He remained at Providence Regional Medical Center in Everett, Wash., for four weeks. Patty started an online journal at to keep friends and family updated on Mark's condition. "Well that's obviously a mistake," Tose said, "because I feel fine. "You've got to see a hematologist," he was told. He headed to a routine physical to renew his pilot license. "Everything was going great in my life," Tose recalls. Patty had recently retired from her management job with the Community Transit bus agency. His son Alex, a couple of years younger and on the autism spectrum, was living at home and doing well. His daughter Amanda had graduated from the University of Washington with a degree in neurobiology and was traveling the globe. He also built a long career with aerospace giant Boeing.īy the morning of May 14, 2013, Tose had been with the company for 25 years and was flying every day. Tose started a family, founded a rock band and developed an affinity for the Seahawks. The Pacific Northwest suited Tose well, feeding his deep appreciation for music and love of flying. They traveled from San Diego to Prince Rupert in British Columbia, and on the return trip stopped to visit friends near Seattle. Mark Tose and his wife Patty were recent college graduates in 1981 when they stored their possessions, bought two motorcycles, a bunch of camping gear and just rode. Salmons faced few known long-term risks, all remote, but timing was critical and the procedure jeopardized his senior season, his last chance to play the sport he loved since seventh grade. He wasn't guaranteed to survive a transplant, but without one was certain to die. The patient's identity would remain secret for at least a year, and perhaps forever, unless he waived his right to confidentiality. A man hit the genetic jackpot if Salmons agreed to donate. But after a handful of months and the barrage of missed calls, Salmons learned he and a patient shared 10 of 10 protein markers. Only a tiny fraction of registry members are ever called for additional testing, and far fewer go on to donate. Many did, rubbing cotton swabs against their cheeks and submitting the DNA samples to the national Be The Match Registry, part of a worldwide database of more than 22.5 million potential adult stem cell donors. Months earlier, Salmons and his teammates were encouraged by lacrosse coach Dave Webster to participate in an on-campus bone marrow drive. Instead, they must seek salvation from a stranger. To avoid tissue rejection, at least 6 of 10 specific genetic protein markers must match, and most patients don't have a viable donor in their family. The patient's only hope for survival was a blood stem cell transplant, and suitable donors are rare. Somewhere, he was told, a middle-aged man was dying from an aggressive blood and bone marrow cancer, acute myeloid leukemia. Salmons slipped out of the biology research lab at Dickinson College, a small school with an undergraduate enrollment of 2,370 students tucked in the rolling hills of Central Pennsylvania, returned to his house and pressed the phone against his ear. "Please in God's name," Salmons recounts reading, "give us a call back." Who had time for a telemarketer? A follow-up email, however, snared his attention. Final exams were approaching, so was winter break and Salmons' senior season of college lacrosse. Three times Reed Salmons ignored the phone calls. It is posted in its entirety with permission from SI.com. The following story ran in Sports Illustrated’s Campus Rush on May 26, 2016. How Division III Lacrosse Player Reed Salmons Saved the Life of a Stranger 3,000 Miles Away
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