Dear Friends and Family,
Dr. Peterson paid an unexpected visit to our LDS Hospital “home” last week while Nancy was in the midst of her latest round of chemotherapy: “I’ve talked to six respected oncologists around the country, none of them transplant surgeons. They’re evenly split 50/50 on which way to go.”
(I am sure that I don’t have to remind you that our first visit with Dr. Peterson had been a disaster. After he informed us that Nancy’s chance of survival without a bone marrow transplant was 10–15%, it had been all but impossible for me to listen to another word. I had been too stunned to ask a single question. Now after researching transplants and talking to lots of outside sources, I was prepared.)
“Then you have a different view of our situation from when we talked last?”
I’d waited nearly five weeks to hear his answer.
“Yes, Dr. Winn, I do. I’ve had a chance to study Nancy’s case in greater depth, and I have consulted with others in the field. Quite simply, there’s no clear-cut recommendation for you and your wife. When we talked before, I gave you a number based on Nancy’s age and disease. But as you know, Nancy’s been atypical. Her response to initial chemotherapy has been more rapid and better than expected, so her chances are probably better than I previously thought. Unfortunately, there aren’t enough cases like hers to give you more exact statistics.”
Though not a specific number, I was pleased to hear that his perception of Nancy’s chances was better than the last time we talked. Nancy and I weren’t shy with our questions.
“What is the cure rate at your facility for someone Nancy’s age?”
“Which drugs do you use?”
“Will she require radiation?”
“What qualifications does someone need to work on your floor?”
“Can family members stay the whole time?”
The queries we posed Dr. Peterson went on and on. We inquired about staffing levels, projected time frames, and our most pressing question—which type of transplant Nancy might have if we proceeded with surgery.
“Do you recommend a full or mini-transplant?”
Dr. Peterson answered each question patiently and was not afraid to say, as he often did, “I don’t know.” He came across as both caring and thoughtful. He appeared both knowledgeable and competent. He good-naturedly answered questions for more than an hour. I was excited and satisfied about gaining so much knowledge. After shaking Dr. Peterson’s hand and thanking him for coming, I turned to Nancy. It was only then that I noticed wrinkles of distress stretched across her brow.
“What’s the matter, Nancy?”
“Oh, nothing much. Really.” (Southern speak, even to me.)
“That’s not what your face says.”
Nancy reached out her hand for me to hold. “I thought I knew what I needed to do, Winnie. I was prepared for a transplant, even though it sounds horrible. Now I don’t know.”
How could I have been so stupid?
Nancy needed a narrow focus, a clear direction. I’d asked too many questions, and many of Dr. Peterson’s answers, though honest, highlighted that we were in uncharted waters. We were in an unknown sea with waves crashing all around us. I had made a big and unforgivable mistake. I’d allowed Nancy to see the uncertainty of her treatment.
“I am so sorry, Nancy.” I wanted to cry, scream, to somehow rewind the meeting. I wanted to start the meeting over, in the hall—without Nancy. I’d decided on my own that a transplant was a viable option and that Salt Lake City had a respectable program with a good leader. I knew inherently that Nancy, like me, was impressed with Dr. Peterson.
I simply didn’t know what to say.
“Nancy, think of it this way. We have two good options, not just one. If they don’t find a match for you, we still have a reasonable chance . . .”
I’d run out of words. I’d messed up. Nancy now looked more concerned—not less. I hugged her upper body that was limp in my arms. Minutes passed.
“Winnie, it’s time for you to go. Jayna will be here any minute and I don’t want you to be late for your ride.”
Already, Nancy had shifted gears. She was worried that I might miss my daily mountain bike ride with Chuck English in Park City.
“But . . .”
“No buts. Get going. I need some alone time.”
So did I.
My mobile phone rang just as I was leaving the Salt Lake City valley, starting the climb toward Parley’s Summit. I couldn’t help but notice that the mountain pass was already covered by scrub oak displaying multiple shades of red—a harbinger of fall. A familiar caller ID appeared as I answered, “Hey, sweetheart. What’s happening? Are you all right? Do you forgive me?”
“Winnie, I love you more than I can say. And I want you to know that I’m fine. I’ve recovered. We have two good options. I accept that. I’m sure one of our two options will make itself clear to us. And I’ll be ready.”
Thirty minutes later, I arrived in Park City. My spirits had risen more quickly than the mountain road that connected my hospital “home” with my real “home.” The newly colored leaves were even more vibrant at the higher elevation and their beauty mesmerized me. My phone rang again. The same caller ID appeared on the screen.
“Guess what I just did, Winnie? I rode the exercise bike for half an hour.”
Nancy’s report magnified her previous words. She was communicating in a different way—I’ll be ready. Once again, worrying about me. Once again, giving reassurance.
Nancy is more beautiful than the leaves of fall.
Summary: We talked with the transplant surgeon. We really liked him and what he had to say. Our decision is not yet clear-cut. Neither of our two options—continue chemotherapy or undergo a bone marrow transplant—is, in Nancy’s case, clearly better. Thanks for your ongoing and continued encouragement. It will give us the needed strength to move forward together.
Love,
Winnie