Profile Of Donald Royal Undergoing Chemotherapry

[Way Of The Ray <wayray@ix.netcom.com>]

[Hot CoCo]

   Published on December 18, 1998                        
                                                            
   Royal's thoughts with others as he battles cancer      
   By Selena Roberts
   NEW YORK TIMES
   ----------------------------------------------------------------------

   Donald Royal would pull out of his driveway on a glorious day and
   find himself winding through the golf courses that brush stroke the
   fringes of Orlando, Fla.

   Fresh-cut grass was everywhere. Normally, Royal would have inhaled
   the scent. But now he knew the slightest sniff would cause his
   6-foot-8-inch frame to recoil in nausea. So he would press on in his
   15-mile drive with the windows rolled up and his choices in front of
   him.

   What route would he take this time: Interstate or back roads? No
   matter how often he varied the trip, the journey he has taken five
   times each of the last six months would lead him to the parking lot
   of the M.D. Anderson Cancer Center. He knew that the moment he walked
   through the door it would hit him, this foul odor that only people
   like himself could detect. Only people going through chemotherapy.

   "It's the worst smell you can ever imagine," Royal said in an
   interview last week, two days before his final chemotherapy
   treatment. "It's weird, but no one else would notice but us."

   Inside the clinic, Royal would take his seat in the waiting room with
   other patients. He would nod politely to the familiar faces. How
   could a slash-to-the-basket forward in the NBA end up with a
   diagnosis of colon cancer at age 32 on a summer day in June, just one
   month after he was springing off the bench for the Charlotte Hornets
   in the playoffs? That question was not on his mind as he waited,
   however.

   "You know what I think about?" he said. "The people around me.

   "Once I went to the center and did the chemo and saw people dealing
   with the same thing," Royal said in a voice that was weary but
   steady, "I realized that I should be thankful for the fact that my
   situation is curable. At times, you're sitting next to people who are
   desperate, people on their last hope. They're getting chemo and
   radiation at the same time. And it's kids. You see them losing their
   hair and with skin that has turned green from the treatment. It hurts
   your heart. I know my situation, as tough as it is, theirs is twice
   as bad. All anyone in that room is doing is trying to survive."

   For Royal, the word survival has a tangible meaning. On July 1, at
   the same time the NBA began its lockout, a catheter was being
   surgically planted in Royal's chest for his first 15-minute treatment
   -- it's called a "push" -- of chemotherapy. While other players began
   to talk of "fighting for our livelihood" and "struggling for
   survival," Royal was losing 20 pounds from his customary 218 because
   of nausea and fatigue that made him too tired to eat. As owners
   argued that they needed a new basic agreement with the players to
   guarantee the economic health of their franchises, Royal was popping
   Jolly Ranchers to cover the metallic taste that coated his mouth.

   "People ask me, 'What's going on in the league?'" said Royal, who was
   a player representative for the Orlando Magic when the last
   collective bargaining agreement was signed, in 1995. "I get calls
   from people and hear what's going on. But I don't concern myself with
   it like I did in the past. I don't need the extra stress. There are
   other things to focus on. My priorities are very different now. One
   thing you gain is perspective. I'm just so grateful for what I have."

   Royal has never lacked gratitude. He did not barge into the NBA as a
   hot draft choice with a shoe deal. He was a Notre Dame graduate with
   a political science degree. As the Cavaliers' third-round draft
   choice in 1987, Royal was viewed as a quick but limited player
   saddled with a hard-boiled jumper. He was released in the pre-season.

   It was either give up and settle into an office job or labor in the
   lunch-pail atmosphere of the Continental Basketball Association. He
   chose the latter, which meant spending three years eating
   Thanksgiving meals in restaurants like Denny's.

   By 1990, he was playing in Israel. Not long after his arrival, Royal
   was in a Tel Aviv mall when a woman placed a bag next to him. It was
   ticking. Royal did not notice at first, but then people started
   scattering and a man pulled on him and told him to run. As he dashed
   from the mall, the bomb went off.

   That was not his only narrow escape. Twenty-four hours before Iraq
   launched its first Scud missile at Israel during the Persian Gulf
   War, Royal boarded the last flight out of the country.

   Eventually, he got his chance. After stops in Minnesota and San
   Antonio sandwiched around his time in Israel, he went from role
   player to starter with the Magic in 1993 and landed a two-year, $2
   million contract.

   Royal is level-headed and cool by nature. Bombs could not rattle him.
   But cancer did. In a scenario similar to that of the Yankees' Darryl
   Strawberry, Royal discovered he had colon cancer just in time to give
   himself a chance. In February, shortly after he was waived by the
   Heat and signed by the Hornets, he began to notice blood in his
   stool. It was sporadic, and Royal shrugged it off. By the end of the
   season, the sight of blood grew more frequent and abdominal pains
   started to bother him. But the playoffs were on and this was no time
   to get sick.

   "I thought if I just avoided it, it would go away," Royal said. "No
   man wants to go and get his colon checked out."

   After the season, he dropped into a family clinic one day in
   mid-June. In one surreal week, he learned he had an orange-sized
   tumor that was malignant. After surgery to remove the tumor on June
   24, doctors discovered cancer in one of the 17 lymph nodes taken from
   the area. His shock was quickly replaced by tears and horror.

   "I'm thinking, 'I got it too late; oh no, I got it too late,"' Royal
   said.

   But doctors assured him that he had hope. With chemotherapy, there
   was a good chance of survival. But nothing could have prepared him
   for the effects of chemotherapy. Not only are there physical ravages,
   but the weakening of the immune system leads to physical isolation.
   Going out can be unhealthy. Anyone with a sniffle is off limits.

   It has helped to have family around the house, like his wife Robin,
   his daughter Shauntel and his mother. When everything else makes him
   queasy, Royal can still find room for a hot helping of his mother's
   red beans and rice.

   Royal recently completed his last chemotherapy treatment. After six
   months, it is finally over. While he is optimistic about his future
   -- he would like to play two more years -- he will be monitored for
   the rest of his life.

   Years may pass before he truly knows if he has beaten cancer. But for
   now, Royal can take comfort in knowing that his taste buds and his
   sense of smell will return in the coming weeks. Soon, he will feel
   like his old self. The weight room awaits. Soon, the scent that
   rudely greeted him at the door of the cancer center will fade from
   his memory. And yet, he will never forget the people he sat with in
   the waiting room.

   "I've seen what chemotherapy does to people," Royal said. "In that
   room, there are all races and creeds, elderly and young. There are
   kids in there on a drip, which is an IV. They are in there for three
   hours. I was 15 minutes and out. The chemo I went through was minor
   in comparison. You see the desperation around you, and you know
   you're the lucky one."

   Edition: SRVT,  Section: D,  Page: 20

                         © 1998 Contra Costa Times