An Open Letter to Jon Lester - by Arash Markazi

I beat non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma -- twice. So can you.
Posted: Wednesday September 6, 2006 2:05PM; Updated: Wednesday September 6, 2006 3:34PM



Dear Jon,
I know you don't know me -- and to be honest, I didn't know much about you until last week -- but we share something in common. We were both diagnosed with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. I know; I wish we shared something else in common too. Although I bet as a couple of twentysomething guys from the West Coast we probably do.

I know you must have a million thoughts racing through your mind right now. I know I did. I've been there -- twice. Last year around this time I was just being released from the USC/Norris Comprehensive Cancer Center after I had relapsed. It was my second battle with non-Hodgkin's lymphoma after initially beating it four years earlier. I had to spend the entire month of August in a small hospital room while I underwent intensive chemotherapy and a stem-cell transplant. Yeah, heavy stuff for anyone to deal with, especially a 25-year-old trying to enjoy his summer.

Much like you, I was back east when I was diagnosed. I had everything I had ever wanted in life: the dream job in the dream city. Things couldn't have been better. But cancer has never been known for its impeccable timing. It doesn't care whether you're a rookie writer at Sports Illustrated or a rookie pitcher for the Boston Red Sox. So there I was, much like you are now, trying to deal with the news. Why me? Why now? Why couldn't I be like everyone else my age and be in the hospital for a broken bone or a bad cold?

The questions cluttered my mind for days. I would go for long walks to no place in particular trying to sort things out. I would walk so far, for so long, without thinking that I would get lost. As if somehow the farther I walked, the farther I would get from reality. Yet when I returned home, things were the same. Not the same old, same old I was yearning for, but the same new reality of the nightmare I couldn't wake up from.

Reality suddenly takes on a whole new meaning now, doesn't it? I bet the biggest worry you had a couple of weeks ago was how you were going to help get the Sox get back in the playoff hunt, and now here you are getting ready to embark on the fight of your life. I remember being paranoid about meeting deadline on some story when I was diagnosed last year. Needless to say, the story got in a little late.

I'm not sure what type of treatment you will be getting, but chances are it will be similar to the one I had when I was first diagnosed. I went through six cycles of chemotherapy, which was a combination of CHOP, an acronym for the names of each chemical that went into my body, and Rituxan, one of the newest drugs available for treating non-Hodgkin's lymphoma.

After each cycle I had a three-week break, during which I would go into the hospital for blood tests and an injection of Neupogen, which would increase my blood counts and help prevent my immune system from being susceptible to catching a cold or the flu. Interestingly enough, prednisone, which was a pill I took for five days as a part of CHOP, increases your appetite. After my first experience with the drug, I went on a binge that would make a pregnant woman proud. I had three foot-long sandwiches from Subway, followed by a banana split from Baskin-Robbins. After six months I gained about 20 pounds, which stayed nicely in my belly since I had absolutely no energy to work it off by the end of the treatments.

For each of my treatments, I sat in a La-Z-Boy-type chair at the hospital as a nurse hooked me up to an IV and began injecting me with each drug. I tried everything to take my mind off the fact that a needle was inserted into the top of my hand as chemicals were flowing through my veins, but it wasn't easy. I would often just sit there for the full six hours fiddling with my computer and watching the tiny television they had in the room, waiting to hear the soothing sound of the beeping IV machine, which meant I was done for the day.

My parents would come with me to the hospital and I would often have visitors come by to check on me throughout the day. As strange as this may sound, those moments are actually some of the best times I've ever had in my life. I would talk to my friends and family about anything and everything. It's amazing how open and insightful people can be when they're talking to someone at a hospital. I almost felt like a psychiatrist at times. We'd get so wrapped up in conversation that I actually forgot that I was attached to a machine.

I think one of the biggest misconceptions about cancer treatment is that it hurts. Nothing about the treatment actually hurts. At least it shouldn't. I mean, I would get fatigued and at times nauseated by the chemotherapy, but they have medicine for that and any discomfort I had was brief and quickly treated. In fact, if you're like me, the pain you were having before being diagnosed -- chest pains, night sweats and sudden weight loss -- will hopefully disappear soon after your treatments begin. The worst part about the chemotherapy is the boredom of sitting in a chair for six hours.

After about your third treatment, you'll probably start shedding like a dog. I remember waking up in the morning with hair all over my bed before finally deciding it would be best to go Vin Diesel and give my head a nice clean shave. It was a big moment for me, since my friends have always given me grief for taking such good care of my hair. In grade school my classmates called me "Uncle Jesse" in honor of John Stamos' character on Full House, who was notorious for taking care of his jet-black hair.

Surprisingly and thankfully, however, I didn't look so bad with my head shaven. There were no big bumps or Mikhail Gorbachev-type birthmarks to surprise me. It was nice and smooth and most people even said I looked better with no hair. Although I hope they were just being nice, as I've let my hair grow back. By the way, if you're like me, your hair will grow back a little differently. For some reason my hair is a lot curlier now than it was before my treatments.

Anyway, the whole process should take about five months. You may have to undergo radiation treatment afterward as I did, which will be easy in comparison to the chemotherapy in terms of side effects and time, although the daily hassle of going in to get radiation, which only takes a few minutes, for an entire month can get tedious. Again, boredom will likely be the biggest hurdle you'll have to overcome on most days.

In the end, Jon, you'll be fine. It's important that you know that. You're going to beat this and you're going to come back even better than you did before. I have no doubt about it. Start writing goals for yourself while you're in the hospital -- when you plan on throwing again, where you plan on being when spring training begins, who you plan on striking out when you get back on the mound. Write them all out, pin them up and plan on them coming to fruition. Because I plan on us having something else in common six months from now: being cancer survivors.

Sincerely,

Arash