He finally gets chance to thank donor for giving

Ryan Kilbury has allergies he didn't have before. His blood type changed. And he cries more than ever.

That's what happens when you allow a Scottish woman to take over your body.

Kilbury did so — gladly — six years ago, when he received a stem-cell transplant from cells donated by Joanne Wilkie, a firefighter who lives in Scotland.

They met for the first time the other day, when Wilkie, 34, flew to see Kilbury, 40, and join him on a visit to Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center in Seattle, where their relationship began in a lab run by Dr. Edus "Hootie" Warren.

Kilbury was diagnosed with a bone-marrow disorder called myelodysplastic syndrome in August 2005 and received a transplant on Christmas Eve of that year.

"It's almost like having a sister that you never knew," Kilbury said.

This is a time to take stock, and be thankful for all we are given by others, by our own efforts and by fate, faith and good fortune.

But there is something extraordinary about those who give, literally, of themselves to save the life of someone they may never meet.

I thought of this as I watched Kilbury and Wilkie tour "The Hutch" together. One person alive because of the selflessness of the other. It seemed otherworldly, but at the same time, very human.

"That people like Joanne would do this," said Warren. "It's not just a blood donation. It's an enormous commitment."

Indeed, stem-cell donation "is one of the most invasive medical procedures we ever do," Warren said, adding that transplants can be "pretty stormy" for both patients.

Wilkie started giving blood 12 years ago as part of her training as a firefighter.

"I thought it was something I could do," she said. "That's why I joined the fire service. To help people."

One day, she saw a pamphlet about bone-marrow and stem-cell donation.

"My job as a firefighter is to save lives as part of a team," she said. "But this was something I could do personally."

A year after she was entered into the international bone-marrow registry, Wilkie was notified that she was a match. She endured several injections that brought on flu-like symptoms, and spent some 16 hours hooked up to a machine in a London hospital.

"But that was nothing," she said, "compared to what Ryan was going through."

Once the transplant was completed, Kilbury, a contract specialist at the U.S. Department of Energy, spent three months at the Hutch. Over time, he went from taking 20 pills to none, his blood work is normal, and he is cancer-free.

"I'm still vertical," he joked.

For two years, the only thing Kilbury knew about his donor was her age, her sex and that she lived in Europe. He could only correspond with her through the donor registry, so he sent her a postcard, "thanking her for her selfless act and for giving me a second chance," he said.

After four years, he learned her name and sent her a letter about himself, his family — his life. Wilkie wrote right back.

"I wondered how he was doing for four years," she said. "He was in my head most days."

After Kilbury invited Wilkie for Thanksgiving at his home in Pasco, Warren invited the two to the Hutch for a visit.

They took a tour of the lab, past refrigerators labeled "molecular human serum," giant tanks of nitrogen and staffers like Zandra Klippel, a hematology and oncology fellow who works with Warren.

"Oncology itself is a difficult profession," she said. "Patients go through a lot. So this is a very comforting feeling."

Said colleague Jeff Chou: "We see a lot of sad stories. This keeps us going."

At one point, Dr. Lawrence Corey, the president and director of the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center, happened by, and was introduced to Kilbury and Wilkie.

"What a wonderful surprise," he said as he walked away. "That's what it's all about."

Said Kilbury: "It's not an easy thing for either person to go through. But we're giving people hope. Patients should know that they have a chance to make it."

Nicole Brodeur's column appears Tuesday and Friday. Reach her at 206-464-2334 or nbrodeur@seattletimes.com.

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