A Reason to be Thankful

He was a nine year old boy, and he needed my help. I didn’t know his name, where he lived, where he went to school or if he had brothers or sisters. I didn’t know his parents, the color of his bike or what posters hung on his walls. I knew only that he was sick and that somehow we were linked. Something in our blood, a chemical signature, like a fingerprint far below the surface, matched up perfectly, and the boy would die unless I helped him.

The phone call came on an early fall day four years ago. A woman left a message, asking if I was the Tim O’Shea who’d joined the National Marrow Donor program while donating blood almost seven years earlier. If I was, please call them immediately. “It’s about donating bone marrow, and it’s important that we speak,” the woman said.

I had donated blood a while back, and it was unforgettable for all the wrong reasons. An unfortunate combination of a fainting spell, paramedics, an ambulance ride, and a visit to the ER earned me a permanent ban from donating blood. A tersely worded letter from the Red Cross demanding I never donate again emphasized this point a few weeks later. I do remember, prior to the fainting and crying, being asked if I wanted to join the Marrow Donor program. I checked the box and thought nothing of it for over seven years until I got the call.

I called back and learned that my blood stem cells might be a match for a sick boy. “This boy, your potential match, has an aggressive form of leukemia, and this is the only course of treatment left for the family,” Dottie, my case manager, said. I asked where he lived, if I could meet him but was told no. “A year after you donate, if you and the family both agree, you can find out more, but for now, we need to know if you’ll donate.” I didn’t hesitate. It’s not every day you’re asked to try to save someone’s life.

The goal in any potential marrow match is to determine how alike the tissues of the donor are to the potential recipient. By comparing the proteins, or “antigens,” on the surface on my cells to this boy’s, the Registry determined that our marrow cells matched up perfectly, a ten out of ten. “You’re an excellent candidate for a donation,” a nurse told me during one of the many tests I took leading to the procedure. I asked Dottie if this meant we were related. “Maybe there is a connection somewhere in your families’ past, but we can’t tell for sure,” she shared.

The process moved quickly, leaving no time for ancestral musings. In the course of four weeks, I went from a guy who’d been branded a Red Cross blood drive outlander to a healthy matched donor cleared for a marrow donation.

By mid October, four weeks since Dottie and I first spoke, the surgery was scheduled. A few days later I was en route to the Cancer Center at Dartmouth-Hitchcock Hospital in Hanover, thinking about how scared that little boy must be – and how his parents must be filled with the same dread, or worse. I comforted myself imagining that maybe they were buoyed by this tiny bit of hope I was asked to float their way.

My time in the hospital was short, murky and painful. After I went under, the doctor used a big hollow needle to extract three large vials of liquid marrow from the back of my pelvis. I felt fine when I woke up, but once the anesthesia wore off, I was in a lot of pain. Meanwhile, the medical team rushed my cells to the hospital where the little boy waited for his last chance at life.

I spent two days on the cancer ward, reminding me the goal was to help kill this disease, stopping its morbid march through the boy’s body. I shared a room with a lifelong smoker, a gravelly-voiced man in his fifties who’d been told a few days earlier his lung and throat cancer was inoperable. Later that night we split a pizza and talked about everything but cancer.

My recovery was slow, slower than they’d told me, and after two weeks of more than lingering discomfort, they sent me back to Hanover for more tests. They found nothing. Was this pain was in my mind? Donating was the first thing I’d done in my life purely for someone else, and maybe I didn’t want to let go of it, even if it hurt. In a few weeks, the pain subsided, and I went back to my life and routine, thinking about the boy once in a while, hoping he was better.

In early February, Dottie called with the sad news. “Unfortunately, Timothy,” she said, her voice growing quiet, “the patient passed away last week. He’d been sick for so long. Sometimes it just doesn’t work.”

I’d like to tell you I cried that day, but I didn’t. I didn’t know what to feel. “At least you helped him live through the holidays, and I’m sure the family was grateful for that,” Dottie said just before we said goodbye.

A year later, I learned more. His name was Mark, and he lived in southern Florida. I sent a letter to his parents, a mixture of explanation, condolences and apology, never expecting to hear from them. In their position, I wouldn’t form a bond with someone whose sole reminder is what could have been but wasn’t. They never wrote back.

I later found Mark’s photo online, embedded in an office newsletter on an FBI field office’s website. I read that Mark’s dream was to become an FBI agent and how, one last time, at his funeral services, Mark wore his “Junior Special Agent” badge. I learned that Mark was first diagnosed with cancer at two years old and how the disease had spread through his body year after year. I read about how the local FBI office honored him with a special day of remembrance, and how one of the last things Mark did was to make sure the FBI had his application on file once he got better. I finally cried that day, seeing Mark’s smiling face in the photograph, frustrated that our perfect match was anything but.

I wish this story had a happy ending, but it doesn’t. Mark and I shared an imperfect connection - maybe the science wasn’t right, or I had an unseen flaw, or he was just too sick. I do find solace knowing I did a good thing once, even if it wasn’t enough. I made a difference for a little while, and that for that I’m thankful.