When I donated a blood sample and officially joined the National Bone Marrow Registry, it just seemed like the thing to do. I saw a flier on a streetside fruit stand. I did not know the person for whom the drive was sponsored. I just went to a church hall where a temporary blood center had been set up and gave a little blood. Painless. The nurse assistants told me the chances were very slim that I would ever get called. But I did. I went to give more blood for further antigen matching, and they told me again it was unlikely that I would get called back. It took longer this time, but I did. More tests, more matching. And then nothing for a while. Until the call that told me that the “miracle match” had happened. Was I still willing to donate?
All this time I’d never really thought it would happen. Truthfully I didn’t give it much thought at all. Now I had a decision to make, though it really wasn’t much of a decision. I knew in my heart all along what I would do. The main-blood-center people gave me lots of information and lots of physical tests to make sure that I was healthy. My husband was worried more than I (he is in the medical field and knew more about every little thing that could go wrong, no matter how remote). When all was said and done, I got the papers, the Consent to Donate, and I signed. The bottom line was, how could I not?
Shortly afterward I spent a couple of days in the hospital to donate the marrow. It wasn’t the easiest thing I have ever done. There were some unexpected complications caused by the anesthesia, but I got through them. I experienced some discomfort from the marrow-removal procedure. People had told me ahead of time that it would feel like I’d taken a hard fall on the ice, landing on my butt. That was pretty accurate. But I’d given birth to two children, and by comparison the bone-marrow retrieval was a breeze, complications and all. Within two weeks I felt 80 percent fine; within a month it was like nothing had happened.
Physically, that is really the end of my part of the story. But I knew that somewhere there was a woman who was just starting her battle. When you donate marrow to an unrelated recipient, the bone-marrow registry really stresses the confidentiality of both the donor and the recipient. I knew my recipient was a female; I knew her physical problem and her age. That was it. No name, no location, nothing else. I wrote a short, unaddressed note that accompanied my marrow. A few weeks later, I received a note back. Actually it was a copy. Letters between donors and recipients are screened, and my contact at the blood center would “white out” any personal references and then make a copy to pass on. But I tell you, it was one of the most wonderful things I had ever read. It made the connection between us seem more real, more personal.
In subsequent months we wrote to each other a number of times. We even came up with code names since we did not like the impersonal greeting of “Dear Donor” or “Dear Recipient.” I was Cleopatra (Cleo for short), and she was Joan (for Joan of Arc). In each letter we learned more about one another. It is amazing how much you can tell about yourself without giving any specific locations or names. Toward the end of the year we were each trying to sneak in hints about where we lived. She mentioned something about apple picking and fresh maple sugar (I was sure she was in Vermont), and I wrote about going to see a well-known Broadway musical, hoping she would guess I was in the New York area. We finally got caught by our respective contacts and had to keep our last letters more straightforward. I happily anticipated each letter “Joan” sent. It was fun to hear from her, and her letters gave me some hope that the marrow transplant was working.
Exactly one year after the transplant I got a call from the contact at my blood center. She had “Joan’s” real name and address. Her name was Mary, a simple, wonderful name. She lived in New York state. So much for my Vermont guess. I was told that Mary was not at home; she was at the hospital where the transplant had occurred for her one-year checkup. Later on in the evening my husband answered the phone. He turned to me with a smile and said, “It’s Joan of Arc. For you.” We were finally voice to voice. We spoke for 20 minutes. It was wonderful! We filled in a lot of names and places for each other. We joked about appearing on television together–she wanted to do “Geraldo,” I said it was “Rosie” or nothing. We decided we would make plans to meet when she returned from the hospital. She had a slight lung infection but was hoping to leave soon. When I got off the phone I thought of a million other things to ask, but I knew we would meet each other shortly. I sent off a Valentine’s card with a picture of my children. It was a pleasure to write “Dear Mary.”
One week from the day we spoke, I got another phone call. This time it was my contact. I knew right away something was wrong. Mary had died. But how could this be? We had spoken; we were going to get together. I didn’t think it was going to be a fairy-tale ending, but not this. Not so soon. I cried and cried. For Mary, for myself, for her family, whom I didn’t even know but who had been through so much.
A few days later my contact called back to see how I was doing. She told me I had given Mary a year she would not have had. She told me that Mary’s family at least had the comfort of knowing that everything had been done, no stone left unturned, no “what if we had found a marrow match.” I know all this, and I have no regrets. I was blessed with the opportunity to try to make a saving difference in someone’s life. Most people are not given that chance. I feel fortunate. I wish that Mary and I could have become old friends, celebrating life. Instead, I lost a new friend, one that I will never forget.
