I

wake up suddenly, staring at the ceiling of our apartment. I hear some drunk bros across the street at the bodega arguing in the humid Brooklyn night. I look at Seema, sleeping peacefully beside me. Sleep is nice. It’s our only escape from having to deal with the newfound stress and sadness that has entered our lives.



The screaming bros prevent me from sleeping, so I continue staring at our white ceiling instead. I grasp at distant memories to cheer myself. I find myself thinking about our wedding weekend eight months earlier in Charleston. I remember Seema’s bright smile during our first dance to Rose Royce’s “I Wanna Get Next to You.” I see us both surrounded by a sea of friends and family dancing to B.I.G., Kishore Kumar and Montel Jordan. I remember speeches from loved ones and our parents drastically underestimating how much alcohol our friends would drink. I remember these same friends settling for warm shots of gin after cleaning out the bar on that cool November night in 2013.



I see Seema and me on a raised mandap on the banks of the Ashley River in front of our closest friends and family on an idyllic Fall day. Seema looks like an Indian queen in her crimson sari with her gold jewelry sparkling. Her dark hair and big, brown eyes are framed by her crimson veil. The dupatta that hangs around my neck is tied in a knot with her veil, connecting us as we hold hands and take turns leading each other around a sacred fire. Each orbit around the flames symbolizes the devotion to each other needed for a happy marriage. Afterwards we perform the Satapadi, the seven steps we take together that each represent a different marriage vow of strength, positivity, prosperity, health, happiness, trust and love.



I didn’t realize the vows would be tested so early. I assumed I’d have at least a few decades until our first family health crisis. I want more time. I need more time. I feel like I'm not ready for this, and I can never let Seema know that. The bros continue to scream outside our bedroom window, pulling me back to reality and the blank ceiling in our apartment.



The last 48 hours have been a marathon of medical appointments. Dad and Seema’s mom have flown up to provide moral support but to also act as medical translators who can interpret the tsunami of medical jargon and analysis that is quickly enveloping us.



Dad is a cardio thoracic surgeon who grew up in rural India and ended up raising our family in a small town in Georgia. My bald head, eyes and nose are his own. He has a deep commanding voice and is always ready sit back with a glass of wine and reminisce. He brings a calming presence to any situation. As fate would have it, Dad attended medical school with Seema’s mom in the mid 70’s. I lovingly refer to her as Aai, the term for mother in Marathi. When pronounced correctly, “Aai” sounds like a truncated version of the noise an Ewok screams during a surprise attack on Endor. Aai is a successful OB-GYN who has an incredible bond with her daughter. She’s a few inches shorter than Seema, and when in motion, takes short steps that create her trademark waddle. Her shoulder length hair hasn’t changed since I met her in 2007. She likes to laugh and takes immense pride in her ability to make an excellent cup of chai each morning for her family.



Seema is paired with a new team of doctors at NYU Langone. Dad and Aai are with us during our first appointments to ask follow-up questions and throw out suggestions for medications or procedures. We try to keep up, but the conversation quickly becomes complex physician speak. Our parents ask follow up questions that I would have never thought of asking. I’ve never been more thankful to have parents who fulfilled the Indian stereotype of studying medicine.



The more we speak with our new doctors, Seema and I are thrilled to learn this group actually has bedside manner. They are nothing like the doctor who gave us the original diagnosis. They are patient, caring and empathetic. They become our Dream Team, a multi-headed beast with an expertise in Oncology, Radiology, and Chemotherapy.



Seema is young. She is smart. She is beautiful. She has so much potential. I can feel the Dream Team pulling for her. They want her to beat this just as much as I do. I didn’t think that was possible, but I accept it with open arms.

As we schedule and await Seema’s first scans that will indicate the severity of the cancer, it becomes increasingly difficult to manage the flood of uncertainties about our future.



I thought I had everything planned out. I recently quit my strenuous job as a creative director at a successful advertising agency with plans to freelance as a hired creative gun. Seema just graduated NYU Law School and had the entire summer free before we moved back to Los Angeles and she started a job at the prestigious law firm Skadden Arps.



With our newfound flexible schedules and free time we were going to do novel things like eat dinner together. We would finally have time to enjoy New York City with each other and the friends we love. Seema would explore fashion and intern with a designer. I would read the 400 books I’ve ordered on Amazon over the past year but have never read. We would travel and explore the world together. I would work out more. I would do yoga. I would meditate. I would learn Muay Thai. We would get a dog. We would name him Huck. I would do stand-up comedy. I would write movie scripts with Seema and my friends. We would make films. We would get into Sundance. We would all become famous and buy adjacent farms in rural Georgia. We would volunteer for causes we believe in and would eventually win a Nobel Peace Prize and a Congressional Medal of Freedom. Seema and I would attend a State Dinner with Barack and Michelle. I’d make an off-the-cuff joke about Joakim Noah’s hair to the President. He’d think I’m hilarious and would eventually quote me in his final State of the Union.



Cancer has other plans. All our dreams take a backseat as we are forced to deal with our new reality. I feel like we’ve been cheated out of a unique window of time we carved out to enjoy life to the fullest before Seema begins her law career. Instead, we are on the phone with NYU trying to figure out the exact date Seema’s student health insurance will expire.



In addition to uncertainties about Seema’s health, uncertainties about our future, family, and careers constantly drift in and out of my everyday thoughts. Dwelling on all of these uncertainties will slowly drive me insane. I know this. So I search desperately for something, anything, to distract myself. Seema distracts herself by diving into the prose of Junot Diaz and Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie. Since Johnny Walker has proven himself to be an unpredictable asshole, I bury myself in the 2014 NBA Finals instead. I bury myself with a fanaticism normally reserved for televangelists and NYSE floor traders.



The Finals are already a highly anticipated series, a rematch from the previous year between the two-time defending champion Miami Heat and the San Antonio Spurs. I remember watching last year. The Spurs were thirty seconds away from winning the Championship. The Larry O’Brien trophy and velvet ropes were brought out. The Spurs were ready to pop the champagne. Then the Heat went on an improbable run, punctuated by a Ray Allen corner three that sent the game into overtime where the Spurs lost. The Heat emphatically closed out Game 7 in Miami and won the Championship. The close-up of the Spurs bench in the final minutes of Game 7 told a story of combined shock and devastation that I now know all too well. How quickly things slip away…



A year later, the basketball stars have aligned perfectly for a rematch. On one hand you have the Heat, trying to achieve a threepeat which would propel Lebron into the next level of the NBA’s Mount Olympus and give more fodder for the pointless “Lebron vs. Jordan” debate. Then there are the Spurs. They are old, banged up, and have a lot mileage. But despite their age, they have been rebuilt into a fast-paced, well-oiled, small-ball machine by the loveable curmudgeon, Coach Popovich.



Like 99.7% of human beings, I don’t like the Heat. I didn’t like Lebron leaving Cleveland. I didn’t like his smug assumption of winning 7 straight Championships. I don’t like Heat fans. I don’t like DJ Khaled. I don’t like Gloria Estefan.



I’m not a Spurs fan by any means. But the week after the diagnosis, the NBA Finals becomes something completely different for me. This has moved beyond a battle of villains, heroes, rings, legacies, pundits, fan bases and statistics. I need the Spurs to win. I need to know that it’s possible to rebound from a horrific, soul-crushing loss and return stronger, more focused, and triumph. The fact that our lives share nothing in common with NBA athletes doesn’t matter. I need to see a comeback.



As the day of Seema’s first scan arrives, however, things are already looking bleak for the Spurs. The teams have split the first two games in San Antonio. The series shifts to Miami and the Spurs are already in a hole. The Heat have stolen home court advantage and no team has beaten Miami on their home court in the Playoffs.



I pace our apartment, religiously refreshing Twitter and watching ESPN analysis searching for any kind of Spurs advantage. I watch and loudly narrate Youtube highlights from the previous years Finals analyzing weaknesses in the Miami offense. Seema alternates between tracking my pacing around the room and continuing to read Americanah.



When we drive to NYU Langone for her scan, I try not to think about the fast approaching Game 3 and the impeding uphill climb ahead for the Spurs and ourselves.

The doctors allow me to be with Seema for the scans, so I sit with her as she changes into a hospital gown in a patient room in the lower levels of the hospital. Dad and Aai wait for us in the waiting room. Seema’s first scan is a PET-CT scan, which stands for Positron Emission Tomography – Computer Tomography Scan. It’s an advanced, nuclear imaging scanning technique that gives detailed information about cell structure.



Seema is given orders to drink a viscous, white concoction. The drink contains barium sulfate, which acts like a tracer that helps doctors identify cancer cells on the scan. From its look and consistency, barium sulfate resembles a combination of chalk, buttermilk and elk semen. But luckily this particular bottle of barium sulfate is coffee flavored! Seema says the artificial flavor barely masks the awful taste.



“This is the most disgusting thing I’ve ever had in my life.”



The grimace on Seema’s face makes it clear Starbucks is completely missing an opportunity to launch an Elk Semen Mocha Liquid Chalk Frappuccino.



I hold Seema’s hand as she lays on the hospital gurney and is wheeled into the PET-CT room. The machine looks like a giant, immovable, beige donut that Seema must pass through. Seema scoots from the gurney to the flat slab that will slowly inch her through the scanning device. I stand next to my horizontal wife as doctors, nurses and technicians buzz around preparing the machine and optimizing equipment. As they speak to each other from across the room, it feels like we are preparing to send my wife through the portal in Stargate. I sense myself becoming more and more nervous about the scan and what the results will mean. My heart begins beating faster. I fear the cancer has spread everywhere, even to Seema’s soft earlobes. I think about ways to calm Seema.



No need. Amongst the din of technician chatter and medical-speak, I hadn’t noticed Seema nonchalantly chatting to an attending physician about the most recent episode of The Bachelorette. They talk about the rose ceremony last week and a guy who apparently has been acting like “a real dickhead to Andi.” I marvel at my wife who is unfazed by the environment and the moment. I wonder if the scan results will also confirm the absence of fucks given towards the cancer that also resides within my wife’s body.



The doctors tell us we need to clear the room so they can begin the scan. They close the vault-like door to protect us from the bombardment of radiation that will envelop my wife. We move to an adjacent room that is the medical equivalent of NASA’s Mission Control. There are so many different monitors, I’m not sure what to look at. I focus on a smaller screen that shows the video feed of the scan room. My wife who has been instructed to stay completely still for the scan to be accurate. Wrapped in multiple thin white blankets, she looks like a tiny, motionless mummy.



As she is slowly inched through the Stargate, cross-sectional slices of my wife begin appearing on another screen. The doctors and technicians huddle around it and begin analyzing. I have no clue what the fuck is going on. As I look at my wife on the screen, I imagine Seema intaking Gamma radiation. Maybe like Bruce Banner, she will gain super powers that will immediately cure her and turn her into a stronger being with wondrous abilities. By day she will be a high-powered attorney, but at night she will fight crime on the streets of Brooklyn. When the scanning is complete, Seema appears to have no super powers (yet). She’s just thankful that she can scratch the itch on her knee that’s been bugging her the last hour.



Seema, Aai, Dad and I wait for the results in a Radiology patient room. Since the other patient rooms are filled, we are put in a children’s patient room instead. We stare at the wallpaper of dinosaur illustrations as we wait.



Dr. Schiff finally enters. He’s the Radiation Oncologist component of the Dream Team. His omnipresent bow-tie is complimented by the omnipresent stethoscope hanging around his neck. He has a walrus mustache that partially obscures a warm smile. Combined with his protruding belly, he reminds me of John Candy if John Candy was a world-renowned radio-oncologist.



Dr. Schiff breaks down the scan for us. Luckily, we’ve caught the cancer early before it has the chance to spread to any other organs. He’s spoken to the rest of The Dream Team. There will be no hysterectomy. Instead, they want to pursue an aggressive regimen of radiation and chemo as well as an additional experimental trial of chemotherapy to help eradicate the cancer permanently. I like the word “eradicate.” I like that the doctors are using military terms when talking about fighting the cancer. I like that we are going to show the cancer no mercy.



Seema tells me she is ready for a battle. She tells me she is ready for an uphill climb. I feel the same. When we leave the hospital, I feel like we’re slowly emerging from a fog of uncertainty. We finally have a few answers. We know what the enemy looks like and how we’re going to fight it.

We watch the next two games of The NBA Finals at our apartment. I was worried with the Spurs losing home court advantage and going to Miami. But the Spurs are now playing as if home court advantage doesn’t matter. They play as if crowds don’t matter. The Spurs find another gear in Miami and begin playing some the best team basketball ever witnessed in the great game. Selfless and beautiful, fluid and precise, the Spurs proceed to put on a clinic and blow out the Heat in back-to-back games in Miami in some of the most lopsided victories ever seen in the NBA Finals.



The series heads back to San Antonio, with the Spurs holding a commanding 3-1 series lead. The Spurs could clinch the Championship in Game 5. It’s almost a forgone conclusion given the kind of basketball that the Spurs have been playing.



But sports are funny. Anything can happen. You can’t manufacture drama or momentum shifts. And as improbable as a total Spurs collapse could be, you remember the other teams and great players that choked and weren’t able to seal the deal. History is littered with examples of teams defying the odds, going off script and pulling off the impossible.



Some friends invite us to watch Game 5 at a bar. Fuck that. I’m not switching up the sports feng shui of watching at home, which has obviously ensured the previous two Spurs’ wins. We need to keep the same energy going.



Seema and I order some gyros and sit on our couch for tip-off. The Spurs start horribly, going 0-6 from the field. They are putting up brick after brick. Lebron, on the other hand, is flying around like a demigod. He throws down putback dunks. He drains long-range threes. He swats layups into the San Antonio bench. Five minutes into the game, the Heat lead 22 – 9. The once raucous San Antonio crowd is becoming more eerily quiet by the second. I knew we should’ve watched at the bar. My mind begins a slow downward spiral of dark thoughts. I see the chain of events that will unfold to rob Seema and me of our Spurs’ comeback inspiration:

The Heat will win this game.

The series goes back to Miami for Game 6.

Miami home crowd advantage and another monster game from Lebron creates a momentum shift.

The Spurs mental toughness begins to crack.

In Game 7, Lebron plays the greatest game of his career.

The Spurs choke and implode once again.

The Heat and Lebron complete their threepeat.

Confetti rains down from the sky as Lebron holds his Finals MVP trophy.

Stephen A. Smith can barely contain his erection knowing hours of airtime on First Take can now be filled with Lebron vs. Jordan comparisons.

As I see things falling apart for the Spurs, I see things falling apart for Seema’s health. Hope is fading for both. Ghosts of the Spurs’ collapse from the previous year begin to simultaneous haunt the AT&T Center and our apartment. Maybe some defeats are just too devastating to bounce back from.



But then something magical happens. Spurs’ shooting guard Manu Ginobili checks into the game. He strides onto the court like a beautiful, balding, Argentinian unicorn. First possession in the game? Bang. Manu nails a three. Next possession? Bang. Manu finds Kawhi Leonard who knocks down another three. The Spurs are still down 12, but it’s a spark. Everything begins clicking for San Antonio. The team that was so dominant the last two games remembers who they are. They move the ball. Shots begin to fall. Defensive stops are made. The crowd gets back in the game. Suddenly the Spurs lead 37-35



In the Spurs’ doomed Finals the year before, Manu did not play well. He had a few too many costly turnovers and made a few too many poor decisions at the wrong times. But watching him play now, I can see he was exorcising his own demons and disappointments from the previous year. The moment that solidifies his redemption occurs in the final minutes of the 2nd quarter, when Manu transforms into an unbridled tempest of Rogaine and storms down the court. He blows by Ray Allen then throws down the mother of all dunks on Chris Bosh. The Spurs crowd collectively loses their shit. Across the globe, bald men in their late 30’s simultaneously feel more powerful without knowing why.



Once the Ginobili dunk is thrown down, everyone watching now knows there is no way the Heat are going to win this game. But I continue to watch, even when the Spurs are up by 20 points. The inevitable feels too good to be true. Not until the black and silver confetti falls from the sky for the trophy ceremony do I feel like I can pull away from the screen. Seema, long since bored from the blowout, is in the kitchen drinking some tea while reading a book. I find her and squeeze her with a tight hug. She looks at me, a little concerned her husband has lost his mind.



Maybe I did lose my mind for a brief moment. Maybe it’s stupid to be so emotionally invested in a sporting event that has no real relevance or ramifications to our lives. But this one did. Thank you, Manu Ginobili. I believe in comebacks.