Dear Friends and Family,
I’m frequently asked, “Why are you working?”
The answer is simple.
My days at the office continue to be a source of great personal satisfaction and, on some level, an escape for me. My partners, along with the rest of our amazing staff, sincerely care about Nancy. Many of them have known her for more than a decade. They also deeply care about me. Each and every day, they gently offer encouragement and support. They have learned not to ask me too much because they have learned that I write more easily about Nancy’s and my situation than talk about it. They treat me normally except for the fact that they have assured me that it is all right if I have to leave suddenly or not come in to the office at all.
But then, there are my patients.
In a small town, word spreads quickly and pervasively. An incredible number of my patients now seem more intent on showering me with love than on having their medical complaints examined. Each day they bring me food. Each day they bring me presents. And almost every day they tell me their stories about loved ones who have also had a serious disease and survived.
When I take a moment to reflect on all those around me, I realize that every good thing I have ever done in my life has come back to me tenfold. The decent and noble side of humanity humbles me. As a doctor, it makes it all the more meaningful to me now when I can help others. The only trouble I have every now and then is when a patient inquires about Nancy. It is not uncommon for my bottled up emotions to spill out uncontrollably. Often it is one of my patients who is handing me the box of Kleenex or putting a hand on my shoulder rather than the other way around.
I don’t mean to say that some days are not challenging.
Sometimes the rollaway cot in our hospital room doesn’t provide me with the best night’s sleep and I am physically tired when I get to the clinic office. Similarly, I feel the same way on those days when I have to take my shower at the clinic because the one at the hospital is being cleaned or fixed at the time I would normally use it. And then there are those days when I arrive at work only to discover that I have forgotten to bring clean socks or a suitably matching shirt. In reality, living at the hospital half time is not the best match with my job. But all things being equal, my greatest difficulty is when my mind and heart are still at the hospital even though my body is at the office.
Today was a day when I really wasn’t at the clinic.
Why?
I never truly know. Sometimes I think perhaps it’s because I’m at the end of a difficult period. As an example, today was my fourth consecutive day working. I found that I was instinctively calling the hospital every few hours.
“Things are fine, Daddy. Mommer is sleeping. She feels at least as good as yesterday, probably a little better. The doctors even advanced her diet. She’s now allowed to drink up to 500 cc, and she can finally have something besides plain water. She just had her first sip of 7-Up. She smiled and said it was like sipping champagne.”
After work, during my late-afternoon ride to the valley, I didn’t ring Jayna, as is my habit. I felt like I had pestered her enough with my calling almost hourly. Instead I called Nancy’s brother, sister, mother, my sister, and two of Nancy’s best friends. (I have retrofitted our Subaru with a Bluetooth speaker so I can keep both of my hands on the wheel.) My daily drive to the hospital, thirty-five minutes from my Park City office or an hour from Woodland, is the best time to keep in touch. Everyone appreciates the news—especially today.
“I’m on my way to the hospital from work for an overnight with my bride,” I tell them. “Jayna’s been there all day. She says Nancy’s a little better. Nancy’s had three days in a row of good progress. Her new immune system is beginning to work.”
When I stroll through the door, I announce my normal greeting, “Hello, my sweet girls. How’s everyone doing?” I gesture and immediately wave a sign of my love to Nancy before turning to Jayna, who is sitting on the bed by the window. Instantly, I am frozen in my tracks. Jayna is hunched forward and she is sobbing uncontrollably.
The next ten seconds last an hour. Blood rushes to my face and moisture slickens my hands. My head starts to pound and my legs struggle to keep me upright. I begin to get angry. It can’t be. It can’t be.
How could Nancy’s leukemia return?
A single tear is balanced on Nancy’s cheek as I race to Nancy’s bed and grab her exposed hand, but there is no horror on her face, unlike mine. Nancy is mouthing a word. I bring my ear closer in an effort to enable her to whisper a single word: “Alain.”
After I delicately place a quick kiss on Nancy’s beautiful bald head, I move to the other side of the room. Alain is Jayna’s Peruvian boyfriend. I attempt to comfort her by stroking her thick hair and by holding Jayna’s trembling body close to me. In a matter of moments, I can feel dampness from her tears on my shirt.
“His visa was denied, Dad. What are we going to do?”
As you may remember from earlier letters, Jayna was in Peru when Nancy was diagnosed with leukemia. Jayna had just completed her junior year abroad from Vassar, the college in New York that also sponsored her “year abroad” program. When I called, Jayna responded immediately by returning home the very next day. She’s been at her mother’s side ever since.
Most of you know that Deer Valley Resort is one of the three local ski areas on the east side of the Wasatch Mountains. My very good friends at the resort had kindly arranged a winter job for Alain. So today, with a work offer in hand, he was getting ready to leave his family for six months in Utah. We later discovered he had traveled 350 miles by bus from his home in Cusco, Peru, to the American consulate in Lima, but the US bureaucrat in charge of his final paperwork wouldn’t authorize his entry into the country.
I must admit, even though Jayna was hurting as I held her and stroked her hair, I was momentarily buoyed and completely thrilled. Then, just as quick, I became a basket case of conflicting emotions. Initially, all I could think of were the two words that every cancer patient most fears—“It’s back.”
At the outset, all I saw in Jayna’s puckered brow and disconsolate sobbing was a brush with disaster.
Why?
How could I feel relief that Alain is sitting in Lima?
In the end, I realized today that Nancy is my everything, but so are Jayna, Jaret, and everyone else in our extended family. Ultimately, we formulated an alternate plan. I called my friends at Deer Valley Resort and they jumped into action. They made several phone calls to their Peruvian contacts and Alain is now scheduled for a second interview and chance—which is all any of us can ask.
At long last, Nancy is lying in bed with a new immune system and no sign of recurrence. Three weeks have passed since her transplant. She’s had no serious infections. And most importantly, the two words everyone in our family fears, “It’s back,” have not been spoken.
I can make you this promise: we’ll be ready for whatever next week brings.
Summary: When Jayna’s Peruvian boyfriend was denied passage to this country today, I was reminded that Nancy’s disease also has had major effects on the other members of our family. I will redouble my efforts to support Jayna and Jaret.
My very best,
Winnie