He had to prepare himself for the fight of his life.
In sports, officials communicate their rulings a variety of different ways, both verbally and non-verbally. In many sports, they blow a whistle. In others, there are explanatory hand signals relayed to the fans and participating players and coaches. Safe! Out! Slashing! Holding! No goal! Three-pointer! Technical foul! Pass interference! Sometimes the crowds at the games are cheering or booing so loudly, the only way the fans know what the referee or umpire calls is via those signals.
As a former National Hockey League referee who worked 1,010 regular season games, I was more often booed than cheered when I made my calls. When I saw a penalty, I’d make a signal so the crowd knew what I’d just decided. Let the booing commence!
In February of 1998, I wasn’t paying attention to the signals that my body was sending me. I suffered from rectal bleeding, but I thought I had a hemorrhoid. I was constantly having diarrhea, which I thought was from the water and food as I traveled across North America. I had a slight temperature. I was constantly dehydrated. I was tired. I had persistent heartburn.
I always made excuses. I passed off all of these persistent signals my body was sending me as something else: the flu, stress, or something else bound to be temporary. In February 1998, the NHL was on Olympic break while the league’s top players were competing in the Winter Games in Nagano, Japan. My wife, Lori, was just a few weeks short of giving birth to our first child; a boy we were naming McCauley, in honor of the late, great NHL referee and referee-in-chief, John McCauley. I was dozing while Lori was watching the TODAY Show. Then a sharp elbow from her startled me.
Lori said, “Paul, watch this segment. It’s about colon cancer…. You have all the symptoms.” Watching intently, with growing alarm as the symptoms were discussed, I realized there was a high probability that she was right.
During the TODAY segment, it was mentioned that Katie Couric’s husband Jay Monahan had recently passed from colon cancer at the age of 42. Born in March 1953, I was nearing my 45th birthday. Lori said urgently, “You have to go to the doctor today. Call Dr. Kearney now.”
I called my friend, Dr. Gary Kearney, who told me to get right to his office. After a short talk, I was set up for a colonoscopy, blood work, and lots of tests and conversations with all sorts of specialists. I had just gained a team of medical experts whose skills and training would eventually save my life.
Fast-forward to Sunday, February 22nd, 1998. Lori was in labor which lasted well into the night. At 10:22 PM, a beautiful baby boy with copper red hair came into our lives. I took pictures and stayed late but eventually got home at 4 AM. I had to grab some sleep because I was seeing Dr. Kearney the next morning at 9 a.m.
Into the office I went, slightly tired but jubilant about the arrival of the son that I had waited for my entire life. I sat down across from Dr. Kearney as I shared with him the pictures of my new baby. The doctor sighed, took off his glasses and started to speak.
“Paul, it’s not good news,” he said. “I have to level with you. I’m not certain that you’re going to see that boy’s first Christmas.” I went numb. “Doc, that’s not a funny joke. We just had a baby. I can’t die — I have to be here for Lori and McCauley.” He responded by telling me to “go home and get your papers in order” — a terrifying statement. I asked to take a deep breath, and if I could come back later that day to see if we could form a plan to “fight” for my life.
I called my sister, Pat McDonald, who was a nurse. Then I then went to St. Joseph’s cemetery and bought the plot right next to my grandfather, Bill Stewart Sr., who also had been an NHL referee and was posthumously inducted into the United States Hockey Hall of Fame. I called my accountant, my lawyer, and my financial advisor to get their help in case I didn’t make it. I also went to a funeral home and made the arrangements I wanted.
That afternoon, I went back to see Dr. Kearney. We huddled together and started to form a plan that would include surgery, chemo, possible radiation, and even a prayer or two as we planned for the literal fight of my life.
It was not a pleasant spring or summer. When they operated, the Doctors found another tumor on my liver. The cancer had spread.
Eventually, I told the NHL that I was sick and might not be back. The commissioner, Gary Bettman, called me within minutes and promised me that the NHL would take care of my family if I didn’t make it.
Each day, I grew weaker physically but more stubborn mentally. Ultimately, my will to live happened to be stronger than that stage 4 colon cancer. But it wasn’t just me that won that fight. It was my family, my doctors and nurses, my friends in the NHL, and my friends across the globe who helped me in my battle.
After all of the surgeries, the six months of daily chemo, the rehab, and the general misery that I endured, I returned to my work in the NHL on November 13, 1998, even while still on chemo. My first game back was between the Pittsburgh Penguins and New Jersey Devils. The legendary player Jaromir Jagr hugged me when he saw me: It was such an emotional moment. I was never going to quit but to me, there was no other choice but to stay in the fight. Dying was a non-option.
Here I am, 24 years later, having recently celebrated my 69th birthday. I have two sons, now grown and making their own way in the world. In retrospect, I wouldn’t be here now if not for that early morning TODAY Show segment having signaled to Lori and me that I was sick.
I credit and thank daily the courage and selflessness that Katie Couric showed in her most tragic of moments in her life. And I thank my wife Lori for that sharp elbow to my side and the command to pay attention to the signals and get to my Doctor.
Katie has stayed in the fight all these years, now urging those that haven’t been screened with Cologuard. Her book, Going There, documents the challenges that she and her family bravely faced. Katie took her sadness and whipped it into a selfless fury to combat this deadly disease. So here’s some straight talk: If you have the symptoms, take them seriously and get to your physician, pronto. Your body is trying to communicate with you: Listen to it.
The will to fight is also crucial, because that will is severely tested throughout an ordeal like this. Maintaining a sense of humor is also a big help. Laughter really can be some of the best medicine. After my return to the ice, I was interviewed on ESPN. Broadcasters Steve Levy and Barry Melrose asked me how I was and what I was now thinking.
Being so fortunate and fully back into my life, I thanked Katie Couric, Jeff Zucker, and all of the folks from TODAY Show for making me aware of the signals. I concluded with this: “I’m past colon cancer. I am looking ahead to living my life, skating in the NHL and watching our son take his first strides on his skates. I am going to be tested yearly. Regarding the disease that almost took my life, well, I guess all my problems are behind me.” Steve and Barry laughed. “Only Paul Stewart would say something so funny and yet so relevant on national TV.”
My friends, become the referee in your own life. Make the right call by paying attention to your body’s signals.
A 2018 inductee into the U.S. Hockey Hall of Fame, Paul Stewart holds the distinction of being the first U.S.-born citizen to make it to the NHL as both a player and referee. On March 15, 2003, he became the first American-born referee to officiate in 1,000 NHL games.
