June 8, 2004 -- SCOTTSDALE — A couple of weeks ago, I'm driving to the city on the Long Island Expressway on a sun-glazed, sleepy afternoon and doing all the things one does to try to stay awake — drink water, chew gum, amp up The Notorious B.I.G. to frightening decibels, open and close the window and think about how Harry Chapin met his fate — when my cell phone sprung to life; it was Lowell Fitzsimmons, Cotton Swab to me.
On April 7, a carefree visit to a throat specialist — on advice by the team doctor to check out a lingering cough to make sure Cotton wasn't walking around with pneumonia — uncovered the worst possible news. Five months before his 73rd birthday, the Suns' franchise personality and its flowery coaching perennial learned he had a malignant tumor on his lung. It was so obvious, the technician was unable to hide his repulsion from Cotton's wife, JoAnn, when reading the X-ray. A subsequent biopsy confirmed the terrible truth. Surgery was ruled out immediately because the tumor is so dangerously close to his heart.
I know what you're thinking; no, Fitzsimmons is not a smoker and, in fact, never smoked a day in his life, nor could the lung cancer be traced to second-hand casino or track smoke. He fit into the remaining seven percent of the diseased casualties; too much time spent in ancient asbestos-infested gyms throughout the midwest, perhaps.
"Peter," Cotton chirped, his voice its usual cheerful, high pitch, "I saw what you wrote about me the other day and I appreciate the mention. But, come on, you mean to tell me I've got cancer and I'm the one who has to make the call."
I was stone wide-awake now.
"I don't care how I got this thing, I just know I'm going to do everything they ask me to do to beat it," he activated excitedly.
"I look at this as my new coaching gig. I've already had 24 of 33 radiation treatments and you know what they say in my business, 'If you can get it down to single digits going into the fourth quarter, at least you've got a shot to win.' Kareem and Bird had pretty good luck with that number. They won their share, so I like my chances."
Aside from the radiation treatments ("My tee time," Cotton calls it. "I'm the only person who shows up every day in the nurse's office early"), he was also taking chemotherapy, he said. Six months' worth. The idea is to try to obliterate every single cancer cell.
"Radiation kills what you can see and chemo kills what you can't see," he explained. "I never knew that before. I'm learning an awful lot about medicine and what a great piece of machinery the body is; did you know your body is capable of developing new veins?"
In mid-February, out of nowhere a blood clot formed below Cotton's left knee. It was painful and worrisome but not debilitating to the point where he had to stop traveling with the Suns as their part-time TV analyst. In April, the clot jumped to the other leg. Next, it went above the knee and things really got scary; his right thigh ballooned to grotesque proportions, 271/2 inches, to be exact.
"Except for my Kevin Duckworth leg," Cotton said playfully, "you wouldn't think anything is wrong with me. I've got some burns on my back and chest, but I haven't had any of the bad reactions doctors said I might experience.
"So far, I haven't lost what little hair I have and I've gained 10 pounds [up to 185], thanks to JoAnn fixing me power drinks and loading me up with nourishment. It's very important not to lose weight and to stay hydrated. Water has become my best friend. I didn't drink much before, I was always sipping diet drinks."
The clots need constant supervision and attention. JoAnn, scared and squeamish at the outset, taught herself how to administer blood-thinning shots named Lovenox in Cotton's stomach. It's not always a painless procedure.
"Sometimes she leaves black and blue marks," he tattled. "She fluctuates between Nurse Ratched and Florence Nightingale."
Because of the leg's inflexibility, Cotton said he was essentially immobilized, only able to get up and get out for treatments.
"This is my complication," he said without coming down a beat. "Doctor says I might have to live with that. So be it. As you get older, you learn to live with one acquired affliction at a time."
Because of the radiation treatments, Cotton is confined to quarters overlooking a golf course.
"I'm the only guy in the Valley rooting for overcast. If the sun is out, I've got to stay inside."
Which is why I was shocked to see him standing outside his front door next to JoAnn when I pulled into his driveway Sunday afternoon. There Cotton Swab was in all his fashionable splendor, both legs covered thigh-high in white anti-embolism stockings. What a sight for tear-stained eyes!
"You brought me good luck, Peter, this is the first time in quite a while I've been able to get around on my own. In the last couple days the clot has reduced dramatically [down, in fact, from 271/2 inches to 191/2]. I've now got a Karl Malone leg."
(Tomorrow: Game 1 of The Finals on Cotton's couch.)
http://www.nypost.com/sports/22542.htm
On April 7, a carefree visit to a throat specialist — on advice by the team doctor to check out a lingering cough to make sure Cotton wasn't walking around with pneumonia — uncovered the worst possible news. Five months before his 73rd birthday, the Suns' franchise personality and its flowery coaching perennial learned he had a malignant tumor on his lung. It was so obvious, the technician was unable to hide his repulsion from Cotton's wife, JoAnn, when reading the X-ray. A subsequent biopsy confirmed the terrible truth. Surgery was ruled out immediately because the tumor is so dangerously close to his heart.
I know what you're thinking; no, Fitzsimmons is not a smoker and, in fact, never smoked a day in his life, nor could the lung cancer be traced to second-hand casino or track smoke. He fit into the remaining seven percent of the diseased casualties; too much time spent in ancient asbestos-infested gyms throughout the midwest, perhaps.
"Peter," Cotton chirped, his voice its usual cheerful, high pitch, "I saw what you wrote about me the other day and I appreciate the mention. But, come on, you mean to tell me I've got cancer and I'm the one who has to make the call."
I was stone wide-awake now.
"I don't care how I got this thing, I just know I'm going to do everything they ask me to do to beat it," he activated excitedly.
"I look at this as my new coaching gig. I've already had 24 of 33 radiation treatments and you know what they say in my business, 'If you can get it down to single digits going into the fourth quarter, at least you've got a shot to win.' Kareem and Bird had pretty good luck with that number. They won their share, so I like my chances."
Aside from the radiation treatments ("My tee time," Cotton calls it. "I'm the only person who shows up every day in the nurse's office early"), he was also taking chemotherapy, he said. Six months' worth. The idea is to try to obliterate every single cancer cell.
"Radiation kills what you can see and chemo kills what you can't see," he explained. "I never knew that before. I'm learning an awful lot about medicine and what a great piece of machinery the body is; did you know your body is capable of developing new veins?"
In mid-February, out of nowhere a blood clot formed below Cotton's left knee. It was painful and worrisome but not debilitating to the point where he had to stop traveling with the Suns as their part-time TV analyst. In April, the clot jumped to the other leg. Next, it went above the knee and things really got scary; his right thigh ballooned to grotesque proportions, 271/2 inches, to be exact.
"Except for my Kevin Duckworth leg," Cotton said playfully, "you wouldn't think anything is wrong with me. I've got some burns on my back and chest, but I haven't had any of the bad reactions doctors said I might experience.
"So far, I haven't lost what little hair I have and I've gained 10 pounds [up to 185], thanks to JoAnn fixing me power drinks and loading me up with nourishment. It's very important not to lose weight and to stay hydrated. Water has become my best friend. I didn't drink much before, I was always sipping diet drinks."
The clots need constant supervision and attention. JoAnn, scared and squeamish at the outset, taught herself how to administer blood-thinning shots named Lovenox in Cotton's stomach. It's not always a painless procedure.
"Sometimes she leaves black and blue marks," he tattled. "She fluctuates between Nurse Ratched and Florence Nightingale."
Because of the leg's inflexibility, Cotton said he was essentially immobilized, only able to get up and get out for treatments.
"This is my complication," he said without coming down a beat. "Doctor says I might have to live with that. So be it. As you get older, you learn to live with one acquired affliction at a time."
Because of the radiation treatments, Cotton is confined to quarters overlooking a golf course.
"I'm the only guy in the Valley rooting for overcast. If the sun is out, I've got to stay inside."
Which is why I was shocked to see him standing outside his front door next to JoAnn when I pulled into his driveway Sunday afternoon. There Cotton Swab was in all his fashionable splendor, both legs covered thigh-high in white anti-embolism stockings. What a sight for tear-stained eyes!
"You brought me good luck, Peter, this is the first time in quite a while I've been able to get around on my own. In the last couple days the clot has reduced dramatically [down, in fact, from 271/2 inches to 191/2]. I've now got a Karl Malone leg."
(Tomorrow: Game 1 of The Finals on Cotton's couch.)
http://www.nypost.com/sports/22542.htm
