Shit. The bright red blood pouring from my nose onto my hands as I entered the boarding line for my flight from Seattle to Denver could not have come at a worse time. This was not a slow drip. This was a leave-a-trail-of-blood-as-I-run-to-the-bathroom kind of nosebleed.
For anyone else, bleeding profusely into a busy airport bathroom sink as they call your name over the intercom for final boarding would be a monumentally bad day. At this point rolling through a nosebleed at the airport – even one so poorly timed – feels par for the course and almost inconsequential. It’s been a rough few weeks. The Graph vs. Host Disease (GVH) that put me in the hospital for a week has slowly improved and I was discharged about a week ago. Unfortunately, the GVH resulted in mind-numbing fatigue, an inability to eat the vast majority of foods, crazy loss of weight and strength, and consistent pain in the gut that leaves me flat on my back or in the fetal position. While working to recover from this we’ve been stuck in a Groundhog Day scenario of waiting for final results from the bone marrow biopsy I had in the hospital. Unfortunately yesterday we received terrifying news that the test found a small amount of leukemia in the bone marrow. The only silver lining is that it is such a small amount that Docs are unsure whether it is indicative of a relapse or not. The only thing we can do is wait and repeat the test in a week or two then wait all over again for results to see if the leukemia is on the way up or on the way out. Groundhog Day. Waiting is unbelievably hard and can reach a point of psychological torture; fighting the paralysis of fear can be all consuming. Being sick is physically draining and makes you want to shut down. But if there’s one thing that I’m more committed to than ever it is living. And let me be abundantly clear: by living I don’t mean not dying. Although it’s taken a long time, I’ve come to terms with the very difficult fact that I have very little (if any) control over how or when I die. In truth, none of us really do. As my dear late friend and amazing cancer fighter, Dennis Koepke, once told me, "All of us live in a world of statistics. Some of us are just much more keenly aware of it than others." What I do have control over is squeezing every drop out of life that my body allows me to. So for the last few weeks I’ve been going into the office spending time doing the work that I love with people that I love. I’ve shuffled around the dog park with Jenny and Birkie, stopping to bend over or sit on the ground when the pain becomes too unbearable to walk. And when I had to make the choice about whether to get on a plane to travel to Colorado to celebrate Jenny’s Uncles Scott and Brian’s wedding – two people I love more than I can express – I decided it was an opportunity I could not pass up. When it comes down to it, what’s the difference between being in pain at home or being in pain on a plane? But the fact of the matter is that living life in my condition requires so much more than me being characteristically stubborn and increasingly reckless. Me being able to enjoy life takes a wife that has sacrificed every semblance of a normality to take care of me (crying on a plane again). It requires a team of doctors that patiently spend hours answering my questions and doing everything in their power to make me feel better. It requires my colleagues picking up the slack when I’m slower at work. It takes good friends sitting with me and keeping me company when I get bad news. It takes friends stepping up to help me run errands when Jenny’s gone and lining up to take care of our crazy Birkie-Dog when I jump on a plane last minute. And when you show up to your gate late with tissue paper shoved up one nostril and blood flowing out the other, it takes two Alaska Airlines gate agents who immediately get you a box of Kleenex, call paramedics, and book you seats on two flights to get you to Denver regardless of how long it takes the bleeding to stop. It takes them going above and beyond, and sitting with you long after the plane is gone and the gate empty. It takes four paramedics to pinch your nose, shove gauze in your upper lip to cut off the blood vessels, hold ice to the back of your neck and check your vitals. Four paramedics who were some of the friendliest and funniest people I have run across in a long time. I think a lot of us have had a rough couple of weeks. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t been affected by terrible news that seems to greet us every time we turn on a screen. To turn on cable news or scroll down a newsfeed can feel like this world is full of terrible people doing terrible things to one another. But this week the real world has reaffirmed my faith in humanity. Sometimes it’s hard to be vulnerable and ask for help. But when you do people are not only willing, but eager to do so. And the fact that someone in my condition can travel alone across this country and fully rely on the compassion of not only an amazing community of friends and loved ones, but also on complete strangers, it is proof positive that people are inherently good. This world is an amazing place filled with amazing people. Sometimes it just takes bleeding in the boarding line to remind us. So many of you have done so much for me in the last couple of weeks (and years.) I cannot thank you enough.
Dick Lamers
7/14/2016 05:13:03 am
Sammy,
Janelle Bamlett
7/14/2016 05:14:13 am
Sam, I'm your Dad's cousin and have met you only a few times, but I am so impressed w/you (and Jenny) in the strength and love for life you demonstrate and share w/us. I continue to pray for your healing.
Hannah
7/14/2016 06:09:03 am
Thinking of you Sam. You and Jen are the strongest people I know. Even when the crappiest $%^& happens, you are both able to appreciate the good things and people in life. You're an inspiration to us all. Healing thoughts from NY.
marilyn tucker
7/14/2016 06:25:37 am
Sam - always love to read about you and keep updated on your progress - this is only a little set back considering all that you have been through - surely the Lord has great things planned for you - keep fighting and I'll keep praying
Pam Marquie
7/14/2016 06:29:29 am
Sam - I know your parents and your dad's family from growing up in Baraboo. I have prayed for you and will continue to do so. Your strength and inspiration along with eloquent writings are amazing. Hoping that one day you may write about the boredom and normalcy of life and the blessing of just being, instead of the fight and struggle of your life. And as an amusing side note, always keep two tampons with you for nosebleeds. My kids have been prone to them all their lives and many a soccer game was interrupted by a gush of nasal redness. Two tampons will stop up that bleeding in a hurry. You'll look ridiculous I can ssure you, but it works. Hope that crazy thought brought a smile to your face. Keep persevering. Continued prayers for you and Jenny.
sally
7/14/2016 07:52:02 am
Sam & Jenny - truly ...living life is about how we carry goodness in our hearts and how we send that faith in goodness out into the world... trusting that there is goodness and kindness surrounding us. We get what we give... thank you for seeing that, writing about that and living that! love you both! xoxo sal
Eric Booton
7/14/2016 08:59:15 am
You are a patient man Sam! A skill that I lack, though have improved on. Let me know if there is any way I can help you squeeze some juice drops of life out in this difficult time 7/14/2016 01:09:38 pm
I feel so much love and compassion for you and Jenny and your families---I wish I could make you all better---I so admire your strength and endurance and will and capacity to live--And your sharing with us what you are living---you are a gentle and kind soul and touch the people you encounter and they give you your love back through their caring actions. I wish you peace and send my love...
Ryan McEldowney
7/15/2016 06:13:52 pm
Dear Sam,
Anand Patel
7/15/2016 11:21:55 pm
Sam, Comments are closed.
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