We drove the entire distance of 238 feet to the collection center next door and performed the same slow, exhausted two-step shuffle into the lobby, with my wife propping me up as I walked.

We sat down for a little while to rest, then I approached the window by myself to register my name and give my military identification card to the attendant. After I had stood in line for a few seconds, an elderly gentleman who was seated next to the registration window gave me a puzzled look. He (rather calmly, as I recall) spoke to me.

“Hey there, young fella; I think you’re bleeding.”

I drew my hand back to my hip where the bone marrow pull “shovel work” had been done and felt some moisture. I pulled my hand forward to my face and saw my hand was covered with my own blood.

Sweet!

Funny, I actually smiled for a second, looking at the thin blood running down my hand. I thought this situation was like an old western movie after all the shooting was over. You know, the local sheriff stands up from behind the water trough, and the female lead screams and faints, while the sheriff slowly wipes his back, looks at his hands, and says,

“Damn it, Jeb; I’m hit. Go fetch the doc!”

Oh, shit. I’m bleeding out the bandage that Dr. Speeling put over my hip, and my shorts are soaked. Try not to make a scene here. Just go get my wife; she hasn’t seen it yet. Just be cool; do not make a scene.

“Honey, would you come here, please? I need some help.”

I wiped my hands on my shorts, grabbed some tissue from a box, and tried to clean up as best as I could. I was thankful for the hand sanitizer right there at the counter. My wife then saw the red blood oozing down my leg and looked very worried and confused. I quietly made another request.

“Hey, sweetie, would you please go out to the car and get my spare clothes, and then how about I meet you in the back at the men’s bathroom right over there, okay?”

We had suspected that I might be hospitalized on this trip, so we packed a change of clothes just in case. Without a word, she nodded her response, and off she went to the car. I tried to look calm as I took my identification cards back from the attendant at the check-in counter and spoke to her.

“Ma’am, would you please see if you have a dressing or a bandage for me, as I’m bleeding a bit and need to go clean up in the men’s bathroom?”

I don’t think she saw my blood-covered palm nor the blood oozing down my leg, because she responded in a normal manner.

“Sure, let me check in this gentleman behind you, and I will have someone bring it back there for you.”

I said my thanks and shuffled over to the men’s room, trying my best to hide my blood-drenched leg from the rest of the other patients waiting. When finally in the bathroom and out of public view, I settled down a bit and took inventory of myself while removing my bloody shorts and underwear. From my military first aid training, I knew to not remove the soaked bandages, but to add more bandages on top of them, putting direct pressure on the wound and elevating it if I could.

Leaving the pressure bandage over the “excavation site” I added more and more tissue from the bathroom dispenser trying to get the small opening to clot. With very few platelets in my blood, clotting was becoming difficult. I was still bleeding quite a bit.

My wife came into the men’s room but stopped short and gasped when she saw the amount of blood draining out of the wound on my hip and flowing down my leg.

She looks a little scared. Just be calm, and don’t make a huge issue out of this. If I stay calm, so will everyone else.

Without a word, my wife handed me the spare set of clothes. She was helping me clean up and contain my blood-soaked clothes in a plastic bag, when a nurse from the check-in station entered the bathroom. She walked right in, very casually, then froze at the sight of us. I guess I should say the spectacle of us: a totally naked man in the men’s room, with a flustered woman pressing blood-soaked towels on his hip, while trying to bag the bloody clothes and wiping the bloody countertops.

We froze, too, and stopped everything we were doing, now embarrassed at the shocking blood-soaked nudity we presented—right out of a horror movie.

We stared at her, and she stared at us, for what seemed like forever. After that uncomfortable pause, the nurse recovered from the initial shock of the scene. Calmly walking up to me, with a fully outstretched arm, she offered a medium-sized band-aid from the medical box.

“Will this help?”

In my nakedness, I almost laughed. Taking the band-aid, I thanked her for her work.

“Why, yes, ma’am! That should do the trick! Thank you very much!”

She turned around and triumphantly left the bathroom, looking like she had accomplished her goal. I slipped the band-aid into my wife’s purse, and we kept on working with direct pressure, trying to get the hole in my hip to clot.

Thankfully, no one else entered the men’s room during our nude, bloody affair, and after around ten minutes, the bleeding finally stopped.

I dressed in my spare clothes, then my wife began to escort me out of the restroom and back to the front desk. I was out of breath, and my slow, two-step shuffle was almost an intolerable chore; things felt worse. My muscles were weak, and my legs were very heavy.

We made it out of the restroom and into the lobby, about halfway back to the counter, right at center stage for everyone who was waiting for service to see us. Then, I started to lose my peripheral vision, and I immediately knew what was happening.

Fighter pilots are accustomed to pulling centrifugal forces or “G” forces on our bodies. The turning force of our aircraft is usually so violent that it pulls the blood out of the pilot’s head and moves it down into our abdomen and legs. If enough blood is pulled away from the head, the pilot might lose some vision just prior to feeling lightheaded and then passing out. If the pilot is performing a good anti-G straining maneuver by tightening the legs and abdomen muscles, the blood might stay up in the brain and eyes.

In the air, while turning, when the pilot observes a lack of vision or tunnel vision, we can let off the turn to reduce the G forces, or we can bear down harder with an anti-G straining maneuver to increase blood pressure. Both should allow blood flow back up into our heads; however, I had neither option, so I knew I was done for.

Oh, shit; I’m losing it. Stay awake, don’t make a huge scene. Bend down and relax. Try to get your head below your heart; kneel down, now.

I slowly knelt, knowing the tunnel vision and darkness would soon do me in. Putting one knee on the floor, I glanced up and caught the look of real fear in my wife’s eyes. As lovingly as I could, I whispered to her.

“I’m very sorry, honey, but I don’t think I’m going to make it.”

I passed out on the floor with a thud. I think I remember the sound my face made as it hit the floor—a very loud noise. It must have been quite a scene in the lobby. Everyone sitting there, passing time, waiting to have their blood taken. Then, in the middle of the room, just after a man covered in blood leaves the front desk, he comes out of the restroom and face plants right there on the floor, stage center.

I’m glad I missed it.

I wonder what the crowd response was with me lying there when the professional lady in the window asked,

“Who’s next?”

I had a short period of consciousness between the lobby and the hospital bed. I woke in an ambulance gurney; from what I could tell, we were in the back hallway of the laboratory clinic many minutes later. I was lying down with my feet elevated, and I heard my heart racing. It was really pounding, and my breathing was rapid and heavy. My shirt collar was soaked with the sweat that was pouring from my face and neck.

I tried to wipe the sweat from my forehead, but my arms were too weak to move. I looked up, bewildered by the circle of about eight people staring down at me and asking questions to each other. They all seemed very happy that I was awake.

“What happened to him?”
“What should we do, start an IV?”
“I think he just gave blood, and he passed out in the lobby.”
“Who was with him, anyone of you guys?”
“90 over 45; pulse is 130.”
“No, don’t do anything yet. I need to know what we are dealing with first. Can we get a pulse ox, also?”
“Man, he looks really pale. What’s wrong with him?”
“Yes, his wife is here.”
“What are his vitals now, please?”
“I’m not sure what happened; I just saw him hit the floor.”
“Hello, I’m his wife, and he’s my husband.”
“85 over 35; 140; pulse ox 67.”
“Did anyone take any samples from this guy?”
“No, we didn’t get him back here before he passed out.”

In the crowd and through the increased jabber, I slowly picked out Dr. Speeling’s face, and I was very happy to see him. From his office, it must have taken at least ten minutes to get to the laboratory area, so I’ve been out for a while.

Oddly, he kept his distance, like he was about to light a barbeque that had too much gas on it and had to throw the match from afar. He had a grimace on his face, as if he was about to do a very unpleasant task.

I thought I would lighten things up a bit.

“Hey, Doc, good to see you out and about. What calls you over from your office today?”

His smile returned, along with a little look of relief as he retorted.

“Well, we’ll have to get the idiot who did this to you.”

We both chuckled. Unfortunately, we would never share a laugh again.

Dr. Speeling quickly took charge and directed the nurses to take four vials of blood and get me admitted to the hospital next door.

The paramedics in the ambulance were efficient: blood was taken, oxygen was administered, and they worked as fast as they could to get the paperwork done prior to arriving back at the hospital, just 255 feet away.

What a waste of good medical resources. I’m sure I could have made the walk back to the hospital myself. These professionals have other, really sick people to attend to, not me.

My wife rapidly completed all the admittance forms and tucked me into the hospital bed in a third-floor room. I slept for a few minutes, but was soon awakened by a young nurse taking my blood pressure. Anyone who thinks they can get any rest in a hospital is woefully misguided.

I found that blood pressure and vitals were taken every fifteen minutes on the floor that I was on. The sicker you are, the more attention you get, and the less sleep you are allowed.

During the third blood pressure and vitals check, my wife entered the room, followed shortly by the admitting doctor—our same oncologist, Dr. Speeling.

The doctor’s countenance was direct and purposeful. His eyes were dark, dry, and irritated. He stood on the opposite side of the room, far away from us. Pulling a chair over to himself, he sat down, looking very serious.

I thought we might have some bad news, so I again tried to lighten the mood.

“Hey, good doctor! Good to see you again. Working late tonight, it looks like. You missed dinner at home, I take it?”

He ignored my joke and in a stoic voice, he spilled what was obviously very heavy on his heart.

“Mr. Reasor, well, you have leukemia.”

Because I was trying to analyze his impassive demeanor, I didn’t process this information right away. I blinked twice and looked at him sitting there grimly. It was surreal. His words entered my mind again, like watching a slow-motion horror film with a deep-voiced narrator.

“You … have … leukemia.”

I thought that this must just be his style. Maybe when he must inform people that they have a life-threatening situation, he gets the truth out there immediately. I guess he just doesn’t sugarcoat anything.

I felt my wife’s hand loosen her grip, while I looked up at her. She didn’t blink, but she stopped breathing for a second.

How am I going to care for her? How am I going to care for my kids?

For a fighter pilot family, facing adversity was nothing new, but my wife was just dealt more than her fair share. Barely two weeks earlier, we had scattered her mother’s ashes over the Superstition Mountains near Phoenix, and now I needed every ounce of strength she could muster for us and our family.

My wife is a tender woman: a very loving, fun, joking, take it easy, Type B personality. Everyone in our squadron and in our families loved her, but life was coming at her hard, and I was worried if she could take the upcoming stress.

She quickly dismissed my fears in one second of non-verbal communication. Her body leaned forward, her grip tightened on my hand, and her eyes narrowed. She was ready to fight. With this simple unspoken communication, I knew she was on board and her commitment would never be in question.

She would never leave me, never trade me in; she would endure all things and bear all things, until either she or I was dead.

At least for then I believed it, and that was good enough. I would come to realize that everyone has limits on what they can handle, and I would in the future miss the signs of her shutting down. I would fail her in not giving her the break and rest she would need. But for then I believed it, and that was good enough.

I relaxed and smiled at my wife. Looking down at me, she grinned, then shifted her gaze back to Dr. Speeling. She asked him directly.

“Okay, Doctor, tell us what’s next.”

I remained silent as Dr. Speeling leaned forward in his seat, then stiffly sat up. He said the most depressing words I have ever heard in my life.

“Well, to tell you the truth, it’s not a bad death.”

What? What was that? What did he just say? I don’t think he means that. “Not a bad death.” What? I’m dead already, and this is it? No fight, no struggle, no chance for victory? Just give up? He doesn’t know us very well; we never quit, never give up.

I heard his words again in slow motion:

“It’s not a bad death.”

The doctor’s lips were still moving, but I stopped registering everything for a few seconds and just stared at him. He looked uncomfortable at my expression and cleared his throat before he spoke again.

“Mr. Reasor, your bone marrow is nearly full of cancerous cells, and these cells are crowding out your normal functioning cells.”

My wife and I looked into each other’s eyes as the doctor glibly went on to explain how I would soon die.

“Your limited red cells will not be able to keep up with the demand for air causing weakness and shortness of breath.”

“It’s not a bad death” rang loud again, as I tried to listen to how I would endure my pleasant passing.

“Your white cells probably won’t keep up with the infection and your lungs will fill with pneumonia. Any cuts or scrapes in your skin won’t heal, as your platelets will fail to clot and stop the bleeding …”

“Okay, okay, Doc. Thank you, thank you … Sir.”

I interrupted my doctor’s medical explanation with a question.

“There have to be more options, Sir, as we really don’t want to execute your death plan.”

My wife and I shared a grin and exchanged a quick look of mutual determination; he didn’t know us very well. We were military people, planners, and proud of our passionate reasoning and logic. We needed numbers, options, backup plans and flow charts of engagement realities against the enemy.

I needed to know everything about the enemy, but right then I needed to know I had some chance of living.

“Sorry, Doc, that was rude. Thank you for caring for me today, but just for now, just numbers, please.”

His face still didn’t offer any comfort. He grimaced as he answered.

“Well, you have a 35 percent chance of living.”

I perked right up!

Not too bad. Surely that was something we could achieve. After all, who couldn’t hit a 66% on almost any test anywhere, at any time, right?

These hopeful numbers would quickly change for the worse, and our struggles would increase—as well as the damage caused to the people closest to me.