Gotta Catch ’Em All: Stories About Pokémon and Cancer

Before drugs and sex caught my attention, I collected Pokémon cards. Stop me if I sound like I’m bragging, but I have a first-edition hologram Pidgeot, a first-edition hologram Wigglytuff, and — wait for it — a hologram Mewtwo.

In October, TMZ reported that Logic, the rapper, purchased a rare Charizard card for $226,000 during a live auction. The trading card investment company CardHops reported that Logic’s purchase broke records for the Pokémon card market. Still, as Pokémon card values continue to rise, I have no interest in selling. Such an act would amount to blasphemy. (Note to readers: none of my Pokémon cards are worth anything near $226,000)

Ultimately, collecting is not a monetary pursuit. It’s a hobby that allows one to create their own smaller and highly-controlled worlds. A world where all your Pokémon cards might be living, breathing objects. And, in such a world, those living, breathing Pokémon just might be able to personally relate to the struggles of a ten-year old boy.

“Charizard, do you care if I’m gay and doing poorly in my 6th grade science class?”

“Max, I love you no matter how many dicks you suck!”

“Wow, Charizard, you’re a real friend.”

Last weekend, I started rummaging through my old collection and I immediately began questioning why I ever stopped playing with Pokémon cards. Looking through the cards brought back old memories of summer camp. Memories of simpler times, when my social capital was directly correlated with the breadth of my Pokémon collection.

Every summer, when I was sent to Jewish camp in the Poconos, my Grandma Linda would mail me packs, and packs, of Pokémon cards directly to my bunk. During my first year as a camper, this older kid named Bradley stole my Pokémon cards. I was only seven at the time so I don’t remember the exact terms of Bradley’s swindling. But, I vividly remember feeling that I had been fucked over by this obnoxious and older bully. Who also happened to be chubby, but that’s irrelevant.

When visiting day rolled around, and my parents arrived at Camp Chen-A-Wanda to find their son distraught from the loss of his Pokémon cards, my mother marched right up to Bradley’s white-trash Jersey mother and demanded that my cards be returned. Mama came to the rescue and that summer at camp was saved.

I loved going to camp. At camp, I was a star. The counselors awarded me with the highly coveted “camper of the year” award during my first summer at camp in 2002. Some people at the camp even began calling me a leader, as I began exposing virgin minds to the beauty of not showering and not wearing underwear. When I was at camp, I didn’t worry about anything except for when my next pack of Pokémon cards was going to arrive and which popular girl I might ask to dance with me at the evening activity.

After being away from home for seven weeks, we boarded buses that took us home to our parents. I was always so excited to come home because my parents actually enjoyed spending time with my sister and I, unlike the parents of some of my friends. My parents actually missed me.

The bus would drop off the New York kids at Bayside High School in Queens where a group of guilt-ridden helicopter parents anxiously awaited our arrival. My grandpa Marty always showed up at the bus stop with a big “Max” poster that had a picture of me printed on it — as if he was campaigning for me to win an elementary school student government election.

So, in 2005, as the camp bus pulled up to Bayside High School, I was bubbling with joy and excitement. I couldn’t wait to see what presents and activities that my parents had in store. A ten-year old me spotted my dad in the crowd. He was bald, which was unusual, and he was wearing a light-blue North Carolina Tar Heels hat backwards on his shiny, pale head.

When we got into our black Acura MDX, my mom told us that my dad had testicular cancer. Although, I already knew this immediately upon seeing dad’s bald head. Tears started pouring out of my eyes before my mom was able to get the words out. My sister Sydney was only 8. She was confused and needed my mom to say it explicitly. Half an hour later, we pulled into our driveway in Jericho where grandma Linda was already hysterically crying. I think her display felt dramatic only because I hadn’t allowed myself to cry like that yet.

There are a few positives to having a dad with stage-three cancer. Such as the new plasma TV that was awaiting me in my room and the two quarts of cotton candy flavored Maggie Moo’s ice cream that were sitting in our freezer. And, suddenly I had a new array of “one-ball” jokes to tell my prepubescent friends. This, of course, because my father now roamed the earth with one testicle after having the cancerous one removed while I was away at camp. These stupid jokes seemed funny at the time.

That night, I ate a whole quart of cotton candy Maggie Moo’s ice cream, and cried just like my grandma did earlier in our driveway. I pooped green for days.

I remember thinking that I had to grow up fast. I had no time for Pokémon cards anymore. My dad was dying, my mother was sad and therefore I needed to take care of her. All of that took priority over everything else in my life. Instead of collecting Pokémon cards, I was creating playlists of songs that could be played at my dad’s funeral. Songs like “Time Like These” by Foo Fighters, and “Keep Me In Your Heart” by Warren Zevon.

The sixth-grade school year started up, and I was in the same class as Stacy. Her mom had Lou Gherig’s disease. One day, we learned that Stacy’s mom died and all of sudden the concept of my father dying became very real. When my English teacher told our class the bad news, I had a panic attack and started running through the empty hallways. A teacher sent me to the assistant principal who was supposed to talk me through my feelings. It felt like a punishment. I just wanted to go home where I could be alone, watch South Park and eat Maggie Moo’s.

My travel baseball team wore yellow hats that season that supported my dad’s namesake testicular cancer charity. Dad still came to every game, even during his final round of chemo treatments. But, the attention our family got felt odd. People are awkward around the sick.

But, my dad emerged from cancer like Superman. Dads who beat cancer are just like Superman. After four rounds of chemo and two major surgeries, my dad went into remission. He’s now 15 years cancer-free and our family barely talks about cancer, except for when I bring it up.

I’m so thankful that I was able to keep my dad, but I think I lost a big part of my childhood. I never went back to collecting Pokémon cards. I moved on to more adult ventures like having sex with guys and smoking weed. Those more adult activities better suited my new angry, defiant and angsty attitude. And I never retreated back into the fictional worlds I used to create as a kid.

To this day, I’m angry at the world for giving my dad cancer. And, I’m even angrier that once all of this cancer shit was finally over, everyone pretended like everything was ok again.

But, as a FUCK YOU to cancer, I hereby declare my renewed love for all things Pokémon. It’s important that we keep our faith in utopian worlds like the Pokémon Universe. If you’ve ever played Pokémon, you would know that your Pokémon do not die. Your Pokémon might get knocked out during a battle, but they can always be restored to life at the Poké Hospital. In Pokémon, your greatest rival is not presented as an enemy, but as an opponent. An opponent with whom your constant sparring makes you a wiser person.

Not to make this political, but I hope we can begin to look at our political opposites, as opponents rather than enemies. And, I also hope I live forever, like my Pokémon.