Keynote Speaker for the Pan Mass Challenge Check Presentation to Dana Farber

Bill Eidson

Keynote Speaker for the Pan Mass Challenge check presentation to Dana Farber

Good morning. I want to thank all of you, and Billy Starr for the opportunity to tell my story. I’m honored to be up here today, so close to donating a check to Dana Farber.

As Billy mentioned, I’m a writer. I’ve had six of my suspense novels published, and a new one out next year.

But if I were to write my family history of cancer, I’m certain no one would publish it—they would say it’s too common a story.

I’m sure many of you who have worked so hard to raise money and battle this disease have similar stories to tell.

That’s the ugly fact of cancer. It remains just too common a visitor in too many lives.

My family first encountered cancer when my mother, Mary Eidson, was diagnosed with breast cancer in 1986. She was 56 years old.

I did what a writer does in those days before the web—I went to the library and read up on cancer.

I remember thinking, “There must be some mistake. I must be reading a dated book or something.” Because the book I was reading said that the odds were against my mother living more than five years.

But we had good news for a while. After a radical mastectomy, she went into remission. But the cancer came back and she died within seven years. We denied it every step of the way, but that’s what happened.

Around the time my mother first became sick, my father wrote a novel called THE BLUE HELIX. It wasn’t a story about cancer, but it was a story about escaping death. THE BLUE HELIX is the story of an elderly scientist who, in attempt to save his dying wife, manages to reverse the aging process.

Now, with the superhuman qualities of the characters, my dad’s book was far from a thinly disguised autobiography. However, there’s no doubt that his fundamental desire to save his wife, my mother, was his motivation.

I sent my father’s book along to my agent. He liked it, and tried to get it published.

Several major houses seemed genuinely interested, but when all was said and done they passed on the book, saying it was too hard to categorize.

Years passed. My father moved on with his life, and met a wonderful woman, Dr. Nell Morsch. They fell in love, and rebuilt her house together and he prepared to move in.

By and large, this was a happy time for most of us: My brother John and his wife, Amy. My sister, Martha and her husband Bill. Me and Donna, and my son, Nick.

But it was a terribly difficult time for my sister, Catherine. Her husband, Albert Sinkys, a talented actor and director, was diagnosed with esophageal cancer. We watched him turn to skin and bones, and deal with the nausea, the hair loss, and weakness.

He held on for six years. And in the last year of his illness, my sisters, brother, and I got a phone call that told us our experience with cancer was far from over. While trying to identify a nagging cough, my father’s doctors diagnosed lung cancer.

So now my brother-and-law and father were both working through what would be their final year.

My father chose to take a minimal course of treatment since his cancer was too widespread to cure. He chose to make the most of his remaining life with Nell and the rather constant visits from his four children and only grandchild, Nick.

On the day after he received the news that his cancer was terminal, he stopped by my house and asked me to help him get his book, THE BLUE HELIX published. “It’s my only piece of unfinished business,” he said.

With the help of my cousin’s husband, Rick Berry, we found a small but high quality publisher in New Hampshire who was enthusiastic about the book and did a wonderful job producing it.

I’d like to say editing my father’s book was a warm and pleasant experience—but, the truth is, I had more arguments with my father than I ever did in a lifetime. “Who are you to change my writing?” he’d say.

But the final experience of seeing a finished copy in his hand was every bit as gratifying for me as it was for him.

And as the very end came closer, good reviews started coming in, including one from Publishers Weekly. And one day before he passed into a coma and died—he was able to read a half page review and article of his book in The Providence Journal. Quoting from that review, “The passion that Eidson brings to THE BLUE HELIX rings clear and true on every page.”

What my father didn’t know during those last few months of his life, and what we chose not to tell him, was that I was sick, too.

My brother-in-law, Albert passed away in July of 1999. I flew out to California with my sister and brother to be with Catherine and Albert’s family for the funeral.

Then, not long after I got back, I went in to my physician, Dr. Stephen Atlas, at Mass General for a routine physical exam. Luckily, that exam included a standard questionnaire. I checked off that I was tired. That I had noticed some easy bruising.

I mentioned that on a recent hill climb on my bike in Maine, my heart had been pounding like crazy. I had been dismissing such symptoms, but “since you asked,” I told him.

Lucky for me, Stephen Atlas is a conscientious doctor. He gave me a blood test, and then called me that night to say I was quite anemic.

Shortly after, he sent me to Dr. Zareh Demirjian, a hematologist at Mass General. By that point, my illness was becoming much more pronounced. I was pale and lethargic. I knew that leukemia was one possible diagnosis for my condition.

Here I was in the hospital where both my mother and father died. And I had a wife and son. As he did the bone marrow extraction, Dr. Demirjian asked, “What are you thinking?”

I said, “I’m feeling fatalistic.” He assured me that that “There are lots of options. Lots of things we can do.”

I thought, “Yeah, right.” I was also struck, if not at that moment, but days later, that I didn’t have the luxury of being fatalistic. My son was only seven years old at the time.

A week later, my wife, Donna, and I went in to see Dr. Demirjian and he said, he had a “Bad news, good news” diagnosis.

The bad news was that I had leukemia, and it was very advanced. My white blood cell count was down to 100—and it should be around 5,000. That meant I was very susceptible to any passing infection.

But the good news was that it was hairy cell leukemia, which is one of the most treatable of the leukemias. And the chemotherapy, cladribine, is remarkably non-invasive.

Dr. Demirjian was true to his word. I was in the hospital for a week receiving a course of the chemo. I went home after that, and then came back for a week to help control my high fevers.

But then I was home. Very weak, yes, but home. And so far, I’ve never had to do anything about my cancer other than checkups.

I quickly gained strength. And by January I was well enough to start riding my bike again. And in February, I made good on a commitment that I had made to myself back in the hospital…that I would ride in the PMC.

While training, I was lucky to meet two other PMC riders on the road, Bill Rosenfeld and Joel Adler, who’ve become good friends as well as riding buddies.

That summer, I rode the PMC within two weeks of a year since I was first diagnosed with cancer.

I was struck the first time and the two times since that this ride is one of the best things I do in life. And I have a good life.

This spring, I was fortunate to get a freelance assignment to write a television script about Lance Armstrong.

I spent many hours reviewing interview tapes of Lance. One of the things he has said is that in many ways, the cancer was good for him in terms of changing his body and in changing his views of life.

Now, I’m not as generous as Lance. I’d much rather have done without cancer. However, I did see some wonderful things along the way:

My family’s love for my mother. She knew beyond a shadow of doubt how much we cared for her and how we didn’t want to see her go.

My family’s love for my father. My sisters Catherine and Martha, from NYC and Oregon, were with him frequently. My brother John, who lived nearby, was there constantly. My father’s new love, Nell, stood by him with humor and grace, and made what could have been a horrible year as loving and close as possible.

I saw my father’s book live on. This year, my brother and sisters kindly added the royalties from THE BLUE HELIX to my ride in the PMC, in addition to their own generous contributions.

I saw the love and support for me during my illness. My wife, Donna, was with me every step of the way.

Her mother, Molly Furlong, came to stay with us when I first came home from the hospital and took care of me when Donna had to go back to work.

My Aunt and Uncle, Theresa and Frank Vaughan took me in for a week when my son came home with an infection from school—and I had to beat it out of the house fast.

Friends and neighbors came through in a way that was truly remarkable. They formed a group that sent meals to us virtually every night, and my son came to believe he was the most popular kid in Arlington with all the play dates.
Finally, perhaps the most remarkable thing I discovered quite personally is what doctors truly can do. Cures CAN happen. Cancer doesn’t have to be a death sentence.
When I ride, I think about that, I think about the enormous pleasure of being alive, of being with my family. That pleasure, to some degree, was bought by the intelligence and hard work of people like the doctors and researchers at Dana Farber.

Therefore, it’s my great honor to be here helping present this donation to Dana Farber—and to stand in front of you, my fellow PMC riders and friends.

Thank you.