The Real Survivor

By TAD BARTIMUS

We're conditioned to catastrophic news coming in multiples: 40,000 new AIDS cases diagnosed in Africa; 1 million Americans will have a heart attack this year; malaria infects over 300 million people around the world, every year. Round-the-clock news weights us down with so much war and pestilence that we risk becoming inured to one person's fight for life -- until that lonely struggler is someone we know.

I first heard about my friend's cancer five years ago. The news came secondhand. "His pain drove him to the emergency room at midnight," a neighbor said. "Two hours later they were on a plane to the specialist -- left food in the refrigerator, dirty clothes in the hamper, didn't even have time to pack a suitcase. It's bad, real bad."

Doctors diagnosed acute leukemia in "blast phase" and gave him less than two weeks. His only hope was a dicey bone marrow transplant with a slim success rate.

For six more months his body was bombarded with deadly chemotherapy. He crashed twice; heroic medical care saved him.

I visited him halfway through his months-long hospitalization. Outfitted in a sterile mask and gown, I was given two minutes to stand 10 feet away from him and tell him how much I loved him.

The once-vigorous 45-year-old who'd flown airplanes, supervised hundreds of employees and embraced outdoor sports was a faint shadow under a sheet. He fleetingly raised a finger to acknowledge my presence, but I was a distraction. He was focused on survival. His wife reluctantly walked me to the elevator, and then rushed back to her husband.

Months passed. I sent books, audiotapes, cards and letters. I woke up in the night trying to imagine their life in a 10-by-10 hospital room. All the odds were against my friend's survival, but he stayed alive. Dare we hope? I began to believe the hollow words I'd spoken to him across the hospital room: "You're strong. You're young. You're brave. You'll make it."

This week, half a decade after the initial diagnosis, we met for lunch. Powerful steroids have reshaped my friend from a lean, sinewy man into a rounded, puffy one. The drugs also have given him osteoporosis and chronic joint pain, and caused chronic fatigue -- but without them he'd be dead. He must walk slowly and rest often. He's lost all his hair and his eyesight is poor. But his embrace was strong and his smile familiar.

"Great to see you," he beamed.

"You, too," I finally managed to croak.

His wife was with him, always ready to help him get out of the car, climb stairs, draw blinds against too much sun.

We talked about the weather. We dithered over what to order from the menu. We gossiped about old friends and old times. We acted normal in the face of a miracle.

"How did you survive?" I couldn't hold the question back any longer.

My friend answered, "I was lucky."

I pressed.

"I had the very best medical treatment in the world."

I pressed harder.

"My wife was tenacious. She watched every pill, treatment and doctor to make sure I got what I had to have."

What else?

"Divine providence."

And?

"I don't believe a person can will themselves to live, although I believe they can make themselves die by giving up and letting go," my friend said. "I saw many people die who wanted so badly to live. Why are they gone and I'm here? I don't know."

I reminded him of his laser focus on survival. Could determination have made the difference?

"There are powers of the mind that we have no idea we are capable of," he said, carefully and slowly. "I would never imply that someone who wanted to live, but died, didn't try hard enough. But I believe you have to fight until the last breath comes out, you have to hope until the last breath comes out. You can't give up for one second. No one around you can, either."

Doctors at Seattle's Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center who saved my friend's life are now studying how they did it.

Feb. 5th marks the fifth anniversary of his diagnosis. What is his prognosis?

"I have no idea," my friend replied. "Nobody with my condition has ever lived this long."

© 2003 The Women Syndicate

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