I was so overwhelmed it took me a moment to respond. “Gil, are you sure? That seems like too much.”
“I am sure. It’s exactly what Edgar and Polly want for Nancy. Would it be better to leave from the Heber Airport or do you want to leave from the private airport next to Salt Lake International?”
As most of you know, Heber is a small private airport only twenty-five minutes away from Woodland. “I will check with Nancy, but Heber should work really well. Thanks, Gil. And please give Edgar and Polly our heartfelt thanks, too.” Gil then unexpectedly added that Edgar and Polly hoped Nancy felt well enough to spend a few extra days in Seattle: “They’ve told their pilot to bring you home after you’ve had a few days to unwind.”
Not surprisingly, it took an entire day to persuade Nancy to accept the Stern’s kind and generous offer. She thought it far too extravagant, but Nancy finally agreed to make an exception. (I must admit I had to laugh to myself that it took Nancy so long to accept something so positive. But I did guess right: in the end, she decided on Heber.)
Summary: Nancy and I have made an “adjustment” to our Seattle trip plan. Instead of flying commercially, we will be flying in a private jet, an unbelievably generous gift from our friends Edgar and Polly Stern. We continue to be amazed by the kindness of those around us.
So much love,
Winnie
Free as a Bird
October 3, 1:32 a.m.
Dear Friends and Family,
Much of Nancy’s adult life has revolved around airplanes.
During Nancy’s thirty-three years as a flight attendant, she has flown on almost every type of commercial aircraft utilized in the United States. The exception would be the Concorde, though she did get to see one up close and personal at John F. Kennedy International Airport—better known as JFK. (She watched it take off and land.)
Until yesterday, Nancy’s most memorable air travel experience was a trip from Salt Lake City to Yellowstone National Park in a T33 “Shooting Star,” a World War II fighter jet restored and owned by a friend of mine, Dr. Bruce Huchinsen. Bruce used his jewel of an aircraft to commute between Utah and the Yellowstone National Park. The T33 is a two-seat airplane in which the pilot and passenger are beneath a glass bubble, sitting one behind the other. Nancy was strapped into the rear seat like a fighter copilot and had one of those black plastic devices that covered her mouth and nose and delivered oxygen during the flight. After the flight was completed, Bruce related to me the story of his new copilot Nancy breathing rapidly during the takeoff and the entire first part of the flight before adjusting to a normal breathing rate.
Nonetheless, as much as Nancy enjoyed her flight in a WWII vintage plane, there should be no doubt about how she would describe her all-time favorite flight if asked now. She would, without any hesitancy, talk about her experience yesterday.
Unlike most of our prior airplane trips, we were in no hurry to arrive at Heber Airport early. Departure time was “around 11 a.m.,” and we were armed with the knowledge that the plane would not leave until we were safely on board. Once we were checked through the private gate at the airstrip, we drove right up to and then parked beside a Cessna Citation Jet whose call letters on the tail matched the numbers Gil had emailed me. Chief pilot Ed Dusang and his copilot Jeff Hansen greeted us as we got out of our car. Jeff wouldn’t let me carry our bags, rather he grabbed them from our trunk and loaded them carefully into the plane’s underbelly, while Ed helped us into the cabin of the four-passenger aircraft that would transport Nancy and me to Seattle.
After making sure we were comfortable, Ed served us drinks, showed us the emergency exit in the rear of the plane, tested our seat belts, and confirmed that our seats were upright. Only then did he return to the cockpit, where Jeff had finished his preflight checks and started both engines. Nancy grabbed my hand as we slowly taxied down the runway. Once we had been cleared for takeoff, Ed turned and gave us a thumbs-up through the open cockpit door.
Our takeoff acceleration was so rapid it felt as if we had been shot out of a cannon. We were airborne in seconds and circled momentarily above Heber before we headed northwest. The plane windows were surprisingly large and the view was spectacular, especially since the aspens and scrub oak displayed outsized patches of dark red and bright yellow below us. Excitedly, Nancy pointed and said, “Look, Winnie.” I leaned toward her for a better view out the window on her side of the plane. I gazed as a familiar edifice, our home, disappeared below us as we rapidly winged our way toward our destination. In a minute or two, we were witnessing the exquisite beauty of Park City. Below us, the majesty of the peaks and ski slopes that make up the Deer Valley Resort slowly faded as we headed into the clouds and our ultimate cruising altitude of 36,000 feet.
In normal times, to experience a ride in a private jet is a thrill—in unusual times a godsend. The seats were large, covered in soft leather, and had controls for more adjustments than I knew what to do with without assistance. The cabin had room for all of our belongings, and the desk table could be utilized for eating, working, or playing games with other passengers. There were connections for all of our electronics, and the cockpit door remained open so we could watch as the pilots flipped switches, examined dials, and navigated the plane through the clouds. The box lunches Ed served us about a half hour into the flight had more food and snacks than we could eat and as much wine and soft drinks as we wanted to drink, responsibly. (We drank both.) And best of all, our pilots were gracious and kind, willing to answer all of our many questions about the aircraft. (They also were quick to point out any sights either of them deemed interesting.)
As I shared a moment ago, this isn’t a time of normalcy.
At some point shortly after takeoff, I was struck by the thought that this could be Nancy’s last trip. Ever. Consequently, I found myself preoccupied for much of the rest of our flight. My mind raced as it organized and reorganized the many topics I wanted to discuss with Dr. Appelbaum.
Nancy, on the other hand, soaked up every second of being far away from her medical nightmare. Her forehead lines were barely visible and her smile was relaxed and effortless. When I asked how she was feeling, she gazed out my window then looked me in the eye and responded, “I feel like I’m floating. I’ve been in the air so many times over the years, but it has never felt like this before. I feel as free as a bird. I don’t want to ever land.”
Nancy did sleep the last part of the trip, and I rubbed her hand that I had been holding the entire time. Only when Ed turned in the cockpit and said to me, “You might want to give her a nudge. Mt. Rainier is especially beautiful today,” did Nancy awake up just in time to see us fly close enough that we could almost reach out and touch the snowcap that quickly drifted by our window.
The smoothness of our landing was as impressive as the acceleration of our original takeoff. As we pulled to a stop at our “parking space” at Boeing Field, Seattle’s private airport, a black limousine appeared and parked directly next to the plane. As we exited, the driver loaded our bags.
In minutes, we were headed toward the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center, where our next day’s appointment loomed ahead of us. Our hotel was directly across the street from the center. There had been no long lines, no waiting for the counter personnel, no baggage checks or long walks through a busy terminal, and no shoe or belt removal. No one had stared at Nancy’s semi-bald head wondering if it was a medical condition or a fashion statement. And most importantly, there were not many uninvited germs to test her impaired immunity.
Though Edgar and Polly were not with us on the plane to Seattle, we certainly felt their kindness and their love during the entire flight. Their feelings were reflected in Ed’s last words as we exited the limo in front of our hotel: “Good luck tomorrow. Give me a call to let me know which day you want to go home. Remember what the Sterns said: ‘No hurry.’”
Summary: Yesterday Nancy and I took a magical airplane ride to Seattle for our consultation. We are basking in the support of a
ll of our friends and especially on this day, Edgar and Polly Stern.
With love,
Winnie
Nectar of the Gods
October 3, 9:28 p.m.
Dear Friends and Family,
“Well, Nancy, what do you think?”
“I think . . .” Nancy scratched the pretty pink hat covering her now fuzzy head, “. . . that I’m ready for a drink.”
Nancy’s full-throated laugh was bursting with mischief. It was not the laugh of someone in pain. And it wasn’t the laugh of someone burdened by the specter of a terrible disease. Rather, it was a laugh brimming with joy and genuinely from the heart. It was the same laugh I first heard twenty-eight years ago on our very first date.
As I shared with you many letters ago, during the first few hours of my very first date with Nancy, we discussed religion, death, kids, and the meaning of life. But I must admit, after three hours of nonstop talking as we watched the sun slowly fade and dip behind the Absaroka Mountains that lined the horizon in the northern portion of Yellowstone National Park—we got thirsty. So we somewhat nervously headed to the Two Bit Saloon in Gardner, Montana, for a drink,
(There’s something to be said about the “circle of life.” In many ways it seems like we have come full circle. Today’s laugh sounded just like our first time together. I loved that laugh then. And I still do now.)
Tonight, as we laughed together so many years later, we made our way to Joey’s, an upscale bar and restaurant surrounded by a marina on the shore of Lake Union in Seattle, Washington. Outside the full-length tableside window were row after row of sailboats bobbing up and down like corks in the never-ending waves. Beyond the boats were seaplanes taking off and landing at regular five-minute intervals. And beyond the seaplanes was an endless horizon where the lake merged with the sky. It was a romantic spot, and I felt like a young lover as I gently held Nancy’s hand and got lost in eyes that were even a deeper blue than the sky outside the restaurant’s large bay window.
Joey’s sits across the street from the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Center, next to our hotel. Today we obtained a second opinion from Dr. Fred Appelbaum, during more than an hour and a half of deliberations at the “Fred Hutch.” A world-renowned expert in both transplantation and acute myeloid leukemia (AML), Dr. Appelbaum had been both scholarly and engaging. He told us ever so kindly, “I can easily picture my wife and me on your side of the table.”
At the conclusion of our session, Nancy needed an escape from numbers and studies, treatments and side effects, and deliberations and decisions about her future. So I forced thoughts of Dr. Appelbaum out of my mind as I asked Sally, our waitress, “What would you suggest? This is a very special occasion for us.”
“Our house specialty is a drink called a Bellini,” she replied. “It is named after Giovanni Bellini, a famous painter during the Italian Renaissance. He created it in Italy in the 1930s.” She pointed to a picture of the drink on the menu: “It is a frozen blend of sangria, rum, champagne, and peaches. It comes by the pitcher.”
“I can’t say that I’m familiar with the painter, but the drink sounds incredible,” I replied. “We’ll take a pitcher.”
Our Bellinis arrived almost too picturesque to drink, a tall, elegant carafe displaying layers of red-and-orange swirls, with peaches floating on top as highlights. Sally gave the contents a hard stir and the colored layers suddenly transformed into a bright-purple slurry. She poured the almost luminous mixture into extra-large martini glasses and added a garnish of fresh pineapple, cherries, and limes. The drink’s taste was matched only by the drink’s beauty, and the pitcher was nearly empty before we began talking about our trip’s “opportunities.”
Nancy informed me she had made her first decision.
“Exciting news, Winnie. I feel really good and really strong today. Let’s accept Edgar and Polly’s offer and spend the next two days in Seattle.”
Quite simply, we reveled in the possibilities of the next two days together.
The Space Needle.
Bainbridge Island.
Pike Place Market.
The many options were quickly listed on the back of a Joey’s napkin next to an artist’s rendering of Mr. “Bellini.” We talked about fresh seafood for dinner and walks along the lake. A little overwhelmed, Nancy abruptly changed course: “I might just want to lie in bed and do nothing except watch sunsets.”
“Whatever you want, my love. We’re on our second honeymoon, aren’t we?”
Indeed, our evening was reminiscent of the first night following our wedding when we spent an entire evening on a beach in Tahiti, toasting our marriage with a blend of juices and alcohol served in a single coconut with two straws.
Nancy and I clinked glasses to each potential activity and without expressing it, we also toasted our relief. The meeting that would shape our future together was finally behind us.
Nancy poured the last few Bellini ounces into my near-empty glass. I convinced her to put her straw in my glass and share the remaining “nectar from the gods.” Effortlessly, with no change in her jovial presence, she took my hands so that all four of our hands rested next to the empty pitcher. “All right, Winnie. Let’s figure this out. What do you think?”
I wanted to say, “Let’s have another pitcher first.” Instead, I replied softly, “Nancy, I will help analyze the information that we’ve been given and make lists of pros and cons. I’ll do anything for you. But you’re the decision maker for our treatment options.”
“I know I am.”
“So let’s start with the transplant question.”
“Dr. Appelbaum was really good, wasn’t he?”
“Do you have any doubts about that choice?”
Dr. Appelbaum had been better than good. For almost two months, we have been trying to decide if a transplant was the superior route rather than undergoing two more rounds of chemotherapy. Every physician we polled used different numbers from different studies. Today, Dr. Appelbaum explained each of those studies, drew graphs on his whiteboard, and then individualized the data to Nancy.
He had started our meeting by saying, “The survival rate in Nancy’s case with chemotherapy is only 25%, maybe as high as 27%. With a bone marrow transplant her survival chance jumps to 63%, though some of the survivors, maybe 10%, have quality of life issues due to graft-versus-host disease.” Dr. Appelbaum went on to explain where the earlier 10–15% and 40% numbers had originated, and why neither applied to Nancy. His calm manner, confident deportment, and precise understanding of the known facts made the decision very clear.
“Nancy, I have no doubts. Transplant. Are you ready for it?”
“I am. I don’t want to go through another round of chemotherapy waiting for the donor. What if the donor is in Iraq?”
“Then I’ll fly to Baghdad. If he’s on the space station, I’ll go to the moon for you. It will be really hard to do another round of chemotherapy now that you’ve made the decision. I’ll call Rachael at 8 a.m. tomorrow so we can move forward as quickly as possible.”
“What about the type, Winnie? I really do need your help on that decision.”
I needed help, too. Dr. Appelbaum favored Nancy having a “mini,” but he had admitted during our meeting that the final data on that type of transplant was still a few years away. He felt confident the study he himself was conducting would conclude that the “mini” was just as effective as a “full” transplant but with less mortality and fewer side effects. But there were still a lot of unanswered questions.
Would his numbers change as the study progressed?
Would new or different side effects to the “mini” be discovered?
How should we decide between “experimental” versus “standard” therapies?
“I don’t have a strong opinion yet, do you Nancy? I want to speak to Finn Bo on that one.”
(Dr. Finn Bo Peterson, head of the transplant team at the University of Utah, has been leaning toward the full, myeloablative type of surgery. However, he f
reely admits the “full” transplant is more intense and much harder on the body.)
“Let’s defer that one for now. Both Dr. Peterson and Dr. Appelbaum said we have plenty of time before we have to make that decision.”
“Moving on, Winnie, I was really impressed with Dr. Appelbaum. Do you think we should do the transplant up here?”
I couldn’t help but think to myself is this “southern speak?” Is Nancy really letting me know she wants her transplant in Seattle?
“There is no doubt moving to Seattle will present some logistical challenges. But I will figure out every detail if you want to come up here.”
“But what about Jaret and Jayna? How would that work?”
“I don’t know. But what I do know is that they want whatever is best for you.”
Nancy sighed, and I noticed the first signs of melancholy. Her shoulders hunched forward a little and her eyes were not quite as wide as they had been earlier in the evening. “I want to make all of our decisions right now, Winnie. I’m tired of agonizing. But I guess we need to talk to Finn Bo first. I guess a couple more days is not the end of the world.”
“No, it isn’t. We’re almost there. Let’s go back to the room, rest a bit, and have an amazing dinner. As of right now, we’re officially on a real vacation.”
With only our water glasses, we toasted each other and to what lies ahead of us.
Summary: Our meeting with Dr. Fred Appelbaum, a world-renowned expert, was very productive and led to our first major decision. Nancy will proceed with a transplant. To celebrate our decision, we will stay a few days in Seattle to enjoy ourselves.
Much love,
Winnie
Night Reflections Page 17