The miraculous and the mundane

Sometimes, life breaks in.

For Tana, everything changed when she got the cancer diagnosis, and everything changed when they found a potential match for a transplant — that match was me.

For my part, it was less than miraculous. I was a sophomore in college headed back to the dorm when I got stopped by some overzealous strangers standing behind a sign that said “DKMS: We Delete Blood Cancer.” They hurled another slogan at me, “SWAB TO SAVE A LIFE!” and so I did. After the two-minute detour on a Tuesday afternoon, I proceeded to my room and resumed life as normal. It was nearly two years later DKMS called me about the match.

I declined the first call from the unknown number, and the second. The third call in a row made me pick up the phone and answer, “Hello?” After some explaining from the kind stranger, the distant memory of “swabbing to save a life” was surfaced and I began to understand what was happening: I entered the global registry and somehow, against the 0.03% chance, I was a potential match for someone with cancer. “We can’t tell you much more than that, would you like to proceed?”

My answer in that moment, and in dozens of small moments to come, would contribute to a miracle for Tana and her family. Not only did we proceed with the transplant, it was successful. Not only was it successful, we just celebrated 5 years of remission. Statistically speaking, 5 years marks a near 0% chance of the cancer coming back.

On the far side of this donation process, there was a lot I didn’t understand. What actually happened, how did it happen, and why did it happen? I went through stages similar to grief — denial, avoidance, blame-shifting, and finally, acceptance. Slowly, ever so slowly, reality began to come into focus through two things: The first is proximity, the second is my own family.

Tana and her husband, Louie, have two adult sons. When Tana was diagnosed, their oldest son and his wife were pregnant with Luna, Tana’s first grandchild. Fast-forward to two years after the transplant, I am waiting to meet the family when I see 2-year-old Luna walking toward me with open arms. To her, I am a fictional character that “helped Nana feel better,” but to me, Luna is my teacher. Luna’s father follows with a much more forceful embrace. Then Louie. Then Adam. Then Tana’s sister. Then Tana again. Over their shoulder, I see my own mother, who I love beyond words. Immersed in the love of another family, I think of my own, and I began to understand. Not with my head, but with my heart.

I wasn’t present for their childhood memories, the chemo, or the initial rejection of the transplant; I came after the wreckage, after the victory. But proximity, embodied presence over shared meals, games, and conversations on multiple occasions, formed relationships that led to empathy and a deeper knowledge beyond words. This weekend, in the absence of my understanding, we celebrated. We ate, we drank, and we laughed — for what? For the miracle of life.

Aubrey and I returned home from Tana’s 5th birthday celebration late Monday night, faced with the responsibilities of Tuesday morning. In one sense, the story has a happy ending. In another sense, I will be sitting with its lessons for years to come. Life is full of seemingly insignificant moments, how many others contain miracles?

For now, I leave you with a pocket philosophy: Faith in the next right decision, however small, is sufficient for today. Even if we don’t see it, even if we never will, there might be bigger things at play, things beyond our understanding. In light of this, we can celebrate life in both the mundane and the miraculous, and we can do it together.