Coming Home
by Michael Penn MA'97
As Nathan Lynch began facing a painful truth, he knew exactly where he wanted to be: UW-Madison in the fall.
Fall, in the unique rhythm of academic life, is a season of beginnings. It is then, even as the sun declines and nature recedes toward the nocturne of winter, that universities shake off summer's slumber and prepare for the dawn of a new year. Chalkboards are scrubbed clean, the paint is fresh, and new textbooks, their spines yet unbroken, are piled in neat stacks. A university in fall is something of an unblemished notebook, full of potential and stories yet to be written.
It was on a glorious fall day that Nathan Lynch came back to Madison. He returned on Labor Day, in the golden light of a near-utopian early evening. From the back seat of a rented car, he watched familiar sights roll by: picnickers at a lakeside vista, the ivory glow of the capitol dome, students greeting each other in excited voices.
As Nathan Lynch began facing a painful truth, he knew exactly where he wanted to be: UW-Madison in the fall.
Fall, in the unique rhythm of academic life, is a season of beginnings. It is then, even as the sun declines and nature recedes toward the nocturne of winter, that universities shake off summer's slumber and prepare for the dawn of a new year. Chalkboards are scrubbed clean, the paint is fresh, and new textbooks, their spines yet unbroken, are piled in neat stacks. A university in fall is something of an unblemished notebook, full of potential and stories yet to be written.
It was on a glorious fall day that Nathan Lynch came back to Madison. He returned on Labor Day, in the golden light of a near-utopian early evening. From the back seat of a rented car, he watched familiar sights roll by: picnickers at a lakeside vista, the ivory glow of the capitol dome, students greeting each other in excited voices.
All along, the goal had been fall, to get to fall, to get back here. Ever since the terrible day in March, when doctors discovered the cancer, when he was hurried into immediate treatment, when the radiation sessions forced him to withdraw from school, Nathan had envisioned a day just like this: Madison in fall. If spring had been his unwanted ending, then fall would be his new beginning.
In the front seat of the car, Michael '63, MBA'68 and Susan '67 Lynch quietly took cheer from their son's mood. They were no strangers to the magic of Madison in the fall. They had both experienced it firsthand as students, having met in the Commerce Building library on an evening in September 1965. They had dated in fall, cheered at football games in fall, and fallen in love in fall - and not just with each other. They didn't so much attend UW-Madison as absorb it. As family and careers carried them from Madison to Chicago, Cincinnati, Salt Lake City, and, finally, to southern California, distance only resolved their feelings. Susan became active in Wisconsin Alumni Association activities, and the family made frequent trips back to the campus they loved. Usually, because they were season-deprived West Coasters, they tried to visit during fall.
Although Michael and Susan never forced their Badgerism upon their children, they secretly hoped one would eventually choose UW-Madison. Nathan, their youngest, always seemed the most likely. His hair was a dead giveaway - a thick tassel of fiery red.
In the front seat of the car, Michael '63, MBA'68 and Susan '67 Lynch quietly took cheer from their son's mood. They were no strangers to the magic of Madison in the fall. They had both experienced it firsthand as students, having met in the Commerce Building library on an evening in September 1965. They had dated in fall, cheered at football games in fall, and fallen in love in fall - and not just with each other. They didn't so much attend UW-Madison as absorb it. As family and careers carried them from Madison to Chicago, Cincinnati, Salt Lake City, and, finally, to southern California, distance only resolved their feelings. Susan became active in Wisconsin Alumni Association activities, and the family made frequent trips back to the campus they loved. Usually, because they were season-deprived West Coasters, they tried to visit during fall.
Although Michael and Susan never forced their Badgerism upon their children, they secretly hoped one would eventually choose UW-Madison. Nathan, their youngest, always seemed the most likely. His hair was a dead giveaway - a thick tassel of fiery red.
That alone, Michael reasoned, had to be a sign. Indeed, after graduating from Laguna Hills High School in 1999, Nathan enrolled at Wisconsin.
For parents, the journey that takes a child to college is both a beginning and an end, at the same time a culmination of years of support and togetherness, as well as the birth of new goals and visions. The Lynches had made similar trips with their older children, and they knew the bittersweet taste of letting go. But nothing had prepared them for this trip.
Before Nathan's diagnosis, he had been set to declare a major, and he was starting to define the horizons of his adult life - horizons that now included cancer. They knew the facts and the probabilities, but they also knew their son. For a twenty-year-old to be kept away from school in September wasn't ordinary, and, when fighting cancer, sometimes it is as important to be ordinary as extraordinary.
As Lake Mendota came into view, Nathan broke the reverie that had settled over the car. "I'm so glad to be back," he said softly. "This is where I want to be."
Michael and Susan said that they were happy, too. Being in Madison never felt like being away to them. It always felt like coming home.
For parents, the journey that takes a child to college is both a beginning and an end, at the same time a culmination of years of support and togetherness, as well as the birth of new goals and visions. The Lynches had made similar trips with their older children, and they knew the bittersweet taste of letting go. But nothing had prepared them for this trip.
Before Nathan's diagnosis, he had been set to declare a major, and he was starting to define the horizons of his adult life - horizons that now included cancer. They knew the facts and the probabilities, but they also knew their son. For a twenty-year-old to be kept away from school in September wasn't ordinary, and, when fighting cancer, sometimes it is as important to be ordinary as extraordinary.
As Lake Mendota came into view, Nathan broke the reverie that had settled over the car. "I'm so glad to be back," he said softly. "This is where I want to be."
Michael and Susan said that they were happy, too. Being in Madison never felt like being away to them. It always felt like coming home.
It was no surprise to the Lynches that Nathan had a plan. Coming last among five high-achieving children, Nathan had seen life modeled again and again. His siblings were out ahead of him, mapping the terrain, and by the time Nathan came to an important passage, he had a good idea of what to expect. As a result, he rarely stepped blindly.
Once, applying for a scholarship, Nathan laid out his college plans: "I do plan to negotiate territory with my roommate, live off dorm food, cram for finals, go to the big games, neglect my laundry, and just have a full, fun-filled college experience." When he enrolled at UW-Madison, he did his best to live up to those expectations. During the two years he lived in the campus residence halls, Nathan emerged as the one who pounded on doors and got people out of their rooms. "He was the glue that held the hall together," a friend later said.
He had had the same sticking power within his family. Though close, the Lynch kids were a wildly diverse bunch, full of contrasting styles and attitudes. Nathan seemed to have inherited the best of each of them. Like his oldest brother, Todd, he was artistic and creative; like Chris, athletic and competitive; like sister Aimée, he was sentimental and thoughtful, never failing to remember birthdays and anniversaries; and like Blake, closest to him in age, he was willing to take up a cause.
"He was our common denominator," says Michael.
Once, applying for a scholarship, Nathan laid out his college plans: "I do plan to negotiate territory with my roommate, live off dorm food, cram for finals, go to the big games, neglect my laundry, and just have a full, fun-filled college experience." When he enrolled at UW-Madison, he did his best to live up to those expectations. During the two years he lived in the campus residence halls, Nathan emerged as the one who pounded on doors and got people out of their rooms. "He was the glue that held the hall together," a friend later said.
He had had the same sticking power within his family. Though close, the Lynch kids were a wildly diverse bunch, full of contrasting styles and attitudes. Nathan seemed to have inherited the best of each of them. Like his oldest brother, Todd, he was artistic and creative; like Chris, athletic and competitive; like sister Aimée, he was sentimental and thoughtful, never failing to remember birthdays and anniversaries; and like Blake, closest to him in age, he was willing to take up a cause.
"He was our common denominator," says Michael.
In 2000, Nathan's plans expanded to incorporate his brother Chris, who entered the UW business school to pursue an MBA in international business and marketing. Seven years older than Nathan, Chris had enrolled at UW-Madison as an undergrad before transferring to UCLA, and he saw buddying with his little brother as "an excuse to be an undergraduate again." Of his siblings, he was probably closest to Nathan, who shared his social aims and vigor for new adventures. They imagined that they'd have the time of their lives.
But from the beginning, things hadn't seemed right. Soon after the start of the school year, Nathan told Chris that he was taking a semester off from crew, a sport he'd fallen in love with as a freshman. As the year wore on, Nathan seemed to just wear out. "Every time I called him up, he seemed half-asleep," Chris says. "He was always just waking up, even in the middle of the afternoon. I didn't think too much about it then, but now it makes sense."
On March 1 of last year, as he studied for an exam, Chris received an urgent call from the UW Hospital. Nathan had been admitted. Chris was incredulous, asking, "Why? What's wrong?" He pressed the nurse for details. Finally, she relented. "The melanoma is back," she said.
It took Chris a few seconds to process the information. He had forgotten Nathan had had melanoma.
But from the beginning, things hadn't seemed right. Soon after the start of the school year, Nathan told Chris that he was taking a semester off from crew, a sport he'd fallen in love with as a freshman. As the year wore on, Nathan seemed to just wear out. "Every time I called him up, he seemed half-asleep," Chris says. "He was always just waking up, even in the middle of the afternoon. I didn't think too much about it then, but now it makes sense."
On March 1 of last year, as he studied for an exam, Chris received an urgent call from the UW Hospital. Nathan had been admitted. Chris was incredulous, asking, "Why? What's wrong?" He pressed the nurse for details. Finally, she relented. "The melanoma is back," she said.
It took Chris a few seconds to process the information. He had forgotten Nathan had had melanoma.
Some people call melanoma the Tyrannosaurus rex of cancers, but in truth, it's a more insidious beast. Melanoma, one of the cancers of the skin, is among the most common forms of the disease, and in certain circumstances, one of the most deadly. The National Cancer Institute projects that fifty thousand new cases of melanoma will be identified in the United States this year - a number that has more than doubled in the past twenty years - and seven thousand people will die because of it. It is estimated that a white male (for whom the risk of melanoma is highest) has a one-in-seventy-five chance of developing melanoma during his life. By that math, if you followed the male student population of UW-Madison through their lives, nearly three hundred would eventually wind up as melanoma patients.
In its most common form, melanoma is quite survivable, which some doctors worry allows people to underestimate its danger. If a cancerous tumor is detected in its earliest stages, before it can thicken beneath the surface of the skin, surgical removal of the tumor is almost always successful at eradicating the cancer. Melanoma returns in less than 5 percent of these cases.
In its most common form, melanoma is quite survivable, which some doctors worry allows people to underestimate its danger. If a cancerous tumor is detected in its earliest stages, before it can thicken beneath the surface of the skin, surgical removal of the tumor is almost always successful at eradicating the cancer. Melanoma returns in less than 5 percent of these cases.
In cases where the disease progresses unchecked, however, the odds are much less promising. "What separates melanoma from other skin cancers, and what makes it so concerning a disease, is its ability to get into the bloodstream," says Mark Albertini, the medical director of the UW Comprehensive Cancer Center's melanoma clinic, and the person who became responsible for Nathan's care. Albertini explains that blood vessels can become a superhighway for cancer cells, carrying them to distant organs and tissue. Once in the blood, melanoma might metastasize in the liver, brain, lungs, or lymph nodes, or it might float around for years before finding purchase. Doctors don't know why, when, or where it will strike.
Nor do they know specifically what causes melanoma to arise. Prolonged exposure to the sun has been definitively linked to rising rates of melanoma, but the disease affects far more than sunbathers. Nathan, for example, was no sun worshipper, his parents say. He was fair-skinned and freckled, and he knew to be careful.
Nathan's first melanoma came in high school. He had a mole surgically removed from his back, and it proved malignant. But the tumor had been thin, and doctors had no reason to believe his future health was at risk. In fact, there's nothing to suggest that the melanoma that returned to Nathan's body in 2001 was at all related to his first case. He appeared to be a victim of extraordinarily bad odds.
Nor do they know specifically what causes melanoma to arise. Prolonged exposure to the sun has been definitively linked to rising rates of melanoma, but the disease affects far more than sunbathers. Nathan, for example, was no sun worshipper, his parents say. He was fair-skinned and freckled, and he knew to be careful.
Nathan's first melanoma came in high school. He had a mole surgically removed from his back, and it proved malignant. But the tumor had been thin, and doctors had no reason to believe his future health was at risk. In fact, there's nothing to suggest that the melanoma that returned to Nathan's body in 2001 was at all related to his first case. He appeared to be a victim of extraordinarily bad odds.
The news that March was grave. Nathan was diagnosed with Stage IV melanoma - one of its most severe progressions. Cancer had entered his bloodstream and metastasized in his liver and in the bones near his spine. Most patients with such severe progression, Albertini says, die within six months.
Even before his family could get to Madison, Albertini rushed Nathan into radiation therapy. Within a few days, he was fitted with a cumbersome brace, which covered his back and neck and protected his spine in case the tumors caused it to break. He would never again walk without assistance. Arriving at the hospital that day, Chris found his brother sitting in a chair, quietly weeping. It was one of the first times, and last times, that Chris saw his brother's tears.
Even before his family could get to Madison, Albertini rushed Nathan into radiation therapy. Within a few days, he was fitted with a cumbersome brace, which covered his back and neck and protected his spine in case the tumors caused it to break. He would never again walk without assistance. Arriving at the hospital that day, Chris found his brother sitting in a chair, quietly weeping. It was one of the first times, and last times, that Chris saw his brother's tears.
Nathan's apartment at Hawthorne Court, near State Street, was no more than a fourteen-foot square block of brick and plaster, but to him, it was Shangri-la. He told his family exactly where to put everything - the bed near the window, the couch facing the bed, the television within easy sight. He hung a Swedish flag over his bed to honor his mother's heritage, and he put a poster for Boys Don't Cry, an old album by The Cure, on the opposite wall. It was only much later, as the Lynches cleaned the room, that Chris thought about it: boys don't cry. If Nathan intended the message, he never let on. He preferred to live his mottoes.
The decision to come back to Madison, in retrospect, was remarkably easy. "It wasn't whether we were going to do it - it was, 'This is what we are going to do,' " says Susan. "In his mind, he had planned all along to be there. It was on his agenda, and we wanted to be able to help him achieve the goals he had laid out for himself."
After a summer of chemotherapy, Nathan's health was stable, if not rosy. For the moment, the tumors had stopped progressing, although neither were they shrinking. It was likely only a matter of time before they ultimately won over Nathan's defenses. But in Nathan's mind, it wasn't how much time, but what kind of time. From the moment he returned to California, he let everyone know he didn't intend to stay.
The decision to come back to Madison, in retrospect, was remarkably easy. "It wasn't whether we were going to do it - it was, 'This is what we are going to do,' " says Susan. "In his mind, he had planned all along to be there. It was on his agenda, and we wanted to be able to help him achieve the goals he had laid out for himself."
After a summer of chemotherapy, Nathan's health was stable, if not rosy. For the moment, the tumors had stopped progressing, although neither were they shrinking. It was likely only a matter of time before they ultimately won over Nathan's defenses. But in Nathan's mind, it wasn't how much time, but what kind of time. From the moment he returned to California, he let everyone know he didn't intend to stay.
"Nathan never gave up on anything," says Gavriel Kullman, his best friend from high school and now a student at the University of California-Riverside. "He was always talking about the future and making plans. I don't think there was ever a doubt in his mind that he'd make it back to Madison." Chris adds that his brother wasn't thinking about a dramatic "last semester" or some other life-punctu ating quest. "He looked at it as, 'I have to be at school in September, because school starts in September,' " he says.
Nathan signed up for Introduction to Film, a course that he had been forced to drop when he began radiation treatments. Given his limited mobility - although he could still move his legs, he used a wheelchair - and the time commitments of his therapy, it was an ambitious choice. The course, the first in the communication arts department's film studies sequence, required attendance at lectures and discussions and a long list of mandatory reading and viewing. Nathan was undeterred, and his reasoning was simple: He wanted to study film, and he'd need the course to graduate.
To outsiders, Nathan's insistence on the routine might hint at denial, but his friends and family say it reflected his sense of balance in dealing with his disease. They point to repeated concessions Nathan made to his condition and say he pushed only when it was sensible to do so. He tempered his will with pragmatism, and tempered his pragmatism with hope.
Nathan signed up for Introduction to Film, a course that he had been forced to drop when he began radiation treatments. Given his limited mobility - although he could still move his legs, he used a wheelchair - and the time commitments of his therapy, it was an ambitious choice. The course, the first in the communication arts department's film studies sequence, required attendance at lectures and discussions and a long list of mandatory reading and viewing. Nathan was undeterred, and his reasoning was simple: He wanted to study film, and he'd need the course to graduate.
To outsiders, Nathan's insistence on the routine might hint at denial, but his friends and family say it reflected his sense of balance in dealing with his disease. They point to repeated concessions Nathan made to his condition and say he pushed only when it was sensible to do so. He tempered his will with pragmatism, and tempered his pragmatism with hope.
"From day one, we had very open discussions about the seriousness of his condition," says Albertini. "He knew all the statistics. He knew that very few people could beat the odds, but he also hoped, as I think all of us would, that he would be one of them.
"He had the interest and the need to experience life to its fullest for as long as possible, and his family and friends were willing to give him the support he needed to do it," Albertini says.
After the buoyancy of his return, however, matters soon began to decline. His mother, a registered nurse who had moved into Nathan's apartment, noticed him growing weaker. A visit to Albertini on September 19 confirmed her fears. The cancer was progressing again, and appeared to be nearing a final course.
In the days after a national tragedy, the Lynch family gathered to await a very personal one.
But it didn't come just then. As he had so many times before, Nathan rallied. He still had plans, and dying wasn't in them.
"He had the interest and the need to experience life to its fullest for as long as possible, and his family and friends were willing to give him the support he needed to do it," Albertini says.
After the buoyancy of his return, however, matters soon began to decline. His mother, a registered nurse who had moved into Nathan's apartment, noticed him growing weaker. A visit to Albertini on September 19 confirmed her fears. The cancer was progressing again, and appeared to be nearing a final course.
In the days after a national tragedy, the Lynch family gathered to await a very personal one.
But it didn't come just then. As he had so many times before, Nathan rallied. He still had plans, and dying wasn't in them.
Nathan's life again took on the comfort of familiar rituals. He went back to class and set about the business of being a twenty-year-old. Because he was losing weight and strength, a new system for getting him into and out of his third-floor apartment emerged. When Chris brought Nathan home, he would call his mother and Allen Engel, Chris's best friend and business-school classmate. Chris and Allen would lift Nathan onto a small metal chair and carry him up the three long climbs, while Susan directed.
To get Nathan out of his unwieldy wheelchair, Chris usually had to wrap his arms around his brother's back and draw him close to his chest. It was an awkward maneuver, but one that Chris came to appreciate. "We're tough brothers," Chris says. "For me, it was hard to give him a hug. He didn't want that. He didn't want sympathy or anything. So I kind of looked forward to carrying him up the stairs, because I could give him a hug."
To get Nathan out of his unwieldy wheelchair, Chris usually had to wrap his arms around his brother's back and draw him close to his chest. It was an awkward maneuver, but one that Chris came to appreciate. "We're tough brothers," Chris says. "For me, it was hard to give him a hug. He didn't want that. He didn't want sympathy or anything. So I kind of looked forward to carrying him up the stairs, because I could give him a hug."
On the morning of October 27 - Homecoming Day - Chris Lynch was bleary and sleep-deprived and still trying to kick off the mental residue of a late-night party. He was lying in bed when he heard a knock at his door. Had he been more alert, he might have panicked. The day before, Nathan had been pensive and punkish, almost as if he knew something significant was coming.
They say good news rarely visits in the morning, but on this day, it did. Chris staggered to the door and was surprised to find his mother waiting. "Your brother wants to go to the football game," she said.
Chris was stunned, but happily so. There had been a time when Nathan lived for Badger football Saturdays, completing the whole tailgate-to-house-party smorgasbord with practiced execution. But cancer had robbed him of his stamina and made it difficult to sit up for long periods of time. He hadn't been interested in going to a game in weeks.
They say good news rarely visits in the morning, but on this day, it did. Chris staggered to the door and was surprised to find his mother waiting. "Your brother wants to go to the football game," she said.
Chris was stunned, but happily so. There had been a time when Nathan lived for Badger football Saturdays, completing the whole tailgate-to-house-party smorgasbord with practiced execution. But cancer had robbed him of his stamina and made it difficult to sit up for long periods of time. He hadn't been interested in going to a game in weeks.
Homecoming was a bright, chilly day that portends winter, the sort of day that makes one want to hold on to fall. Chris pulled on his Wisconsin sweatshirt and hurried to get Nathan. In his haste, he forgot to bring a camera. Halfway to the stadium, he wanted to go back and retrieve it, but Nathan said they were already late. "We'll get it next time," he said.
There wouldn't be a next time. Seven days later, on November 3, Nathan died peacefully in his apartment, surrounded by family. No one can say what he felt waking up on the morning of Homecoming, whether he sensed a last opportunity. Even during the following week, as he grew weaker, he still probed Albertini about new therapies, asking, "Isn't there something we haven't tried?" All anyone can say for sure is that Nathan had a plan.
Chris and Nathan stayed for the entire game, relishing the Fifth Quarter and its traditions. At one point, Nathan saw Bucky and waved. Bucky plodded over and gave him a high-five. Chris yearned for a camera to record the moment. He spotted Engel, who ran fifty rows back to his seat to fetch a friend's camera. Although today Chris is grateful to have the image, he sees that day through the lens of his memory almost every night, before he falls asleep. He will never need a photograph to remind him.
There wouldn't be a next time. Seven days later, on November 3, Nathan died peacefully in his apartment, surrounded by family. No one can say what he felt waking up on the morning of Homecoming, whether he sensed a last opportunity. Even during the following week, as he grew weaker, he still probed Albertini about new therapies, asking, "Isn't there something we haven't tried?" All anyone can say for sure is that Nathan had a plan.
Chris and Nathan stayed for the entire game, relishing the Fifth Quarter and its traditions. At one point, Nathan saw Bucky and waved. Bucky plodded over and gave him a high-five. Chris yearned for a camera to record the moment. He spotted Engel, who ran fifty rows back to his seat to fetch a friend's camera. Although today Chris is grateful to have the image, he sees that day through the lens of his memory almost every night, before he falls asleep. He will never need a photograph to remind him.
Sometimes, cancer patients have a last rally, a period during which, for a final time, the body takes the upper hand. Homecoming was Nathan's rally. From the game, he and his brother made their way to the Delta Upsilon fraternity, where Nathan had pledged shortly before his illness. The brothers had turned out by the dozens at the hospital in March, elevating Nathan from pledge status to full brother - "not because we feel sorry for you, but because you've earned it," they told him. At night, the Lynches returned to Hawthorne Court for a Halloween party. Nathan dressed as Professor Xavier, the wheelchair-using scientist from the movie X-Men. He spent the evening as he spent his life, in the company of friends.
Chris doesn't recall thinking about endings that weekend. He was too busy being with his brother. "He just loved it here, and he didn't want to leave," he says. "I have so many good memories. Any memories are good, even if they're under trying circumstances.
"I look back at it now, and it was the best semester I ever had."
Chris doesn't recall thinking about endings that weekend. He was too busy being with his brother. "He just loved it here, and he didn't want to leave," he says. "I have so many good memories. Any memories are good, even if they're under trying circumstances.
"I look back at it now, and it was the best semester I ever had."
If academic stories begin in fall, they often end with examinations. Nathan's story is no different. On the Monday after Homecoming weekend, Nathan willed his ailing body to Vilas Hall for a ninety-minute written test for his Intro to Film class. It was a midterm, but, in another sense, a final exam.
Nathan had long ago impressed his fellow students and teachers with his dedication and commitment to his studies. Even with his health wavering, he had been doing well in the class, leading his discussion section in thoughtful dialogues, and often surpassing his instructors with his knowledge of specific movies and directors. Kelley Conway, the assistant professor who led the course, recalls him as "a real cinephile." He didn't keep going because he needed to. He went because he wanted to.
And so it was with the midterm. Tests didn't faze Nathan, and in fact, he rather enjoyed them. He prepared well and, usually, he had few regrets about how he had done. Susan Lynch remembers asking Nathan years before about an exam he'd taken that day. He looked at her almost incredulously, as if to say, Mom! "I did my best," he told her. "I always do my best, and that's all I can do." For all the times Nathan had been tested, he'd come away feeling he did what he could.
Nathan had long ago impressed his fellow students and teachers with his dedication and commitment to his studies. Even with his health wavering, he had been doing well in the class, leading his discussion section in thoughtful dialogues, and often surpassing his instructors with his knowledge of specific movies and directors. Kelley Conway, the assistant professor who led the course, recalls him as "a real cinephile." He didn't keep going because he needed to. He went because he wanted to.
And so it was with the midterm. Tests didn't faze Nathan, and in fact, he rather enjoyed them. He prepared well and, usually, he had few regrets about how he had done. Susan Lynch remembers asking Nathan years before about an exam he'd taken that day. He looked at her almost incredulously, as if to say, Mom! "I did my best," he told her. "I always do my best, and that's all I can do." For all the times Nathan had been tested, he'd come away feeling he did what he could.
He was determined to make his last test no exception, but he found the going rough. Tumors had laid siege to much of Nathan's body, pressuring his spine, competing for space with his lungs, leaving him breathless and exhausted. His hands hurt from the effort of writing. He had a full tank of oxygen to help him breathe, but it didn't do much for the coughing.
At one point during the exam, Nathan coughed repeatedly into a metal basin. He just couldn't stop. He motioned to his brother to take him out of the room, so that he wouldn't disturb the others.
Nathan's professor had seen him leave the lecture hall, and, when he didn't return after a few minutes, she went into the hallway to look. She found him fully supine in his reclining wheelchair, holding his distended abdomen. "Are you okay?" Conway asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Nathan responded, despite that he almost certainly was not. With resolve that surprised his brother, he told her, "I know exactly what I want to write. I think I just need a few more minutes."
At one point during the exam, Nathan coughed repeatedly into a metal basin. He just couldn't stop. He motioned to his brother to take him out of the room, so that he wouldn't disturb the others.
Nathan's professor had seen him leave the lecture hall, and, when he didn't return after a few minutes, she went into the hallway to look. She found him fully supine in his reclining wheelchair, holding his distended abdomen. "Are you okay?" Conway asked.
"Yeah, I'm fine," Nathan responded, despite that he almost certainly was not. With resolve that surprised his brother, he told her, "I know exactly what I want to write. I think I just need a few more minutes."
Looking at Nathan, Conway realized that it was the first time they had spoken face-to-face. While the two had communicated several times by e-mail, Nathan had never made himself conspicuous. It's one of the sad truths of big classes: normal students blend in, and often escape Conway's desire to connect with each of them. All of Nathan's effort had been directed to being just that - a normal student.
Later that week, days before Nathan died, Conway and teaching assistant Tim Palmer visited his apartment. They saw a dozen friends and family arrayed in Nathan's tiny efficiency. Nathan, on his bed, appeared half-alert. He'd been given pain medication, which caused him to drift in and out of lucidity. But when he saw his teachers, he brightened. He started to speak, although his diminished lung capacity made it hard for him to articulate sentences. It seemed that he wanted to talk about the movie Breathless, a 1959 film that the class had recently watched. "He was troubled by the editing," Palmer recalls. It caught Conway and Palmer off guard, but also put them at ease. Even through the haze of sickness and medication, Nathan was still unmistakably, delightfully, Nathan.
After Nathan had turned in his midterm, Chris had pulled Palmer aside and asked a favor: "Can you grade it quickly?" Palmer had. Nathan got a B, above the class average. When Nathan heard about his grade, he seemed pleased, although Chris later told Palmer that he had wanted to do better. He probably would have, they both agreed, if he'd just had a little more time.
Later that week, days before Nathan died, Conway and teaching assistant Tim Palmer visited his apartment. They saw a dozen friends and family arrayed in Nathan's tiny efficiency. Nathan, on his bed, appeared half-alert. He'd been given pain medication, which caused him to drift in and out of lucidity. But when he saw his teachers, he brightened. He started to speak, although his diminished lung capacity made it hard for him to articulate sentences. It seemed that he wanted to talk about the movie Breathless, a 1959 film that the class had recently watched. "He was troubled by the editing," Palmer recalls. It caught Conway and Palmer off guard, but also put them at ease. Even through the haze of sickness and medication, Nathan was still unmistakably, delightfully, Nathan.
After Nathan had turned in his midterm, Chris had pulled Palmer aside and asked a favor: "Can you grade it quickly?" Palmer had. Nathan got a B, above the class average. When Nathan heard about his grade, he seemed pleased, although Chris later told Palmer that he had wanted to do better. He probably would have, they both agreed, if he'd just had a little more time.
