As the days passed, the dread of having cancer—and the urgency to start treatment—sunk in. Two weeks after my diagnosis, I underwent a major operation at Mount Sinai: the doctors made a foot-long incision in my abdomen and removed a baseball-size tumour from my colon. I couldn’t believe that nobody had caught it until now. When the pathology from the tumour and surrounding tissues came back, it was determined that I had Stage 3 cancer and that it was also in my lymph nodes, which meant I would need to undergo chemotherapy. After a difficult recovery from surgery, I started going to the hospital every two weeks for four-hour sessions that completely drained me. Chemo kills cancer cells, but it also feels like it’s bringing your body to the brink of death in the process. I did 12 rounds in total, which took me away from work for a full year. 

The chemo worked, and I went into remission, but unbeknownst to me, I was still in the middle of the hardest period of my life. Two years later, in 2016, my mom’s stomach pains worsened, and a colonoscopy revealed that she also had colon cancer. Doctors caught it too late—Stage 4—and she passed away five months later. It was an incredibly tough time for me, but I had young children to focus on. They were my motivation to stay positive.

The years following my recovery and the loss of my mother brought change and personal growth: my marriage ended, I started running and going to the gym, and I began to feel a renewed appreciation for life. But, in 2018, just as I was getting used to sharing custody of my children and embracing my new lifestyle, my health took another downturn. I felt pain in my stomach again and hoped it was just an ulcer. It turned out to be Stage 2 cancer of the small bowel, and I needed another major surgery. I was devastated and filled with dread: I knew that I wouldn’t be able to cough, sneeze or laugh without pain after surgery. The idea of going back to the hospital and repeating the whole process was too much to bear.

I tried my best to stay optimistic—and to not look or act too sick in front of my kids—by telling myself, “Dig deep and push forward.” I had two weeks to prepare for my surgery, so I went shopping for a few items that would make the six-month recovery period more manageable. I bought slippers that were way more comfortable than the ones at the hospitals, a water bottle to replace the flimsy Styrofoam cups, an eye mask to help me sleep better and ear plugs to block out the hospital noise. After my previous surgery, I’d shared a room with a man who screamed in agony at night, and it had somewhat traumatized me. 

With my bag of supplies ready, I went to the hospital and underwent a successful nine-hour surgery. As I recuperated, friends and family visited with gifts in tow. Some brought flowers, which was a nice gesture, but I had nowhere to put them and they died within three days. One friend brought me a chocolate bar and a Pepsi—he meant well, but it seemed like a weird gift for someone recovering from bowel surgery. He told me he’d had no clue what to get. That’s when I realized: nobody knows what to buy for a sick person. 

I shared the idea with my friend Ken Fothergill, who is a creative director, and he loved it and wanted to get involved. At first, we bought a stack of the slippers I’d purchased for myself, but then we returned them all because they weren’t what we wanted. We wanted to create something customized, which meant diving into the world of research and manufacturing. Our goal was to create products designed specifically for recovery circumstances, inspired by my own experiences in hospitals: a blanket that can be used with an IV pole, a water bottle with lid options that allow you to drink while lying down, a zip-up pocket for personal items, as well as custom slippers, face masks, note pads, laundry bags, ear plugs and tote bags, all neatly packaged into kits.