Article for Tourist and Town: Profile of Jack Nahil
Title: An Artistic Odyssey: Jack Nahil Forerunner of Experiential Hospitality
On the doorstep of the Atlantic Ocean, where seagulls paint the sky, a tale of vision, dedication and artistic passion unfurls through the life and career of Jack Nahil. A true Kennebunkport pioneer, his fearlessness was intertwined with youthful naiveté that gave him the keys to the kingdom of hospitality, and a belief that anything was within reach. He readily acknowledges that, at the age of 80, he no longer possesses the same sense of daring-do that defined his perspective at 30. Nevertheless, those reflections do nothing to diminish the permanent stamp of decades of his foresight.
A trailblazer of refinement in dining and lodging, Jack’s journey began in 1973 when he was a young and ambitious 29-year-old Fine Arts graduate from the Massachusetts College of Art— the first US arts college, incidentally, to grant an artistic degree. During the summer months that linked those college years, he worked as a waiter in Ogunquit to pay for school, favoring Poor Richards Tavern, whose owner Richard Perkins was both an eccentric and proved to be deeply influential. (Richard’s mother ran off leaving eight children under the care of their father. By the age of 10, young Perkins was the family cook.) Jack learned much from the man who turned adversity into an astral career in culinary experiences at the edge of Shore Road. Ogunquit—an Abenaki word that means beautiful place by the sea— turned out to be an auspicious foothold. Lured by the pace, the staff camaraderie and the creativity of the hospitality industry, Jack asked his friends, “How hard can it be to purchase, renovate and open an inn in Kennebunk Beach?” He would turn 30 that December.
At the heart of Jack’s legacy was the transformation of an iconic weathered barn on Beach Avenue, primely located across the street from the Franciscan Monastery, a destination on every visitor’s ‘to-see’ list. Jack had already calculated the almighty credo of location. In February of ’73, wearing a pressed shirt and a hundred-watt smile Jack set off to the bank to secure a loan to finance the purchase price of a property badly in need of renovation. At $75,000, and given that the property was appraised at a far greater value, the financing was sealed. Who was that crazy banker? Jack can’t remember but maybe his sense of indomitable spunk was the winning ace.
In the end, it was Jack’s easel and paintbrush that proved to be the secret ingredient behind his long history in hospitality, granting him the unique ability to envision each room as a blank canvas on its journey to becoming a still life masterpiece. His artistry combined with a love of hospitality meant Jack gave birth to what has become one of Maine’s enduring gems: White Barn Inn.
That legendary barn was first owned by Ansel Boothby, aptly named Boothby House, and has stood as a local landmark on Beach Avenue for more than a century and a half. In the 1860s the property was a thriving farm at the edge of a salt marsh yielding dairy products, livestock, bountiful hay and forage crops. As gentrification touched the town, it prompted farmers to venture elsewhere, and it went up for sale in 1937. May Collins Parsons, a schoolteacher from September to June, turned the six-building farm into a boarding house, (she offered rooms with running water) envisioning a convivial summer haven. May’s hospitality extended to joining her lodgers for every meal, thereby forging connections with everyone who crossed her threshold. Renamed the Forest Hill Hotel, it featured a rabbit warren of 26 rooms, four with private baths, and housed staff on-site. May’s personal involvement ensured guests returned year after year. What set May apart was her commitment to inclusivity, notably welcoming Jewish clientele, thereby easing a troubling chapter from Kennebunkport’s history of antisemitism. In 1969 May Collins passed the reins of the Forest Hill Hotel to the Guilford family, who left their mark with the addition of an ice-cream parlor. (Forest Hill Road. is located just north of the White Barn Inn, a street that commemorates May’s legacy.)
Fast forward four years and it was Jack’s turn at the helm.
“By 1973 the place was an uncared-for nightmare,” he says with a laugh. “If I knew then what I know now, I would never have bought the property. My sense that everything would work out carried me over. We took it down to the bare bones, removed old pipes and treacherous antiquated wiring.”
The barn itself, once a repository for hay bales, became a cathedral of possibilities. With a team of contractors, and Jack amongst them, an arduous round-the-clock renovation began. In the months long hum, and from a to-do list as long as a string of Barbara Bush’s pearls, Jack added two-story bay windows at the front and back, painted every room, did a roof inspection, kitchen and bathroom updates, and purchased furniture. All efforts were on the viability of the 1973 summer season. Even at break neck speed opening day was tenuous. One of the final touches was a brick walkway leading up to the barn, a rustic handrail fence and the planting of masses of white petunias for curb appeal, albeit with some horticultural lessons learned along the way. Petunias need to be dead-headed. (Today there is an acreage of fuss-free white impatiens.) A local artist hand-painted an inviting sign with a forest green background and gold lettering, which can still be viewed by guests as it stands nestled in the alcove above the dining room along with the Guilford’s Ice Cream Parlor sign.
The property came with a treasure trove of furnishings. “I reused as much as I could, including Victorian antique pieces, gilt mirrors, wool blankets, sheet sets, and even a spinning wheel. I had a trained eye in art and was able to re-use the best of what was left.”
Jack was on his knees sanding the dining room floor and applying the final coat of urethane one day before standing tall, surveying the transformation and throwing open the doors on June 27th 1973 at 5 p.m. His first customer was Sam Cohen, owner of York County Distributors.
Amidst the rush to the finish line, Jack’s attire for opening day was an afterthought. A well-meaning friend took him by the arm to Harrison Payne, a renowned men’s clothier in Dock Square for an eleventh-hour purchase of a red and white checkered sports jacket. Jack lamented, “I looked like a picnic tablecloth,” perhaps a fortuitous choice as he was about to embark on culinary success unseen in Kennebunkport in the early 70s.
“When I committed to the vision, I promised myself that the White Barn Inn would become the best place in town. It grew phenomenally in a very short period of time.” While Jack was flush with self-confidence, courage and artistry, every red cent went into the renovation, which meant he couldn’t afford to live off-site. “I slept on a rollaway cot in the coatroom beside the front desk. My clothes were up on the third floor tucked away in a closet.” He remembers going into the coatroom, one late night midsummer, lying on his cot and thinking that he’d created a monster. The phone rang incessantly with new bookings, and the ledger grew thicker by the hour. By August, fatigue was encroaching, but was somehow buffered by wild success.
The White Barn Inn was a 24/7 endeavor with Jack going to bed each night already planning the next day. It was a roller coaster of elation and exhaustion, as he dreamt up new ideas on an hourly basis, and lived on fumes. He’s quick to say his dedicated staff played a pivotal role in turning his canvas into art. He has fond memories of Nancy Paige, a confident sixteen-year-old who served as the first hostess of the dining room, making every guest feel welcome. Paying attention to detail played to Jack’s strengths, from decorating the ladies’ room, to maintaining absolute cleanliness, to a dress code for both staff and guests. Shirts and ties for the wait staff, and dinner jackets for the guests. “I opened with silver plate which we polished every day. The brass bar also received daily care. You are creating a stage where the guests are taking part. We wanted it to be an experience. Live theatre.”
In 1973 a room with a bath could be had for 18 dollars. Without, it was 14. He looks back and says, “I can still picture the night when guests were seated in the dining room, white linen table cloths over navy liners, holding lovely stiff paper menus with descriptors I had written myself, and I could see the white puffs of their breath. It was then that I decided the place needed to be heated!
Eleven years into his tenure at the White Barn, Jack brought Rich Lemoine on board as executive chef, marking the beginning of a partnership that would span decades. Theirs is a friendship stitched together by unwavering loyalty, and a profound mutual admiration for each other’s talents. Lemoine’s passion for cooking, (a particular forté is soup!) turned his long hours, from dawn to dusk, into a joyful pursuit rather than a burden.
Richie recalls the day Jack arrived teetering under the weight of a ginormous wreath to be hung at the top of the floor to ceiling window. “Jack, who is going to put that up? It’s over twenty feet to the ground.”
‘I am,” said Jack.
“You are going to die,” Rich said. The dining room was already resplendent with dozens of red candles and a forest of mini-lights but up the ladder Jack climbed to further his fairy tale aura for Christmas Prelude ’86, taking on the risk himself. He’d never think to put a staff member in danger.
A year later, in July, Rich and Jack loaded up a pickup truck with a queen-sized bed, a brass headboard, ruffled bed skirt and matching linens, and set up a bedroom on Gooches Beach; a publicity stunt that made it to the front page of a dining guide. Rich says, “Taking a bed down that narrow staircase just about killed me.” When you are in with Jack, it’s all or nothing.
The White Barn Inn, named by Jack Nahil, has become a beacon of inclusive elegance unseen in a beach town with historical ties to the farm and fishing industries. Celebrating its 50th anniversary, today the original rough-hewn walls adorned with antiquated farm tools, the original wide-plank floorboards and the focal point of a two-story all-glass backdrop are intact, a testament to Jack’s earliest concept of safeguarding beauty and history.
Didn’t someone famous say, change before you have to? And so, when Laurie Bongiorno, newly arrived from Australia, came knocking on the barn door in 1988, and made an offer to purchase the property, it was too tempting to refuse. Laurie could see with his own eyes, the house that Jack built. After a remarkable fifteen-year tenure, Jack took a hiatus in Florida, savoring a six-year period of rest, reflection and a welcome return to his paintbrush.
In 1994, fate came in the form of a phone call from Barb Aiello, owner of Aiello & Company Real Estate. “Jack,” she said followed by a three second pause, “the Hennessey House on Western Avenue is up for sale.” Barb must have known that part of the allure would be its absolute state of disrepair. Another canvas. Another chance to create beauty.
“After much thought, my first call was to Richie Lemoine. The last piece was knowing I had a chef of his calibre. He agreed. Oh my god we worked hard. My juices were flowing. The high ceilings, and the way the light came in, I could see that we were creating something incredible. With Richie on board, our days were a constant communication. He was creating sauces, dressings, desserts, always using local ingredients. Hennessey’s 120 item hot and cold buffet was replaced with an à la carte menu that elevated the dining experience. (Jack’s favorite has always been Richie’s famous harvest chowder of native corn, sweet potato, and pumpkin, with roasted scallops, haddock, salmon, and shrimp.)
Jack’s paintings were on each wall, as well as those of other local artists. The barnwood walls were soon an art collection that would become the envy of a small museum—gold-framed splashes of color that added a singular elegance. He had a custom-made cherry wood front door to match the wooden bar. A painting of New York Harbour by Len Pearse was the focal point behind a dizzy array of wine glasses. Once again, Jack’s attention to detail played to his strengths. The ladies’ bathroom beckoned visitors; scarlet upholstery, tiny gold faucets, and linen hand towels. Jack’s intent was clear: to create an atmosphere where patrons felt as though they were guests in someone’s warm and elegant home.
Rich Lemoine’s wife Tina, confides that Jack has been known to hide a penny or two for good luck.
Renamed the Salt Marsh Tavern, Jack says that a ‘tavern’ has the connotation of openness, friendliness; a place to gather. His vision for the Tavern extended to the grounds where he “installed” two boats, a rowboat and a sailboat that still sit alongside the marsh, adding to the ambiance. Those boats, discovered as cast-offs by the side of the road were serendipitous finds that created yet another visual for the guest.
In 1997, the lure of owning the only property with an expansive ocean view led to Jack’s third and final endeavor. He made a bid to purchase the Cape Arundel Inn. For several years Jack owned both properties until Denise Rubin, an interior designer who was splitting her time between Maine and the Netherlands purchased the Salt Marsh Tavern in 2000, renamed On The Marsh. The fullness of Jack’s talent was reflected in the transformation of the Cape Arundel Inn, built in 1895 as a stately Shingle-style cottage before becoming a bed and breakfast in the early 50s. Located a few miles beyond Kennebunkport’s bustling town square, the inn is located on an awe-inspiring stretch of shoreline known as Cape Arundel. Daunting coastal features have made this a treacherous locale for fishermen since the 1800s with its steep, craggy cliff that drops precipitously to a rocky shore and no safe harbor, but becomes a movie set for guests to behold the turbulent Atlantic. Anyone interested in presidential history must pass the Cape Arundel Inn to view Walker’s Point; the Bush compound. That vital visibility was an additional reason to take on the arduous prospect of another property in grave need of restoration.
Shawn O’Neill recalls her job interview for a front desk position. “He handed me a sheaf of papers, ‘pretend you filled these in. You start tomorrow.’” Arriving in the early dawn against a hallowed sunrise, she said to one and all, “Look at my office!” She reserves even higher praise for Jack’s staff loyalty. “If guests left a holy mess, and let me tell you there are a few shocking stories to tell, his only concern was for the housekeeper.”
CJ Taylor, another employee, recalls walking up to the front door in search of an application. She passed the gardener, knee deep in the flower beds, hands, knees and clothes coated in black earth. The man rose to follow her inside, and said, “I could interview you right now.” As CJ says, Jack never expected anything of his staff that he wouldn’t do himself.”
Jack is proud to say, “Richie Lemoine came with me as Executive Chef. It’s hard to believe we’ve never had a cross word in over 30 years. I’m a godfather to his son. One of Richie and Tina’s children named their son Jack. It was a real choke moment. That steadiness was part of my success. Our success. He’s like a brother.”
Rich is proud to say, “Ours has been a marriage of professionalism.” He remembers a Sunday morning when a second-floor bathroom leaked gallons of water onto the steam table 45 minutes before Easter brunch. Nobody panicked. The water was turned off, all food was thrown out, the dining room was sanitized and at noon they were back up and ready for a full house. The cat had eaten the mouse, but no one could tell.
As usual, artists were featured in every room: watercolorist Dewitt Hardy, internationally known painter Julyan Davis, Patty Herscher whose arresting pastel in blue hues was a mirror to the ocean outside the front door. And Jack’s Parson’s Cows. The only painting of Jack’s to have graced the walls of all three properties. The requests to purchase art became so numerous, Jack had a list in a drawer at the front desk indicating which pieces were for sale.
Jack’s life has been one giant act of service, from the cultivation of staff, who returned year after year, to the labor of love in turning dilapidation into comfort, to the sharing of his own art and that of others. Being so service-oriented means, he has never felt rudderless. He is certain about the angel who sat on his shoulder for his entire career. “There was never an ambulance at the door, nobody choked, nobody died, or was in any kind of perilous situation. Unheard of in the hotel industry.”
After Jack sold the Cape Arundel Inn, Rich took the inevitable step of creating his own vision: The Village Tavern in West Kennebunk. He remembers, his voice tinged with awe, that Jack posted the “soft opening” on Facebook, and on that first night the restaurant served 190 patrons.
In a seamless loop, Jack’s focus has come full-circle toward his studio and art gallery at 123 Port Rd., aptly called Gallery. This dream space is adorned with a lifetime’s worth of his artistic worldview. “I caught the attention of Jean Briggs, the owner and director of Mast Cove Galleries for around forty years, and an iconic presence in town. She connected with my work, and over the years my name was on her roster of artists. A true highlight was when Jean mounted a one man exhibit of my work— a terrifying moment in my life. It was frightening, successful, exhilarating, and was one of the largest attended of her openings. I’ve had two passions: hospitality and art.” In Jack’s case, they are one and the same.
As the forerunner of elegance, dining refinement, and superb lodgings Jack Nahil’s unyielding commitment to excellence has transformed the local hospitality industry in the Kennebunk’s, forever altering its trajectory as a destination for the discerning traveller. His legacy remains as vibrant and enduring as the coastal tides that continue to shape the very landscape he has so elegantly transformed. Turning keys, and lighting lamps, all the while gathering wisdom that comes from welcoming the world, Jack made strangers feel at home. In his honor, bottoms up.
Susan Doherty Hannaford is a local writer. Her soon to be released next novel, Monday Rent Boy will debut in March.
SIDEONE MAGAZINE December Issue, 2021
My story begins on Feb. 25th, 2015 at 3 p.m. I’m referring to my crisis, a Greek word that refers to the ‘turning point” of a disease when an important change takes place, indicating either recovery or death. We’ve all had such moments and this was the most significant of mine —a curve ball that became a moment of enlightenment.
At a conference in Boston I was shivery and cold, but that week in New England, 239 cm of snow had tumbled from the sky in a matter of days, and the downtown streets were freakishly lined with ten-foot walls of snow. I convinced myself I was cold because of the weather. I was shaking so profoundly I left the conference hall for my hotel room, and filled the bathtub with hot water. That seemed to do the trick except that as I was getting dressed to return to the conference my body broke into a profound sweat. My ankles, thighs, hands, forearms were sweating. I was the Trevi fountain of sweating. And then I was fine, as though something nefarious had simply breezed through my body and left without a trace.
Unbeknownst to me it was my first case of rigors, an extreme reflexive response to exaggerated shivering. It was what the soldiers felt in the wretched wet trenches of the First World War when they had contracted tuberculosis. Sweating is the body’s attempt to cool itself.
After ten straight days of rigors and night sweats, I went to a walk-in emergency clinic. The doctor asked questions about my personal life then said, “There is nothing wrong with you. It’s anxiety.” I danced away feeling as light as a bag of cotton candy. I had ways to deal with stress, I told myself. The engine of my life continued to run smoothly except that for five months and nine days I had profuse mattress-soaking night sweats. During that stretch I also had enlarged lymph nodes under my chin as though a string of pearls had been embedded beneath my skin. I saw three specialists, had an emergency CAT scan, and a bone marrow biopsy all of which turned up nothing conclusive. I saw an oncologist who ordered a neck biopsy of the golf-ball sized lymph node under my jaw. Trust me when I say a neck biopsy is not as good as it sounds. Seven needles were inserted into an area extremely close to the carotid artery; excruciating pain. Oddly, the pathology report showed no cancer, no leukemia, no lymphoma. It did show complete and total cell death, necrosis, but no diagnosis.
This entire time I was living my life in every normal way: about to publish my first novel, teaching spin classes at 6 a.m., working at the Douglas Hospital with patients coping with the symptoms of schizophrenia, and caring for my husband who was suffering from depression. In hindsight, I was hurtling down a black tunnel, but I had every intention of launching my book, A Secret Music. That single-mindedness has given me great pause. We are able to compensate when we need to, even when the body is sending out a multitude of distress signals. It was as though I had run through a dozen red lights with my eyes closed.
In May, June and July I did a book tour, ending every single evening with 4-5 hours of profuse night sweats. I had a fever of 103 at each event, but I was ridiculously happy. The mind is a powerful tool. In August, at our beach house in Kennebunk, I got sick the way Ernest Hemingway says people go broke, gradually and then suddenly. My chills and fever were around the clock, instead of just at night, and then, in case I needed a final wake-up call, the right side of my face went numb. I couldn’t feel my gums or my nose. I could no longer wish myself well, or pretend it was stress. My husband and I drove 470 km from Maine to Montreal. I had a fever of 105, saw clouds in the shape of angels and prayed I wouldn’t have a stroke before we got to the hospital. At the border we were the only car, and in triage at the Jewish General I was the only patient. I had the distinct impression I was travelling first class.
It took five more days and every conceivable medical test including bone marrow biopsies, lumber puncture, lung scans. MRI’s of the body and brain, CAT scans, PET scans and blood tests. I was taking 4000 mg of Tylenol a day to combat the fevers. I had visions. My father who passed away in 2006 appeared several times. Scrawled across his face was the message, do not come. It’s not your time. Stay and fight.
Through process of elimination I was diagnosed with HLH, a rare autoimmune disease with a death rate of 70%. Hemophagocytic lymphohistiocytosis. It’s a good Scrabble word. It affects one in a million adults. Without treatment the patient dies of multi-organ failure within sixty days of onset. Nobody knew where I was on that trajectory.
Your immune system is your security detail. It’s hard-wired to tell the difference between what belongs in your body and what doesn’t. When it spies a villain such as a virus, bacteria or a parasite, it finds it, surrounds it, kills it. Your immune system turns on if you have a cold or sore throat, like it’s supposed to, but then it turns off. With HLH it never turns off. Think of a driverless and powerful John Deere lawnmower in your backyard destroying everything in sight.
Once HLH was identified, I was hurried into a chemo protocol that very night.
My children flew in from New York. I had months of regular chemo, as well as intrathecal brain chemo, 32 transfusions of platelets, and a dozen types of intravenous treatments through a catheter that had been sewn into a vein in my neck. I also took high doses of Decadron, which is the steroid Lance Armstrong used in order to win the Tour de France. I needed it to win the Tour de Vie. Thankfully, I responded to the HLH protocol, and left the hospital on a sunny day in late October ready to resume my book events. It was a euphoric time in my life. I had 77 days of wellness and then the tires fell off the tracks. HLH came back with a vengeance, and my organs were threatened. I would need a bone marrow transplant if I had any hopes of survival. Did I have any siblings? Yes, I answered, five. Good, they said, siblings are the best possible match.
After all that was swirling around me, I had the surreal feeling that I was about to jump through a one-way portal, that I would never be the same again, forever changed by the people I would meet, the endurance test, the lessons I would learn. I was to put my arms around this experience without fear. Don’t they say the steeper the climb, the better the view from the top?
I entered the Royal Victoria Hospital on May 15th, my sister’s birthday, an auspicious date. Two days after I set up shop in my isolation room— with my weights, my yoga mat, my orange running shoes, a calendar painted with cardinals so I could strike off each day— I went to pieces. It would be disingenuous to say there weren’t some terrible days. I lay on the floor of the bathroom so nobody would hear me crying as all the seams of my body opened up to let out my distress. Could I run a marathon without any practice? Did I have the stamina to cross the finish line before my body broke down? The doubt, fear, and psychological pain was much harder than the physical pain.
What is a stem cell transplant?
Inside your bones there is a hollow passage filled with soft spongy tissue where your blood is made. That tissue is called bone marrow. The marrow is comprised of red blood cells, that oxygenate your body, white blood cells that fight infection, platelets that help clot a wound, and young immature cells called stem cells. The body makes stem cells every minute. Stem cells have two extraordinary properties: they multiply like crazy, and they have the ability to become other types of cells in the body, as needed.
The stem cell team removed all of my own bone marrow with chemotherapy. Blood cancers like lymphoma and leukemia are treated the same way. The side effects are profound: my hair fell out, my muscles wasted from the steroids, there was a cardboard hat to collect black diarrhea, I had lesions along the digestive tract, I sucked ice cubes to counteract mouth sores. Near-daily transfusions.
Let me tell you, I felt ugly. But my husband arrived every single morning with a cinnamon latte that made me feel beautiful inside.
With chemotherapy, my immune system was eliminated, a process that took several weeks. I had four eerie days when I had zero white blood cells, and no ability to fight infection. Germs of every kind are your fatal enemy, hence the strict isolation.
One of my brothers had matched but for genetic reasons was eliminated from contention as a donor. That devastating cancellation required me to be listed on the International Donor Registry to try and find another stem cell match. That was a terrible time. The clock was ticking. The sixty-day window was shrinking smaller and smaller.
For all bone marrow transplants matching occurs through HLA typing, (human leukocyte antigen). HLA are proteins, or markers, found on most cells in your body. Your immune system uses these markers to recognize which cells belong in your body and which do not. The best possible outcome for transplant is when the patient and the donor have 12 identical isomers. William Ashby-Hall, a 23-year-old gay British man was a 12/12 perfect match. There is no payment to the donor, it is done altruistically, out of sheer compassion. I mention his sexual orientation only because the rules for gay donors are highly restrictive in Canada and the U.S. The same day his HLA typing was entered into the computer system he was called, and asked to save the life of an anonymous Canadian woman. He jumped.
On the day of the stem cell retrieval, William sat in a Lazyboy chair in a hospital in London and over a period of eight hours his blood was drawn from one arm into a machine via a plastic tube. The stem cells from his blood were extracted via centrifuge and the blood, minus the stem cells was returned to his other arm. It’s a procedure called apheresis, and replaces the old way of obtaining stem cells, which was done by inserting numerous large needles into the hip bones, and withdrawing bone marrow. Apheresis is pain free.
A Canadian policeman waited in the hallway. After the stem cell collection, salmon pink in colour, the officer flew to Canada with the fresh cells which he brought to the hospital lab for verification. (William Ashby-Hall’s HLA typing was reconfirmed! Thank goodness.) I waited on the stem cell unit with an unbridled sense of hope, tinged with dread. Would my body accept his cells? Graft versus host disease (GVHD) occurs when the patient’s organs reject the new stem cells. I’m here to say, it was a success.
A team of doctors were responsible for my cure, they are the kites flying overhead, brandishing the big ideas, but it’s the nurses on the ground who were deftly maneuvering the strings. I was the first patient in the province of Quebec to receive a stem cell transplant for HLH. The statistic is even more stark given that most people die before they are given a diagnosis, and a chance to be treated.
People have asked me if the ordeal has changed me. I’m still me, of course, but near-death can be an amazing teacher. Every detail about what one desires comes sharply into focus. What has changed is my attempt to preserve the sanctity of all that I hold dear. I guard my human possessions. People have also cited my resilience. No. A thousand hands lifted me back to where I am now. I began to write thank you letters to my donor despite the fact that no contact can happen for two years; the death rate is too high. The first letter simply said, “It’s been 100 hundred days, the first hurdle. I’m alive.” The second letter said, “It’s been one year, thank you for the miraculous gift of your stem cells.” The third letter said, “I would love to look you in the eye and thank you for giving me a second chance at living my life.” William contacted me 27 months after my transplant. I met him in London on January 17th, 2019, surrounded by my family, one of the truly transcendent moments of my life.
Susan Doherty is a Montreal writer, and author of The Ghost Garden