Travels to Uncharted Territories
A True Story -PART ONE
Like so many of our experiences in life, not a single one arrives in a vacuum. They’re delivered in the context of a lifetime of other experiences - some related and some not. But the latter distinction hides behind the curtain of time.
Back in the late 70’s, I set off hitch-hiking from Aspen, Colorado where I had wintered as a ski bum, to Yellowstone National Park where I had worked the preceding summer and fall as a bartender. It was early May, and this time my destination was the Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel where I would become their new bartender and lounge manager. The hotel rested peacefully five miles south of the northern entrance to the park. So, I pretty much had two million acres of paradise “beneath” me to explore.
I became a committed employee from 3:45 pm to midnight when the bar served our last drinks, but I spent most of my remaining hours on the trails throughout the northwestern part of the park. I would start hiking from the “Hot Springs” area in the early morning and head off in countless directions, savoring the best that this natural world has to offer. By early afternoon, I would head back to my cabin for a quick shower and then off to work.
Life was really good! Though I would occasionally, and with hesitation, hitch-hike to trailheads maybe an hour away, it was uncommon for me to get more than ten miles away from home base. Most of the fifty by sixty-mile playground had never been graced by my well-worn boots.
SO, early one day in July, I set off via thumb to Livingston, Montana to hunt for a used pick-up truck. The trek consisted of about a seventy-mile leg headed north on route 89 which dead-ended into an east-west highway that went a few miles east into town. The trip to the town must have been uneventful since I don’t remember the rides or typically kind drivers who picked me up. I do remember traveling parallel to railroad tracks at a couple points along the way.
After a few hours of searching in Livingston, I had prospects, but no wheels. With the summer sun above and the black pavement below, I put out my thumb as I started the few-mile trek headed west toward the road that would take me south to the park. In the midday, there was only a rare passing car, and I was starting to sweat more with each set of retreating taillights.
Within fifteen minutes, a very long freight train “ambled” by going westward, maybe a couple hundred yards away. I was the only one with keys to set up the bar, so I started running. By the time I reached the train, the best I could do was sprint alongside and lunge with one arm to grab a passing ladder. Winded, I climbed inside an empty boxcar and relaxed, savoring the passing fields and “Big Sky” vistas. The bliss lasted no more than ten minutes as the accelerating train passed a section of train tracks where I, for some reason, assumed it would have veered south toward Yellowstone.
I quickly climbed over to the ladder, hung as low as I could, and dropped, hoping I could sprint and then slow down. With the train probably going close to twenty miles an hour, my dismount didn’t go well. Though I can vividly remember going head over heels down the two-inch rocks, I doubt I’ve given the incident more than a fleeting thought for decades . . . until recently when I’ve reacquired that sense that I’ve gotten on a fast-moving train and there’s no painless way to get off.
Before I fast-forward to 2024, let me say that the hitch-hiking, train, truck saga ended well. I dusted myself off, licked my wounds, and with luck got a couple rides back to Mammoth Hot Springs Hotel in time for work.
A few weeks later, after a more successful, but less eventful trip to Livingston, I became the proud owner of a 1968, gold and white Chevy pick-up. And in that truck, I chauffeured Emily, a bright and caring young woman I’d just met, on our first date. We drove and then hiked to an abandoned ghost town and cemetery in Jardine, Montana. As we sat among the overgrown grasses and wildflowers surrounding tombstones of all shapes and sizes, we reflected on the passing of time and the hardships of those hearty American pioneers.
I’m not going to try to sum up the better part of five decades of shared experiences here, but I will say that Emily, my bride, and I have developed our own evolving perspective on all of the above. And recently, we’ve had a renewed interest in cemeteries.
Spring of 2024 arrived with an abundance of beautiful native plants in our small-town yard. All around us here in southeastern Wisconsin, the fields were coming alive as the winter wheat greened up and budding soybeans and corn let their plans be known. As it turns out, new growth had been germinating within my bride as well.
During the first week of April, Emily developed some moderately severe symptoms that fit quite neatly into those of a specific and fairly common diagnosis. With appropriate treatment she did not respond as expected, so her primary care doctor referred her for a CT scan. The reading of that one test took almost a week, which I, as a retired physician assistant, took as a bad sign.
My worst fears were greatly superseded as my wife and I sat in front of her computer screen trying to take in the gravity of the radiologist’s report. Though numerous malignant appearing lesions of many sizes were described, at no point were the number of tumors even suggested. Emily was confused and I was inwardly devastated.
Several days later, we sat down with an oncologist and his extremely proficient nurse-care coordinator. In my thirty-five-year career in medicine I’ve met hundreds of providers, but only a handful in the league of these two. Dr “V” introduced himself as he shook my wife’s hand with both of his, and then in turn mine, attentively searching our eyes. He placed his open laptop on the counter and then swiveled back around toward us on his stool.
His gaze now fixed on Emily, he said, “Please tell me about yourselves, I need to know who I’m working with.” Though his waiting room was full, it was clear that he saw this as a critical part of his care for both of us. And then he listened, first to Emily and then to me, like our lives and futures depended on it.
After those few minutes, he took a breath and with a mix of compassion and conviction looked at Emily: “You have stage IV cancer.” He went on to explain that there had already been an extensive spread of her cancer. Even though it’s been two months since he showed us the CT images in his office, I can still remember the instant the diagnosis went from abstract to all too real.
Throughout our visit, Mel, his nurse clicked away on her laptop, as the doctor outlined the many tests and procedures that he recommended before he would meet with a multidisciplinary team to discuss Emily’s refined diagnosis and treatment options. By the end of the roughly half-hour visit, Mel read through the half dozen appointments and referrals she’d finagled on Emily’s behalf. I could not believe how quickly she managed to get access to such a high level of care - but I knew why.
From the beginning, Dr V made it clear that a good quality of life was the target, but cancer care and research were constantly evolving. Elimination of every last cancer cell was unrealistic, but we were both encouraged that “years” were potentially on the table.
The physician’s credentials and the reviews which I had checked beforehand, reflected a learned professional driven by compassion, and a respect for evidence-based medicine. Those two exemplary human beings went further as they engendered a level of confidence and trust that I would have never even fathomed. When we left the cancer center, we left with a bunch of appointments and the unexpected.
And when you're stuck on a train that you can’t get off, hope is a mighty fine companion.
Please stay tuned for an update and - “One Perspective on a Common Journey”
Experienced guides on this track for sure, Mark. Jumping off a train going the wrong direction; seeing that courage my friend.
Every. Single. Moment. Is. A. Gift.
Cherish them. That goes for all of us.
I missed you, Mark. Blessings, my brother.