Lessons learned from a lost love

What we subsequently learned was unbelievable. Mark Green, the man who had never been sick a day in his life, had a rare type of leukemia associated with early progression to death, and with no known effective treatment options. A review of the literature revealed that the patient known to have survived this disease for the longest duration, a brief nine months, was a 52-year-old Frenchman. Mark, who had played offensive line at Harvard and was still at age 69 a rather studly specimen, replied: “Surely, I can outlast a Frenchman!” I simply replied: “Surely, you can!” In consultation with Rob Stuart, colleagues and friends worldwide, we selected the therapy with the greatest likelihood of success. Not to be outdone by a Frenchman, Mark soldiered on.

But nothing worked. Heart, lungs, kidneys and bone marrow all persisted in patterns of failure. Disappointed, but undeterred, we tried combination therapy after combination therapy. Though Mark was continuously ill, often in pain and in and out of the ICU, we committed ourselves to joyful living, for life is a precious gift, which you can appreciate best when you know that your days are numbered. Every student, intern and resident who entered Mark’s room was favored with a lecture on his illness and a tutorial on doing physical examinations. The doctor was always in! No surprise, his room always was filled with on-duty and off-duty residents and fellows. Whether in the hospital or at home, we danced when we could. We sang. We canoodled. We welcomed our first grandchild into the world.

On the morning before Mark died, he came downstairs in his bathrobe. I was making coffee and asked him why he hadn’t waited upstairs. He said to me, “Judith, we need to have an existential conversation on the nature of life and death.” It was a conversation I hoped to never have to have. He told me that he had surrendered himself to God and asked my permission to let go. He died in my arms less than 24 hours later with the same degree of grace and dignity with which he had livedI have been told that this brief moment at your annual meeting is often dedicated to the happy testimony of a fortunate surviving patient. This year you have the adverse luck of hearing from the perspective of a surviving widow on an unwished for outcome. Yet, it is important for you to know the gratitude that I feel. Mark and I, like most of you, could have received our care at the facility of our choice. Well-meaning colleagues at Harvard encouraged us to receive our care there. Colleagues at Emory, the University of Pennsylvania and the University of California all echoed that sentiment. Mark and I came to the conclusion that we had every confidence in the care we would receive here at MUSC and so we chose to stay home in Charleston. Our physicians provided expert, thoughtful considered care. The nurses, to a person, were experienced, compassionate and professional. Every phlebotomist, X-Ray tech, financial counselor, pharmacist, out-patient staff, in-patient staff, ER personnel, I mean everyone was deserving of our praise and gratitude. 

Perhaps you’re thinking that Mark received preferential treatment, because of who he was, and that’s why I feel this way. I won’t dispute that, but in no way does it negate the tender, personalized care we received and witnessed others receiving over the course of our professional careers.

Three brief weeks after Mark passed, his oldest brother Neil, the immediate past chair of pediatric orthopedics at Vanderbilt University was diagnosed with advanced lung cancer. He chose to come here and be treated at MUSC as well to ensure that his treatment would be consistent with what Mark would have recommended for him. I was visiting with Neil in his hospital room at ART one day while he was recovering from surgery. He asked the nurse who was attending to his wound to please send for her supervisor. I held my breath as I considered a discreet exit plan. But before I could even say au revoir, the nurse supervisor arrived. She exuded a defensive posture as she prepared to receive what would surely be an excoriating complaint. My brother-in-law proceeded to gruffly say: “You may not know that I am a professor of surgery at Vanderbilt University and I have had occasion to be hospitalized at that outstanding institution. But I must say, I have never received such professional, kind and capable care as I have received here and I want to say “thank you.” I was both relieved and flabbergasted as was the nurse supervisor. Neil passed away a short six months later.

Today, I stand before you to report that although the outcome of the care we received was not the outcome we longed for and prayed for, my heart is filled with well-deserved praise and gratitude for the tender care we did receive. So how does a surviving spouse keep marching on when the world as she knew it has ended? How do we make sense of our future? As for myself, I have chosen in my remaining time on Earth to ensure, to the best of my ability, that Mark will not be forgotten. I’ve invested my energy and wealth at MUSC and the Hollings Cancer Center.

My daughters and I have endowed a Visiting Professorship in Thoracic Oncology to honor Mark’s work and legacy. I also have made provision in my will to leave a remainder gift, and I invite you to do the same. I believe with all my heart that this investment is merited. We are beyond fortunate to have MUSC here. Let us all commit together to strengthening our cancer center to ensure its continuance and in so doing to give greater meaning to our lives and the lives of our loved one.