Looking back on that time in my life, it almost seems unreal. I have my health and my hair back, I have a beautiful daughter who’s smile lights up our house, I will receive my Ph.D. from Columbia Unniversity in May, I am back at work, I swim almost a mile every day, and just two weeks ago I saw my doctor at the University of Pennsylvania, Steve Schuster, who smiled as he saw the results of my latest tests, confirming that indeed his work had been a great, albeit, punishing success.

Just a year ago, almost to the day, he had admitted me to the hospital. I was struggling with a nearly 104 fever, a dangerous side-effect of the chemo. I could see in his eyes that he was worried that he was killing me by administering the toxic brew of chemicals that were meant to save my life. But after one long very sweaty night, that fever passed, and after two more harsh rounds of treatment I was on my way to recovery, and our mission was accomplished. I stand before you here today as both a sign of the progress in treating lymphoma—I can expect a very long remission and hold out hope for a cure because of the research that you all help to fund—and as a symbol of how much more work needs to be done in lymphoma research and prevention—because despite my belief that I am cured, it is statistically likely that some day my lymphoma will return. I remain confident that events like today’s that raise both money and awareness, and build connections between people like us, will keep me healthy and insure that I get to dance with my beautiful Sophia at her wedding some twenty to thirty years hence.

I think it would be appropriate, given that this is a women’s lunch, and that the women here today have worked so hard to raise money for this important cause, that I share with you some thoughts about the women in my life and the role that they played while I was sick.

My mother-in-law Debra Sacks is here with us today. The great thing about Debbie is that she is always ready, willing, and able. Not in a “nebbishy, in your face” kind of way, and not in an overwhelming “I gotta get out of the house my mother-in-law is here” kind of way, but rather, when I was sick in just a “what can I do to be as helpful as possible to Michael and Jacqui, especially in their time of need” kind of way. Thank you Debbie.

My sister Andrea, who is not here with us today, has been an endless source of love. Andrea is my little sister, which means that since she was born she suffered through brutal teasing, the occasional pulling of hair, and certainly the “I am too cool for you and your little friends” years of high school. But through it all she always showed unswerving love and dedication to her big brother, and has most importantly, forgiven me for torturing her.

My mother, who many of you now know as the flower and home accessories maven of Boca Raton, is here today and I want to thank all of you for taking care of her while my dad and I were sick last year. The idea of a mother seeing her son go through hell, even to save his life, must have really sucked. My mom’s confidence in my treatment outcome, her love and support to Jacqui and I, and her seemingly effortless ability to clean an entire home in what seemed like minutes, was invaluable to us. Thank you mom. You remind me every day of the importance of love and family.

My wife Jacqueline is also here with us today. Jacqueline, not a day has gone by in our now almost seven years together when I didn’t feel like a better man because of you; I feel your love in both moments of laughter and silence, joy and pain; Jacqui, despite originally being diagnosed with lymphoma just months after our wedding you have stood by me through the difficulties of coping with a potentially deadly illness, and even when the stress of life could have divided us, it brought us closer and closer together (I should say that through months 6 through 8 of her pregnancy Jacqui slept on a cot next to me in the hospital, never leaving my side); finally, everyday I gain great pleasure parenting our daughter with you and watching you mother Sophia with tenderness and love.

I want to also thank my daughter Sophia and tell her what it has meant to me to become a father in the midst of what I can only describe as a crazy time. Every day I was in chemo I was strengthened and inspired, first at the idea of being a father and then by having you. Everyday when I pick you up from the crib in the morning and see your sometimes crying and sometimes smiling face, I think of the future, and know, that despite whatever obstacles lie ahead, our future is bright and long together.

Finally, to you all, the new women in my life, I say thank you. Your generosity of spirit and your generous donations to the LRF are deeply touching to me and my family. Without all of you, and people like you in communities across the country, the LRF would not be able to fulfill its mission. So from this lymphoma survivor, and on behalf of my family, I want to say thank you. The work that all of you have done here today and the work I know you will continue to do on behalf of the LRF in the future will help insure that our family will stay healthy and together, and that I will be alive to be the father, husband, son, brother, and friend to you all that I know you want me to be.

Thank you.

I have a very vivid memory of the day my dad turned 40.

February 24, 1979. It was a Saturday. It was an unseasonably warm day.

I played hockey that afternoon at Twin Rinks with my childhood friends Brad Blumenfeld and Danny Steinberg. Brad’s mother Susan picked us up from hockey.

When I came home a truck was in our driveway dropping off catering supplies. My mother had planned a surprise party for my father and hadn’t told me. She didn’t think I could keep a secret like that from my dad. She was probably right.

She had gotten him out of the house on some ruse with the help of his friend Bob Levitas. She had hired a DJ for the night and even had a disco ball installed on the ceiling of our dining room. It was the 70s after all. I even remember that the DJ was blind in one eye. I also remember having one heck of a time and being allowed to stay up well past my bedtime.

From the look on my dad’s face, he too had one heck of a time. I remember thinking as a 11-year-old how old 40 felt. And now I am turning 40. And, well, it doesn’t really feel that old. I hope that he didn’t feel old that day. He looks so young. Just hitting his prime. His career was blossoming. He had a wonderful family. He would have his health for another twenty years. Life was good. And it shows in the smile on his face in photos from that day. Looking at him back then, so happy and full of life, it is impossible to think of him gone, lost to us, and lost to the life that he lived so fully.

If you look carefully, my increasingly large nose is
visible in the top left-hand corner of the photo.

This has been a hard week, and it is making 40 a bittersweet reminder of the year that was. Last week we marked several difficult milestones–a year since his passing and burial, and his birthday that we celebrated in his honor to remember all that he was to us. My mom and Andrea came in so we could be together, which was important to all of us. They were not able to stay for his birthday, so Jacqui and I marked it by going out for a feast at a great restaurant. Just the way he would have wanted it. And as Sophia grows up, we will celebrate his birthday with a special meal and share stories of his eating prowess and love for his family and for life.

Disco baby!!!

This is a leap year, so it is a special birthday for me. Not only will I be 40, but I will also be 10. My 30s were a decade of highs and lows. A lot of living. I met Jacqui, fell in love, and found in her a partner, a lover, and a wife. I got sick and got better. Sophia!!! And then my dad died.

I’ll take a little more yang and a little less yin in my 40s.

There is a photo of my father above Sophia’s crib, and I often sing to her at night with a song my father always sang to my sister when she was a baby:

Do you love me?
Well I love you.
I really, really love you.
You are my special girl.
Do you love me?
Well I love you.

I miss him.

That guy doesn’t look a day over 39!

Last weekend we celebrated Sophia’s first birthday with her little friend Emma (they share the same birthday). We had some other little babies over, ate some cake, and sang happy birthday. Fun was had by all, except for Sophia when we stuck a birthday hat on her head, which she did not like.

What’s a first birthday without a monkey cake?

Just a quick note to let everyone know that I had scans last week and got the results today.

All’s clear.

This marks 8 months out of chemo and lymphoma-free. A good sign for a bright future.

More later on my sweating it out this weekend waiting for the results.

Sophia and her best buddy Emma had complementary Halloween costumes as they celebrated their first All Hallows Eve together. Sophia was a fire chief and Emma was a Dalmatian. They were extremely cute.

Our dog Otis likes to have fun like any other dog. He likes to go on long hikes and runs, and he loves chasing squirrels and chewing on bones. He likes cuddling with my wife and I in the morning before we begin our day. And he especially loves giving our infant daughter—to her squealing delight—big sloppy doggie kisses.

But what Otis really seems to love, despite being neutered, is humping other dogs. Whether male or female, big or small, purebred or mutt, Otis is quick to fall in love, if only for a few minutes at a time.

Most of the time it is pretty harmless. He’ll hump for a few seconds to assert his dominance, or use the hump as a way to goad another dog to wrestle and play. But when a dog has that special something, Otis pays no heed to the Larry Craig-like rituals of the dog world. He just mounts, locks on at the hips and thrusts away, giving renewed meaning to the term doggie style. When he’s done he usually falls to the ground and licks himself for a few minutes, and then curls up and takes a quick nap. Thus his transformation into the Ron Jeremy of the dog park is complete.

To no avail, we’ve tried to stop this behavior. But no matter what kind of advanced training techniques we use, Otis always gets back to his business. He sometimes becomes so possessed with lust that it seems as if the dogs he singles out for action have peanut butter smeared across their rears.

Most dog owners either laugh at or ignore Otis’s canine escapades. Because Otis is usually a good-natured dog who loves to play with other dogs in a non-humping way, most owners realize that this is just part of doggie behavior, no matter how funny it looks or silly it seems. And if a dog owner seems bothered by it—either because their dog has bad hips or because they just can’t bear the idea of their dog being submissive—I’ll take Otis off mid-hump. If he can’t control himself, we’ll leave the dog park and go for a walk, an outcome that leaves him dejected.

I’ve discovered recently, however, that there are some dog owners for whom male dog on male dog love is a biblical offense that sends them into a Sodom and Gomorrah-like rage. These homophobes of the dog world can’t seem to reconcile their ideal of their “best friends” with what they consider to be deviant behavior, even though they own animals that can lick themselves at will and who greet one another by sniffing and licking behinds. When Otis and I run into folks like these I usually try to make a joke, saying something like, “I guess our dogs have taken Philadelphia’s motto as the “City of Brotherly Love” quite literally.”

One recent interaction stands out. How could either Otis or I have known that he was humping the dog of the Phyllis Schlafly of the dog park, raining down the rancor and homophobia of the Eagle Forum upon us both? At first I had no clue as to why she was so angry about her dog “getting it” from Otis. I told her that she needed to ask me nicely to stop Otis. She refused, mumbled some angry things, and then kicked Otis to stop his humping. Who does that? Who kicks a dog? So, I just let Otis have his way with this dog, and explained to the woman as calmly as I could that she was completely nuts. After the incident one of her friends asked me if I knew that the victim of Otis’s advances was also male? I asked mockingly why that mattered? He told me, in all seriousness, that “that just wasn’t right.”

Dog owners are a strange breed indeed. Not only do many support a billion dollar vanity pet industry that offers everything from doggie massages to dog therapy to designer dog apparel. And not only do many dog owners support often unhealthy breeding practices so they can bring home their favorite type of dog—this despite the fact that the Humane Society estimates that between 3-4 million dogs are euthanized in the United States each year while awaiting adoption. But sadly, they sometimes also project their prejudices and hate from the human world onto the animals they claim to love. Maybe Otis’s humping is more than just his brief expression of canine love; maybe he’s fighting dog park homophobia by literally sticking it to the man.