It was a Tuesday morning like any other Tuesday morning for me. I was watching the local news and having coffee, having treated myself to a rare morning of sleeping in. I happened to look down at my cell phone and noticed that I had a missed call from a close friend. That was strange, as everyone normally tries me on my home phone number. I called my friend back right away. As she answered the phone, crying hysterically, I knew something was wrong–TERRIBLY wrong. I asked, “What’s wrong? What’s happened?” She replied, “Matt’s gone.” That’s when I knew that all of our lives were immediately changed forever.
In 2010, I was in my 40s, working full-time as a nurse (a second career), going to college full-time pursuing an advanced nursing degree and caring for my ailing father. Up to this point in my life, I’d had virtually no contact with the bleeding disorders community, having been born with hemophilia A in 1968. Over a period of a few years, I began to have major issues related to bleeding episodes and joint damage, all of which ultimately forced me to go on disability. I found myself lost, without a job, without a purpose in life and with no support. I reached out online (this was before Facebook, support groups and social media as a whole had become popular) for support in the bleeding disorders community. The first person I met online was a young guy named Matt Stinger. Little did I know how much this guy would influence my life.
I found out that although Matt was 15 years younger than I am, we had a lot in common. He, too, was a nurse, working in the emergency room at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. He was also having many bleeding problems due to his work, just like I had. He, too, had to face the reality of leaving a career he passionately loved, just like I had.
Matt and I bonded immediately. We supported one another through our transitions in our lives and careers. Matt was easy to talk with. He was compassionate because he understood. He continually encouraged me saying, “It’s going to be alright. This just means you have other things in life you need to do. You have to just wake up every day and fight a new day.”
We progressed from talking online, to texting to speaking with one another on the phone. We had such a special connection as friends. He started saying I was his “brother from another mother.” In November of 2010, Matt and I had the opportunity to meet face to face in New York City. Our friendship was cemented and continued up until the end of his life. We were later interviewed for a HemAware article about connecting digitally with others in our community.
Over the years, our lives took us in different directions, but no matter how much time passed, we always picked back up where we left off, blood brothers until the end. Matt helped me through some major life challenges. He was always there for me and anyone else who needed him. It didn’t matter if he’d known you his whole life or he’d just met you 5 minutes before. His soul wanted to reach out and connect with people and bring joy to their life, or help them if they needed it. He was a natural-born nurturer. This made him an outstanding nurse and an even more amazing friend.
The last thing Matt shared on his Facebook page the day before he passed away was a quote that said: “Build someone up. Put their insecurities to sleep. Remind them they’re worthy. Tell them they’re magical. Be light in a too often dim world.” That is exactly what Matt did for me and everyone else whose life he touched. He was a treasured member of our community and of many of our lives.
The last time I saw Matt, we were at NHF’s Annual Meeting in Orlando last month. I was working, talking to a patient my company serves, and Matt passed me in the hallway. He walked up, smiling as he always was, and grabbed me into a tight hug. He said, “I’ve missed you, brother!” He excitedly told me that he’d successfully completed treatment for hepatitis C, something he supported me through three years ago. I told him how proud of him I was that he’d beaten the hep C. He said, “I’ll let you get back to it. Love you, brother.” I told him I loved him, too. We never got the chance to see one another again.
Matt Stinger was a light in a too often dim world. He made people smile. He made people laugh. He gave people a hug. He listened. He was a fierce advocate. He was a role model. He was our friend and blood brother.
Thank you, Matt, for coming into my life. Many of the diverse people in your life who would have never met are now becoming friends, sharing stories, supporting one another, making plans to change the world—all because of you.
Thank you for being a friend. I love you, brother.