A winter journey

Issue: February 25, 2010

It is winter now in Chapel Hill, N.C. On Friday night, six inches of snow fell, an unusual occurrence for this area. I spent much of the weekend indoors, staying warm, and reflecting. On Sunday, I attended my friend Brant’s memorial service. Brant recently passed away from metastatic colorectal cancer at the age of 34. The roads were clear enough for my Corolla to slip and slide only occasionally as I drove to Raleigh to remember his life.

During winter, the quiet cold and stillness outside causes me to think about journeys — the snow and freezing temperatures as challenges for a traveler, and the season’s silence inviting introspection. Brant’s journey on earth has ended, but others’ journeys are continuing.

Some of these journeys are difficult but not perilous, such as interviewing for jobs and deciding about next career steps. Other journeys, though, are similar to Brant’s. A friend of mine, who also attended Brant’s service, has a sister, not much older than Brant, who was recently diagnosed with colorectal cancer as well. I am sure that the uninvited parallels were cruel.

Yet another friend has recently continued on his own journey, both figurative and literal. In recent conversation, he gave me permission to share his story with you.

William Wood, MD
William Wood

Mark has worked in the field of stem cell transplant for many years; his wife has too. Together, they have crisscrossed the country over the past decades, but to our benefit have lived and worked locally for the last number of years. “Dr. Mark,” as his patients affectionately call him, loves his work and his patients. He guides them through some of the most difficult early- and late-post-transplant periods, expertly and adeptly managing their complicated physical and emotional peaks and valleys.

In another one of life’s cruel and unavoidable ironies, Mark’s wife developed a problem and needed a transplant. Almost unbelievably, Mark took it in stride — or, at least, it seemed so — and simply did twice as much as usual while she was hospitalized and sick. In the mornings, he was by her side, as a supportive spouse during daily rounds. Later in the day, he was managing a busy schedule filled with complex patients needing his help. When the day was done, he returned to his wife’s room and transitioned to the role of supportive spouse once again. Mark’s dedication to his wife and to the field he loves is without parallel.

Things went pretty well for the last few years. Mark’s wife remained in remission, and despite the usual ups and downs, she was content, spending time with her horses and with Mark in their beautiful rural home. Mark continued to work harder than ever. With time, though, her disease reasserted itself. Her options limited and her fighting spirit as intact as ever, she and Mark elected to try another transplant, as risky as it might be. This time, it would be part of a homecoming, scheduled in a city on the West Coast where Mark’s career started and where family still lived.

On a recent Monday, Mark and his wife loaded their car and headed west. I received an e-mail from Mark the other day. Winter snow had fallen hard and fast in Albuquerque, N.M., and the journey was delayed. A last-minute plane ticket sent Mark’s wife on her way to her destination. Later, with the roads a little clearer, Mark continued on, now alone.

I think of Mark as he traveled on his journey alone that cold wintry morning in New Mexico. I don’t know what is in store for Mark and his wife, and neither do they. Despite the obstacles and the odds, there is always hope, and we pray for this hope to come true.

With hope, there is also love — love between Mark and his wife, and love from all of us for both of them. Love like this sustains during difficult journeys and provides warmth for winter travelers who may feel otherwise alone.

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