In April 2013, I stared out the small window of our mammoth airplane, eyeing the fuel truck on the tarmac as workmen pumped high-grade kerosene into the tanks under the wings. Soon our lives would be in the hands of these and other airline workers, many of who were milling about and checking the jet as I watched. Flying anywhere at forty thousand feet is a giant leap of faith.
So, too, was our expedition to the Vatican. We would be trying to understand the highly complex, evolving landscape of modern medicine. We were going to probe the promise of stem cell therapies. Meredith told me she was full of hope. I felt buoyed by the energy coming from her. I was no longer experiencing wild excitement, but rather a quiet confidence that I was on the verge of something good happening.
There was no question in my mind that I was losing my deadly duel with disease. Why not give in to the temptation to hope? We were about to be presented with new possibility. Scientists, working toward saving the sick with stem cells would take center stage. This colloquy would mean listening and learning from them, as well as sharing my own experiences. I knew I would benefit from their presentations. As much as I hated to admit it, I was in the market for a miracle. I was searching for the magic bullet that had eluded my doctors so far. Perhaps the Vatican would help me find it.
I still could not get used to the idea that I would be speaking at the Vatican. As we flew east, I felt a twinge of emotion. I thought of my Irish Catholic grandparents long gone. They would have been thrilled that I was giving a speech to a meeting at the seat of their religion.
I would be approaching the Vatican with a smile and a receptive mind. Every pore on my body was wide open, especially when it came to subjects of science and the upcoming symposium. We had been assured by Robin Smith that advances in combating disease would be the primary focus at the conference. I trusted Robin and believed her when she said that the Church’s commitment to medical research was strong.
Though I felt well prepared, it was not completely clear what was expected of me at the conference, and I was distracted by personal possibilities. I wanted to store my fantasies away but was having trouble actually doing that. Deep inside, something was still stirring. It was soft and subtle, but I could not get past the chance that something could change my life as a result of these meetings. This was my shot.
Meredith fell asleep shortly after takeoff and awakened somewhere over the Atlantic. I asked her if she thought I was desperate and confused. “Maybe,” was her only answer. Thank you for that, I softly said as she closed her eyes again. It was time for me to stop killing myself with questions. But I could not sleep. My obsession with finding help had a childlike quality, and I felt quietly self-conscious.
I decided to turn my attention to the prospect of seeing our children in Rome. In two days, all three, grown and launched in their own lives, would be converging on that magic city, Ben from China, where he was working in the nuclear power industry, and Gabe and Lily from Chicago. Rome would be an exciting venue for us to have a family reunion. It would also be their first time speaking publicly about the impact of their father’s MS on their own lives. They would be addressing a sold-out luncheon at the Vatican. I don’t believe I ever did that at their age.
The truth is, my kids have always been smarter and exponentially more sophisticated than I was at their young ages. They had launched and gone into their respective orbits. I have spent substantial time worrying about the health of all three and knew that would not end for many decades. Parents want to keep protecting kids, but that race has been run. I know these young people will find success. I desperately want sound health to be part of the package.
We made our way through the concourse of Leonardo da Vinci airport, grateful to be off the airplane and in Rome. We spotted the representatives from the Stem for Life Foundation who had come to pick us up. They herded us, along with a number of others who were part of the conference, into cars and vans that would take us to our hotels. Drivers on the congested roads leaned on horns and cut their cars and trucks across heavy traffic as we neared the center of the city. Exhaust fumes filled the air and our lungs. This was the Rome I remembered well.
From a distance we caught a glimpse of the Papal Palace, home to the Sistine Chapel, where God and man reach out to touch fingertips. Michelangelo painted the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in the early sixteenth century. To me, there is no greater symbol of Christianity.
The van delivered us to a classic old hotel on the Via Veneto. After checking in and unpacking, we met Robin and her fiancé, Matthew, for dinner. The plan was to talk through my presentation one last time, but the wine got in the way. Maybe that was just as well. I was unnerved whenever I thought too much about my role in the conference.
The next day Meredith and I would have some precious time to relax until evening, when we would be attending a small private dinner at the Vatican. There we would break bread with a select group of conference participants, though we weren’t sure who. Until then, our time was our own.
Rome has special significance for Meredith and me. We had spent time there after we were married and roamed the streets for days. My hope was to relive those wonderful times. We intended to walk the ancient city, visiting the Spanish Steps and the Villa Borghese, which held great memories.
As we left the hotel the next morning, my feet had barely touched the ground when my bubble burst. I was unable to negotiate the cobblestone streets or walk more than a block or two. What could I have been thinking? I was stunned by my pipe dream. My idea of dancing through the city with Meredith had been my private movie, and it was already over. My denial was as out of control as my health.
After we returned from Rome, my sister saw a photo of me standing in front of the Colosseum. “What do you know,” she wrote in an email, “a wreck in front of a ruin.” The quip pretty much captured my own view of myself. I saw a train wreck in the mirror every morning. “Other people don’t see you that way,” Meredith regularly reminded me. “You used to worry yourself to death about how the kids saw you,” she would say. “You could not get used to the fact that they would roll the ball back to you after your throw to them. They understood you couldn’t see.”
Meredith paused. “Listen, Jack, do you really think they thought less of you because of that?” I had no answer. I did not know Jack, but Meredith certainly sounded contemptuous when she spoke his name. Meredith was right. I knew how hard I could be on myself, as if I were at fault for being sick. I could not break that pattern.
Returning to the hotel after my failed attempt at a walk, I saw the lobby was bulging with serious-sounding individuals, many of who seemed to know one another. They were talking in small groups. I felt out of my element, surrounded by world-class scientists and physicians. But I knew I had something that fascinated them—my life story.
That story was compelling. I was a body in motion now, a man on a mission. I was tired of playing victim. I was determined to be part of a solution. And I was a body out of control, in need of help. What was at stake for me in the race to find effective stem cell therapies would be evident to anyone who saw me struggle and strain to walk. I would be the leadoff hitter at the conference—a very unsteady one, but I was suited up and ready.
Our kids were due into Rome soon. These young people were forced to grow up fast, never knowing if there was a target on their backs. At this event, they might be expected to put fear for their futures on display. We did not know how comfortable they would be, talking about a matter as personal as illness in the family. That they would be doing this at the Vatican had to be daunting. They, too, were bringing a sense of mission with them.
Our kids are old beyond their years. They have seen a lot. They have watched me fall and struggle to my feet numerous times. Each had read my books and watched Meredith and me on television, talking about coping with serious sickness. What goes on in the heads of those kids may forever remain a mystery. Personal fears are kept private. How much they would reveal in an intimidating public place I had no idea.
I did know that when I discussed the conference with them over the phone, they seemed ready, with no apparent qualms. We would be seeing them soon. But first there was that dinner at the Vatican to attend. At the appointed time, Meredith and I went down to the lobby, where we were to meet our fellow guests and be directed to one of the cars that would transport us to the Holy See.
The Vatican is a mysterious city within a city. As we approached the fortress, we could see the Swiss Guards silently standing on the cobbled street at the gate. Their berets were perched jauntily on their heads, the billowy pants of their distinctive striped uniforms puffing slightly in the breeze. The guards seemed frozen in time.
Though these Swiss Catholics once bore swords—at one time, even priests were armed—they now patrol unarmed. The men waved our modest motorcade through the gates, and almost at once we found ourselves deeper into the immaculately manicured Vatican grounds than most tourists are allowed to venture.
The animated conversation that had filled the car gradually tapered and turned into silence. As we drove slowly along the ancient roads that wound through the Vatican grounds, looking out on the wide, perfectly manicured lawns, everyone seemed subdued. We retreated into ourselves. It was hard not to be awestruck by what we were seeing, as we seemed to travel back in time.
Our cars came to a stop at the ancient structure in the heart of the Vatican Gardens where the Pontifical Academy of Sciences is located. The origins of the academy date back to Rome in 1603. The building where it is headquartered, the Casina Pio IV, is even older, having been completed in 1561 as a summer residence for Pope Pius IV.
Waiting outside to greet us was a group of Vatican officials, including Cardinal Gianfranco Ravasi, who was easy to spot from a distance, his bright red skullcap and cummerbund a welcoming beacon. Cardinal Ravasi serves in the Roman Curia, the pope’s inner circle, and is president of the Pontifical Council for Culture, which was hosting the conference.
Another of the priests who had come to receive us was a young Polish monsignor, Tomasz Trafny, who told us in clear English to call him Tommy. Tommy moved with ease among both his older colleagues and the guests. Everyone in the welcoming party was well prepared. Each priest and Vatican official who approached us knew our names and enough about us to make sense of our roles at the conference. When Tommy got to me, he introduced the subject of multiple sclerosis and mentioned my books, with which he seemed to be familiar.
The dinner had a surprisingly easygoing air of informality and candor. Tommy told us about once being engaged to be married at home in Poland. Even as wedding presents were arriving, Tommy said, he could hear the calling to the priesthood. Tommy would don the white collar, and his fiancé, a nun’s habit.
Tommy was a player. He was director of the Vatican’s newly formed Science and Faith Foundation. He had given an interview to CNN on the occasion of the stem cell conference in which he acknowledged, “There was a time when theologians thought they understood everything, but we learned the lesson from history. If you look at what is going on today, you will see that theologians are very careful about what they are thinking or speaking about related to scientific issues.”
Tommy impressed everyone with the seriousness of his commitment to scientific inquiry. He patiently explained that researchers from around the world were routinely invited to meetings at the Vatican to present their work without regard to religion or nationality. I did not know that. Even my mother would have approved.
There seemed to be no agenda for the evening, other than to put us at ease and allow us to get to know one another. Our disparate group included several scientists and researchers, as well as a prominent columnist, a billionaire philanthropist, and a physician entrepreneur. Many—if not most—of us were not Catholic. All approached the issues at hand from different angles and with varied expectations. Clearly, the conference would have nothing to do with religion.
Given the Vatican’s long, dark history of persecuting scientists whose findings were deemed heretical, I had associated the place with hard-edged orthodoxy. But if the Vatican seemed an unlikely venue to pursue questions of science, it was also true that, just as Robin had told us, the institution now seemed determined to value pure science.
Pope Francis was new on the job. We did not know if we would meet him. Francis had received a degree as a chemical technician before entering the priesthood. Years later he would endorse climate change science. This was a new era in the Catholic Church. The Church still opposed using embryonic stem cells for medical research, but once scientists decided adult stem cells could be more effective in disease treatment, the Church bought in. There was a new truce between the Church and secular science.
Physicians and researchers are increasingly using autologous stem cells in their work. Autologous cells are a patient’s own. Because they come from the patient’s body, these cells minimize both the risk of complications and rejection. So they serve science as well as patients. The Vatican was eager to move beyond old controversies and wasted no time setting up scientific meetings on this revolutionary advance. Such gatherings might put the past to rest and speed up the future.
For my own reasons I was ready and eager to play ball. On the opening day of the conference, I got to know a few more of the players on the new scorecard. As attendees from around the world milled about and talked in small groups before the proceedings began, I spoke with my old acquaintance and fellow panelist Dr. Saud Sadiq.
I had eavesdropped as Dr. Sadiq stood in a hall and described his work to others. I don’t speak science and could not parse too much of what he was saying. Dr. Sadiq’s research was in an early phase of inquiry. That much was clear. I learned that he was intimately involved with some kind of cell research, although I did not know if he was actually treating patients.
As we chatted, we were standing directly in front of the tiered amphitheater where scientists would soon be presenting their work. Although priceless religious art, paintings, tapestries, and sculpture seemed to fill every square inch of the hallways and rooms of all the other buildings in the Vatican, the large space that housed the amphitheater was austere. The surroundings bore no trace of any religion and were empty of the lavish art and artifacts I associated with the sprawling grounds. The space felt cold, even sterile.
I figured that by offering a deeply personal account of living with a serious autoimmune condition, I was supposed to provide some much-needed warmth. I planned to humanize illness before the scientists got around to the impersonal discussion of how to treat the bodies in the beds.
I had prepared, but I hadn’t actually written anything for my presentation. That was unbridled chutzpah, perhaps, but my failing vision would not allow me to read a speech anyway, even if I rested my forehead on the page. And describing the patient experience of dealing with MS would not present much of a challenge for me. I lived it every day. I had coexisted with the crippling condition for more than four decades.
In giving talks, I have learned to think through what I want to say and then wing it. I want to speak from the heart. It’s a high-wire act with no net, but audiences appreciate the eye contact. To connect can be to communicate.
As the time for the session came, people took their seats in the amphitheater and talk subsided to whispers, then ceased. I had approached the day with surprising calm. When I noted the utter silence in the large space, however, I was jolted by a measure of self-doubt. I took a breath and forged ahead. People were there to listen and learn. I believed I had something to say worth hearing.
Meredith and I were seated facing the audience. Archbishop Ravasi sat behind us, Tommy next to him. The cardinal was up first, speaking in Italian and reading from a script to welcome the attendees. Robin spoke next, introducing Meredith, who would be acting as the host for the day’s business.
Robin cited Meredith’s credentials as a journalist and her work as an advocate for those living with MS. “Then there’s Meredith’s passion to help anyone suffering from chronic disease,” Robin said, “especially those living with multiple sclerosis. Meredith has been a tireless advocate for the disease, and cell therapies do hold the promise of a cure.”
The promise of a cure? That is swinging for the fences, I thought. Waiting for a cure would be like holding out for a miracle. All I could bring myself to hope for was some relief from my symptoms. The idea of putting down the cane or seeing more clearly seemed unrealistic. Robin was thinking big.
Meredith began, “I’m not just a journalist here looking for answers. More importantly, I’m a wife looking for hope. My husband, Richard Cohen, was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis when he was twenty-five.” Meredith’s voice cracked with emotion. “I met him a few years later. Despite the fact that Richard was kind of a jerk, I fell in love with him.” Meredith had a wonderful sense of the moment and knew how to calm herself. “We got married and had three wonderful kids, and I soon discovered that chronic illness is truly a family affair.” Meredith was in control, subtly setting up the theme of the family luncheon that would follow the session.
She introduced me to the still-silent audience. “He covered wars in Central America and the Middle East,” she said, teeing up my talk with drama, “even though he is legally blind, which didn’t make it easy to dodge bullets.” She concluded her remarks, and I got up to speak. By now the silence seemed deafening. I wondered if the audience could hear me think. Cardinal Ravasi in his opening comments had mentioned words that he thought were important in the pursuit of cures. Culture and faith and even love were among them. In my talk, I referred to his remarks, suggesting there was an additional word missing: hope.
“This morning I want to emphasize the importance of hope. Hope is elusive. Hope is difficult to grasp, more difficult even to hold close. Hope is very hard to sustain.” No one knows this better than I do. “When I was diagnosed, forty years ago, there was no hope,” I continued. “My neurologist told me I had MS. He said, ‘I’m sorry’ and never talked about another appointment. He never discussed a strategy, a plan, because there was none. There were no therapies. Times have changed,” I said, leaving out the nagging thought that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
I went on to describe the psychological beating patients take. “It is hard to get up every day and look in the mirror. We are not the people we used to be, in terms of what we do and who we are. The assault is not just on our bodies; it’s on our spirit, on how we see ourselves, our self-esteem, our self-confidence, our willingness to go out and try to have a future.” My building emotion took me by surprise. I usually keep my feelings in check, especially in public.
I recounted my recent decision to quit the regular trips to the neurologist. I felt I had been relying on therapies that did little or nothing for me. This was Band-Aid medicine, applied to a wound that was festering. I looked into the amphitheater and saw heads nodding. Presentations were simultaneously translated into six languages. Some in the audience had headphones on. I wondered if they were listening to music.
I ended the talk by speaking of my optimism about the potential for stem cell therapies. “I look at MS and the work being done with adult stem cell therapy and it is extraordinary. I believe that in the future, patients like me will all be seeking these therapies.” That sounded lofty, but I was only pleading for help.
The enthusiastic response was gratifying. The applause felt good, and afterward a number of people approached me, eager to share their own personal stories. This was unusual because scientific gatherings do not usually generate emotion. All I wanted, really, was the confidence and credibility to walk up to any of the scientists in the large room and ask, “What can you do for me?”
It was clear from the buzz that cell therapy was currently under way around the world. This was not some future plan. If I could connect with the right persons, there would be a lot to discuss. A lot was happening in other countries, which meant procedures would not be regulated the same way as they were in the United States. I was ready to travel anywhere in the world, on foot if necessary. I did wonder about the safety of procedures done overseas though.
Dr. Sadiq spoke next. The man got right to the point, as if reading my mind. He described where he saw science and medicine at that time. In his talk he made it clear that he was already hard at work treating patients with some form of cell therapy. I would later learn he was experimenting with different kinds of cells from adults.
Sadiq also was very human, expressing feelings that I had not observed in many of the doctors I had seen over the years. “You’ve just heard from Richard how patients can start to lose hope,” the doctor said. “And as physicians, I might add, we also find moments of darkness, moments when we tend to lose hope as we see patients like Richard.”
I was seated at an angle where eye contact was impossible. I wondered if Sadiq could feel me reaching out to him. I felt sheepishly like a New Age supplicant trying out a form of psychic communication. I sensed a connection. My epiphany was almost jarring when I realized I had to make a meeting with Sadiq happen back in New York.
“We often turn to our faith and to the work of our fellow scientists to find inspiration,” Dr. Sadiq continued. “But our greatest hope and our greatest inspiration usually comes from our patients. I dedicate this talk to all my patients who suffer with multiple sclerosis, for the inspiration and hope that they have given me.”
I was accustomed to the arrogance of many physicians. This man seemed to be different. Dr. Sadiq’s humility and empathy stood out. Dr. Sadiq and Dr. Burt had been seen arguing loudly in the corridor before the session that morning. I heard about it later and had no idea what the disagreement was. Sadiq did not seem like the shouting type. His manner seemed gentle. Although there was controversy about Sadiq’s work among his fellow neurologists, he was fiercely loved by his patients. His devotion to them was legendary.
A dark-skinned Muslim in a white world, Sadiq wore his credentials as an outsider proudly. The man was a maverick who bucked the establishment. He was my kind of guy.
When the morning session ended, I realized that the Vatican had been transformed into a medical marketplace. Business was getting done in hallways, as scientists traded information about research and clinical trials. Hello, I silently yelled. Let me in. No one was selling, but I was eager to buy.
A palpable energy filled this place. I could not shake off that twinge of hope. I realized that, at the very least, I wanted to hope. That desire was fed by our kids’ presence in Rome. If any of them were to develop MS, I wanted an effective therapy in place and available, even if it was too late for me.
Meredith and I were about to join the star attractions, Ben, Gab, and Lily, at the luncheon. The event was sponsored by Opexa Therapeutics, a Texas pharmaceutical company that was in the middle of a clinical trial, testing B cell therapy. This unproved treatment targets specific immune cells that may be partially responsible for MS misery. We were friendly with Neil Warma, the Opexa CEO who would be moderating the discussion. Still, we were apprehensive, watching our kids go public about what had been mostly unspoken as they grew up. The conversation would be carried on closed-circuit television throughout the Vatican for the other conferees as they ate their lunches. B cell therapy is freaking complicated and not part of our story. Neil is.
The first questioner asked how much MS dominates our lives. Meredith told the audience there is more to us than multiple sclerosis. “On a good day, it’s not a topic of conversation. It really isn’t. You just sort of live your life. On a bad day, it’s that elephant that’s always in the room.” All three kids nodded.
Gabe jumped in, agreeing. “It really becomes part of who we are, part of our family. It’s something we just live with.” Lily followed suit: “Overall, it’s something that’s there, and it’s not above everything else.” There was a moment of silence. The three of them seemed relaxed and ready to share.
Lily then offered a thought about the importance of perspective. “You both raised us very much in a great way, with this sort of attitude that you shouldn’t sweat the small things and you shouldn’t let the stupid things upset you.” She paused. “And you shouldn’t let yourself be held back by illness or by any other issue like that.”
Ben talked about his feelings on the possibility of being hit by MS, and he struck a defiant tone as he seconded Lily’s admonition not to allow it to hold him back. “I think that humor is a very important thing,” he said. “Damned if [the fear of] MS is going to stop me from what doing what I want to do. That was certainly true of my grandfather, and it is certainly true of my dad.”
I admired the defiance. Once again, I knew I would do anything I could to spare my children the pain of eroding health, but these young people seemed disinclined to roll over and play dead.
Ben pushed away the idea that we are different from other families. “We’re normal. There’s no other way to say this. We’re normal. Every family has stuff they deal with.” I was proud of him. I wish my Old Man had been there.
I was moved as they spoke about how MS had sculpted their worlds and how they had learned to reach beyond the illness. I was taken by their strength, which struck me as a solid foundation for hope. Meredith and I had not used the word hope with our children when they were young, though we did urge them to be upbeat and optimistic and certainly tried to teach them by example.
After the luncheon, the kids reverted to their young selves. They seemed not at all flustered by their performance on Vatican television. The Cohen condition was built into their lives. They had more pressing concerns, such as how they could locate some wine and where we were going for dinner. I kept quiet about how impressed I was. It did occur to me that maybe we had done something right raising them.
That night, the conference participants were offered a tour of the treasures of the Vatican. The Vatican is a maze of endless corridors that culminate in the Sistine Chapel. The walk to the Chapel, a long trek through a rich history documented by some of the world’s greatest artists and craftsmen, was exhausting. I had declined the offer of a wheelchair, but changed my mind long before the evening ended. That was just another concession to the beast inside me.
In the days that followed, I met scientists involved in the earliest stem cell therapies for a wide range of diseases, including cancers and diabetes and neurodegenerative conditions such as Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s. MS joins the roster of cruel conditions scientists hope to treat with stem cells. For those of us with secondary progressive MS, life can be particularly frustrating because there have never been any conventional treatments for our form of the disease. People with SPMS are orphans in MS world.
Doctors focus on the illnesses scientists believe offer the best chance of finding treatments or cures. They go for the low-hanging fruit. I had figured my type of MS was something they would tackle only after they’d had more success with other forms of the disease. That is not what I was hearing at the Vatican.
It was not just research that dominated conversation. Real people in many places were being treated at that moment. Procedures were being developed and dispensed now. Scientists were speaking in the present tense. So were many of the business interests that owned the well-funded companies that were finding applications for the research. The possibilities offered in this brave new world of science were stunning.
At the Vatican, I reconnected with an old colleague and friend who had also become interested in the potential of stem cell therapy. Allen Pizzey, with whom I had worked at CBS News, stopped in for a visit. Pizzey lived in Rome and was the network’s point man at the Vatican, when he was not covering wars in every hellhole on earth. He had lived in Rome since 1989. Our paths had crossed in various parts of the world.
Allen and I took a short walk on the Vatican grounds. I noticed he was staring down toward his feet, a survival strategy I had adopted long ago. Allen told me in even tones that he had been diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa and was slowly losing his vision. Allen had been in combat zones for decades. Now he was fighting to save his eyesight. He was looking into the possibility of joining a stem cell clinical trial in California. “I believe stem cells might be the answer,” he later wrote in an email. “Without that hope you might as well slit your wrists.”
I admired Pizzey. I noted the same calm during our conversation he had demonstrated under fire in our work. There was no hint of drama in his narrative. His commitment to covering the world seemed to outstrip his concern for covering his own ass. I wondered if this was denial or a dedication to journalism.
As the conference drew to a close, it was nearing time to reenter my world. I needed to think realistically about all the blue-sky therapies in my head. I thought of friends and colleagues I had lost to diseases—my old boss on the Cronkite broadcast, dead of melanoma; the newswriter for Cronkite and Rather who had recently died of gastric cancer; Ed Bradley of 60 Minutes, taken from us by leukemia. I wondered if any of them might have been saved by one of these revolutionary treatments.
And there were the five good people profiled in my second book, Strong at the Broken Places. One young man was taken by muscular dystrophy. Could the others be helped? As Kurt Vonnegut wrote of Billy Pilgrim in Slaughterhouse-Five, I was “unstuck in time,” reaching deep into the past, even as I projected into the future. I thought about these friends and colleagues on occasion, wishing I could buy them a drink.
After the final session, I asked Robin what she thought about the conference. “I thought it was a success,” she said without hesitation. “I think we did a great job of exploring what is on the horizon.” Then she paused. “There are more than thirty thousand trials right now. I think we are learning much more about what happens naturally in our bodies and how we can enhance it to fight whatever is happening to us.”
Then do you think there is reason to hold on to hope because of this work? I asked. “A hundred percent,” Robin responded. “I think we have to hold on to hope. And when we see a trial that does not work, we have to keep hoping, because we are closer than we have ever been before to something that will work.”
As we left the session to return to our hotel and pack, I caught sight of Dr. Sadiq. He and his wife were in a crowd of conference-goers who were saying their goodbyes and posing for photos. The doctor and I made eye contact and worked our way over to each other. I was happy for one more chance.
We shook hands warmly and introduced our wives. I told Sadiq that I had learned a lot and was very interested in knowing more about what he was doing with stem cells. He paused for a moment and smiled. I was struck by an unfamiliar intensity in his face. The word mystical came to mind.
“When we get back to New York,” he said, “come see me.”