A tragic loss

On Dec. 17, G. Brant Walton — an anesthesiologist at Stanford — died of metastatic colorectal cancer. He was 34.

Brant was a close friend. I have written about him several times during the last year, sometimes referring to him by a pseudonym, but now that he has gone, I wanted to write about him one more time and devote one of my columns to his memory.

Brant was a true “Renaissance man.” He was an accomplished jazz drummer, an exceptional cook, a hilarious class clown, a caring father, a devoted husband, and to me, a dear friend and colleague. Brant left behind a beautiful family — his wife, Melissa, and his 3-year-old son, Will.

I have many memories of Brant. Losing Brant has felt, many times these last few weeks, like I’ve lost someone from my own family. Brant had a way of forging relationships with others that was unique.

In the wake of his death, many have come forward to share heartfelt remembrances about the personal and important roles that Brant played in their lives.

For me, Brant’s death has been transformative. I don’t think about my relationships with my family and friends in the same way anymore.

William Wood

I know that anything can happen at any time, and nothing can be taken for granted. It is easy, in medicine, to put personal relationships on a back burner while developing a professional career. I can’t afford to do this anymore.

I also feel differently about my work. Multidisciplinary tumor board conferences are now almost overwhelming to me due to the implications of the life-changing management decisions that we make around the table.

My visits with my patients are rich with substance and meaning. Any new research project I choose must be very meaningful, with achievable results that have the potential to affect usual clinical practice. Our cancer patients have no time to lose in waiting for the outcomes of our efforts.

Brant’s experience with cancer also speaks to me directly. When Brant was diagnosed, in January 2009, he set up a CaringBridge website. During the next year, he kept a journal on the site with updates and reflections that were both heart wrenching and humorous, until closer to the end when humor gave way to sadness around almost every turn.

Eventually, others would write for Brant when he was too sick to write for himself. The guestbook section of the site was used first for words of encouragement, and later for tributes, and finally goodbyes from friends and colleagues around the country and around the world — read to him by a friend as he lay dying in his last days, just a week before Christmas.

I learned so much about the cancer experience through Brant’s site — far more, even, than I’ve learned as an intern, resident or fellow.

Now, I am thinking about a research project in which, as oncologists, we might use sites such as these to learn about what our patients can’t possibly have the time or space to tell us in the clinic, about what it is to become a patient from a person, while desperately holding onto personhood through the very end.

If any of you are interested to learn more about this unique man, I can share Brant’s site with you (just send me an e-mail at wwood@unch.unc.edu).

Beyond this, I will be helping to put together and edit a book with stories and pictures about Brant’s life for his son Will, who will want to know one day what his father was like.

In the meantime, I will grieve as Brant’s friends and family continue to grieve — and moving forward, I know that my life and my work will never be the same.

William Wood, MD, is a third-year Hematology/Oncology Fellow at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill and is a HemOnc Today Editorial Board member.