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A Father’s Day Bone Marrow Donation Guide

June 12, 2015 · by Oliver Gray

Six scars dot the spot on my hips just above my butt, three on either side. Six natural tattoos that align like a constellation made flesh, remnants of fallen stars turned permanent scars.

Truth be told they’re fading, the angry aubergine blotches of 3 years ago now lavender and calm. But I still know they’re there, popping out against the pale of my sun-starved skin every time I look in the mirror, constantly reminding me of when I did battle with cancer on behalf of someone else.

The process hurt; it was a literal pain in my ass. The lead up to the marrow donation wasn’t exactly a lazy garden party either; friendly but stabby phlebotomists would harvest fresh red cells from my arms weekly, testing them for diseases and genetic markers that sounded more like Sanskrit than science. For several months, in the artificial brightness of the Johns Hopkins Weinberg Cancer Center, I’d sit and wait for my name to be called, staving off the sadness of being surrounded by people worn down to their last tatters and threads of hope.

Some wore masks; immune systems too weakened or compromised to chance a random infection. Some sported wheels or oxygen, as their bodies played host to an evil tug-o-war between cancer and chemo. All were there for one reason though, one solitary call to arms from family, friend, and fears:

To fight.

I donated bone marrow to my father not because of some righteous motivation, or some personal grab at attention, but because I saw how hard he was fighting, and wanted to fight alongside him. It only seemed right, to throw myself into the fray when the man who’d fought his whole life for me, needed reinforcement.

Unfortunately, the battle proved much for already weary bones, and my father is now feasting in the halls of Valhalla. But that’s not always the case. A family friend is celebrating her husband’s eighth (8th!) year in recovery, after undergoing a harrowing bone marrow transplant to combat his Acute Myeloid Leukemia (AML). Even more impressive, the man who donated was a complete stranger, from the other side of the country, who physically gave part of himself to another out of purely altruistic love. I can’t help but smile when I see the pictures of Jean and Rob happy and healthy, and am proud that I tried to give my dad the same gift.

Father’s day often feels like a masquerade holiday, where we put collective masks over our patriarchs, pretend they’re stock jokes and knee socks, play a silly game of beer and barbecues and calendars of babes. There’s nothing inherently wrong with that; most dads love a little attention and at least a day to romp in their most baser joys.

But this father’s day, I urge you to think bigger than a new set of grill tools or ratcheting sockets. Consider giving a gift that transcends the material, that could mean the difference between hopelessness and an optimistic future.

How to Donate Bone Marrow

Blood cancer is one of the few types we can directly treat, and treat with a relatively high success rate. The process is a miracle of modern science: through balanced chemo they reduce the recipient’s immune system to nearly nothing, then introduce the healthy donor marrow. Over the next few months, the healthy marrow replicates and creates a new immune system inside the patient’s body, which eradicates cancer causing cells naturally. Even more incredibly, the recipient will have the same DNA as the donor!

Donating is simple.

Educate yourself – BetheMatch.org overflows with information about donating. It covers the hows, whens, whats, and ifs related to the procedure. The major difficulty for most patients in need of a marrow transplant is finding a healthy match, so the more people that sign up to donate, the higher their chances will be. Have questions about meeting the recipient, who pays for what, and other ethical quagmires? Look no further.
Know the risks – There are two ways to donate; one involves a simple blood/plasma draw, and has no real side effects. The other is a surgical procedure, like the one I described above. It is surgery, in a hospital, with gowns and beds and surgeons. You have to go under anesthesia, and you will have pain for up to a few weeks afterwards. But weigh that against giving someone a decade or more of life. Seems like a no-brainer.
Know the rewards – If you happen to be a match, you’re already a statistical anomaly, so you should feel pretty special. It’s difficult to describe the psychological power of knowing you sacrificed a bit of yourself to save another, but don’t underestimate how good it can make you feel. Want to feel like you’ve made a difference in this world, validate your existence, and discover that you really matter? Save a life.
Sign up for the registry – If you think you want to give someone this gift, you can sign up for the registry here. Remember that signing up doesn’t mean you will get picked, but it does enter your hematological information into the pool, which means you could be a match for someone, someday. Signing up is pledging that if you are a match, you will donate. Matches are somewhat rare, so make sure you’re committed before you sign up.

This Father’s day, even if you do decide to give your dad some fun gifts, remember that there are thousands of other fathers out there who want nothing more than to stick around on this planet a bit longer. If you’re healthy and care about giving gifts that really matter, I can’t think of any better gift to give.

I’m also happy to answer any donation related questions in the comments below.

Dialysate

August 6, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

Stress crashes through the body like waves pounding the beach after a violent storm. Undulating periods of calm and terror. Regular and rhythmic then fluttering and panicked. Eventualities become possibilities while your stomach still lurches at the realities. Systolic and diastolic ratchet an invisible band tighter and tighter around your chest. At certain desperate moments, a family’s vitals may be less stable than the patient’s.

As you hold hands and make promises and pray to everything that will listen, you become a filter: a semipermeable membrane for emotions and ideas. In the flurry of emergency you are bombarded with quick decisions, choiceless consents, more medical jargon than a marathon of House, M.D. Many words are small enough to pass through – liver, kidneys, bleeding – but many more – critical, cardiac, infection – stick to you, wet and heavy, too grave and massive to slip through the holes of your spirit. As days pass into weeks, your filter gets clogged with the fear of the unknown and frustration of no control.

The dialysis machine does the same work. Pulling and pushing the thick red life through tiny tubes like an organ suspended in the air, a medical miracle in a whirring beige box. A cylinder stained burgundy, platelets and thick toxins forming a layer on the top, doing its best to continuously clean the blood that the kidneys cannot.

The dialysate hangs on a thin metal pole behind the machine. Dozens of bags filled with transparent liquid sag in a crude circle like a morbid bouquet of balloons. It looks as innocuous as water, like the boring stuff of sinks and showers, but it is in those heavy sacks that the secret hides.

It balances blood pH, adds vital nutrients, keeps renal failure at bay, artificially.

But it does more.

It lifts sinking souls, supports spirits, keeps hope alive, organically.

The dialysate is made of natural elements like potassium and calcium and magnesium, all the things you’d get from a bunch of bananas. Nothing fancy, no synthetic man-made magic. It creates a safe, supportive environment where the the blood can purge and purify. It gives the body a chance to find its way home. Without the dialysate the filter would fail.

So when the ultrafiltration of your body and mind sticks and binds, and the weight of a loved one’s pain overwhelms you, turn to your mother. Your sister. Your wife. Whoever it is that can hold you, cradle you, keep you strong where you alone would crash. Turn to your people to help you get all that negative gunk and gripping pain out of your filter. Wash your soul in the support and love of emotional-dialysate.

And when their filters struggle, too, when the darkness of all that unfairness blocks out the light of even the strongest optimism, remember that many are more stable than one.

The man in the bed, that brilliant, stubborn, wonderful man, the one fighting the silent battle of heart rates and blood pressures and medications, needs all of his filters – emotional and physical – to be clean.

Take every little victory and wear it like positively-charged armor. Pull out the best stuff. Throw the worst away.

You’ll be left with a net-positive.

Some freshly scrubbed optimism when all other news seems dire.

A golden glint of hope.

“Healing is a matter of time, but it is sometimes also a matter of opportunity.”
Hippocrates

An Open Letter to my Bone Marrow

January 4, 2013 · by Oliver Gray

Dear weird red squiggly stuff inside my bones,

I know we don’t sit down and talk very often (or ever, come to think). I know you probably feel neglected. I know that recently, we’ve had a pretty rocky relationship: me, falling off of ladders, you, refusing to fight off infections every time I go on vacation.

But for the most part, it’s been good, right? Twenty-seven years of relatively pleasant symbiosis? I gotta ask you for something pretty huge, and I hope that our shared history is enough for you to acquiesce.

I’m gonna need you to let some doctors suck you out through my hip bones so you can go live inside my dad.

I know it sounds weird. But it’s for a really good cause! He really needs my (your) help right now, and if you do this for me (us) I promise to take better care of you. I won’t drink that last beer when I’ve already had enough. I’ll eat more oranges and kale. I’ll even go running more, if that’s what you want.

All he needs is for you to go in there and do what you’ve been doing in me. Get all up in his immune system and go all Rambo on those Leukemia cells. Give him back his energy and life. Give the whole family renewed hope.

That’s all. I ask nothing more than for you to do your job somewhere else for a little bit. Think of it as getting to travel for work. All of the airfare and accommodations are covered, you just have to show up for the meetings.

On January 18, when you’re making that trip down the hall at Hopkins, remember this letter. If you won’t do it for me, do it for him. Do it because he deserves this for being a great man and a great father. Do it because he deserves a life free from the worries and weight of cancer. Do it because I still have so much left to learn from him and I want him around to see me become a man he’s proud of.

Do it because the world needs more people like him. More people full of optimism and humor, more people willing to face a challenge with a smile and a laugh, more people who rise to a challenge and beat it back with fierce determination.

Do it because I love him.

Yours, literally,
-Oliver

Do it, because, and I quote, "“During your teenage years you were a pain in the ass.Now I get to be a pain in yours.”

Do it, because, and I quote my dad, ““During your teenage years you were a pain in the ass. Now I get to be a pain in yours.”

Full Frontal Phlebotomy

April 26, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

Sorry folks, no beer today.

Instead of putting fluids into my body, I’ve signed up to have them taken out.

I’m donating bone marrow on May 11th to treat my father’s leukemia. This means the Johns Hopkins Hospital Phlebotomy staff get to have their way with me, whenever they want. I’ve never really loved needles, but I’ve also never feared them. I can’t really be mad at the needles though, they’re just trying to do their job.

They’ve taken a lot of blood from my 5’7, 150lb frame. Twenty-two vials two months ago, sixteen vials yesterday, a pint and little bit today. If not for that “Hospital” word being on every sign on every wall, I’d think this place was run by not-so-subtle vampires.

The hospital staff seems astonished at how healthy I am. I find this a bit surprising, as I’m pretty inconsistent with taking care of my body. I hope they don’t notice the extreme level of hops and barley that I assume have permeated my blood. Or the overabundance of caffeine that, given my coffee intake, has probably mutated my red cells into hazelnut hybrids.

But what’s a little blood and marrow for my Dad? For all he’s defended me from, all he’s taught me, all he’s paid for, the least I can do is give him a few bags of my vital fluids. I just think back to all those times he helped me up off the soccer field when I was legitimately hurt, and all those times he told me to walk it off when I was being a wuss. All those times he taught me which bolts to loosen in what order, to prevent an exhaust manifold from falling onto my head. And all those times he showed me what respect, confidence, humility, and bravery were all about, through his careful words and actions.

He taught me how to be tough, how to be awesome, and most importantly how to overcome any obstacle in life, no matter how massive or threatening. It seems fitting that I’m using all of those skills he passed along to get through this donation process.

But don’t misunderstand. The donation may be stressful and painful, but I’m excited to do it. Giving him my marrow (that really isn’t doing anything else right now) is a tiny gift, compared to the gifts he has given me.

Oliver 1 : Dad 4,322,012.

Against hospital rules, I took some pictures. Oops:

Stage 1: Empty

I have no idea what each of these are for. I asked, but my needle-bearer could only tell me what additives were inside. The tests being done on them remain a total mystery.

Stage 2: Extraction

These pictures suck because I was being all clandestine, trying to snap them with my phone when people weren’t looking. This needle is piffling compared to the 16 gauge sucker I had rammed into my veins this morning.

Stage 3: Filled

That’s a lot of blood. I feel a bit woozy. I’m going to go lay down for a while.

Profiling

February 3, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

For both of my core classes (Nonfiction Techniques and Contemporary Nonfiction), I have to write profiles. I’ve written a few in the past (my favorite being of Dr. Christopher Vilmar at Salisbury University), so I am no stranger to the format and nuances of personal description.

This is great news! I love writing profiles! Meeting and working with new people ranks as one of my favorite activities. If I could make a career out of talking to new people every day, I’d be one happy writer.

My problem isn’t writing a profile, it’s choosing who to profile. I find way too many people way too interesting. My teachers are adamant that I interview someone I don’t really know (using “know” like know), partly as an exercise in good journalism, partly to remain as objective as possible. The profiles are supposed to capture not only the personality and mannerisms of the person, but also speak to a broader theme.

I’ve cast my social net, trolling for an interesting, dynamic personality. So far, I’ve come up with the following (with my proposed theme/tone of the piece):

Current head of Police for the University of Maryland (A piece on the different faces of crime on a prominent college campus, in one of the highest crime counties in Maryland)
Highly qualified IT project manager that cannot find a job and has been unemployed for over a year (A commentary piece on unemployment, especially in a field that everyone assumes is stable)
Random dude who bags groceries at Safeway (A “watchman” piece about a normal guy who sees a daily cross-section of our culture, buying habits, and attitudes)
My neighbor, who is the executive director of an assisted living home (An emotional piece about living and taking care of people near the end of their lives)
My mandolin teacher, who is as much a philosopher as he is a musician (A piece on teaching and how music applies to all aspects of life, through theory and philosophy)

I feel like I could write any of these well, but I can’t commit to any one thing. The Safeway dude might come across really well (especially how I’m imagining the narrative arc), but it also has the possibility to be boring, should the interview be flat. Timing is very important, so the current social and political climate should definitely be taken into consideration.

I’m also open to anything completely random that has potential. I’ll strike up a conversation with anyone, if I think it’ll be interesting.

Throwing it out into the void. What do you readers think? Do any of these stand out more than the others? Would you prefer to read any of these specifically?

Comments, suggestions, ideas very welcome!

Rush Hour

January 27, 2012 · by Oliver Gray

On Monday night, running through the streets of DC, headed for a building I’d never seen before, I had a moment of serenity.

I was late for my first day of class. I had been planning for this day for months; I left work early, had all my books and notes together, and was thoroughly prepared to be a kickass student once again. The cruel fates who control the DC Metro had made other plans. The train I was on lurched and heaved awkwardly, often unable (or perhaps unwilling) to open and close its door. I was constantly checking my phone, watching my elaborate plan fall to pieces as large chunks of time were wasted at each stop. Just short of my destination, the train sighed and moved no more. They off-loaded all of the passengers and announced that “due to a mechanical failure, you’re all going to be late. Our bad.”

I, a paragon of punctuality, panicked. I considered my options. A cab would be costly, but I’d only be a few minutes late. I could wait for another train, but my hopes were dim. I did, in the end, what I often do: I ran. I booked it for the broken escalator (which seemed all too appropriate at the time), dodging packs of pissed off commuters. I came out of the Metro right onto the DC Mall; the ghostly image of the Capitol stood out in the foggy night air. I ran across the grass and mud, hoping to hail the first taxi I came across. I had no cash, but figured I’d sort it out later.

I couldn’t find a single cab. It was rush hour, but not a glimpse of yellow could be seen! I decided to just keep walking in the general direction of class, eventually reaching the next Metro station. I abandoned my cab idea, decided to get back on the train and continue on as originally planned. I made it to the building around 6:20 for a 6:00 class. I entered the classroom, apologetic and sweaty. Fortunately, the teacher of this class is awesome, and he was forgiving. My only punishment was to tell the class a story.

As I unpacked my things and regained my composure in the little classroom, I suddenly felt at peace. I realized that I was out of breath, leg aching, bounding up the giant escalators of the Dupont Circle station, because I legitimately cared about being late. I’m often blasé about getting to work on time, mainly because it’s not amazingly rewarding. But here I was, stressed and pushing myself to my limits to not be a few minutes late for a class. I didn’t appreciate the feeling of dedicated learning time during my undergraduate years. I was too concerned with 10,000 other things. Now, in a world where those 10,000 other things are 1,000,000 things, often not chosen by me, it is incredibly calming to have 5 hours a week where I can do nothing but learn.

Both of my classes seem excellent. The teachers are exuberant and friendly, my classmates eager to share their experiences. I didn’t think I could be more excited than I was when I was accepted to this program months ago. But here I sit, on the proverbial edge of my seat, practically drooling to see what’s next.

Hidden moral of this story? Never, ever, trust the DC Metro to get you anywhere on time. Doubly so if you have somewhere important to be.

One hundred and eighty-eight feet, ten inches.