Final say

I was talking the other day with a guy named Jack Pichnarcik, a young father who did the most unnatural thing any parent could ever do: He buried his son.

Mark was 16 when he died last month of leukemia. For four years, he had been blasted by chemotherapy, zapped by radiation, opened up by surgeons who were never ready to say he couldn't be saved.

He was confined to a small room at the Floating Hospital for Children for his last five months, his parents by his side all waking hours, his mother often sleeping on a little nest that the nurses set up on the bathroom floor.

"The kid never got a break," the father said.

"He fought the whole time, just kept going. Whatever they brought to him, he took it and always came back for more. He never complained."

Like father, like son, because Jack Pichnarcik wasn't complaining either. Rather, he was telling me how great every one had been: nurses, doctors, neighbors in Lunenburg, and specifically, Brian Pomerleau, the owner of the trucking parts company where he works.

When Mark went into the hospital last November, Pomerleau told Jack to go be with his son, however long it was, and rest assured he wouldn't miss a day of pay.

He slipped Jack a couple of thousand extra dollars here and there over the next few months.

On the eve of Mark's death, Pomerleau quietly picked out a cemetery plot and made all the funeral arrangements himself, then headed to Boston to tell the Pichnarciks that everything was ready and funded, no questions asked or money accepted.

To me, Pomerleau shrugged it off, saying, "Hey, I made a few extra dollars in my life, so it's always nice to help someone you know."

And now as I type what is supposed to be a story of virtue, of everyday people doing remarkable things, one forlorn thought keeps filling my head: I'm really going to miss this job.

This is my final column.

Well, at the very least, it's the last one I'll write for a while. The Globe offered me the chance to direct its local coverage. I gladly accepted, finding it impossible to say no to a bigger role on the newspaper I love.

But not without some regret. You see, to write a column is to be given one of the great privileges in all of newspapering, really a rare and coveted gift.

It allowed me to meet people, ordinary people in extraordinary circumstances, to sit at their kitchen tables and be welcomed into their lives, then introduce them around town. It allowed me to chide politicians when they did the ridiculous things they invariably do.

So a few thank yous are in order: to Matt Storin, who gave me the column 8 1/2 years ago; to Marty Baron, who has championed it since he arrived; to Michael Larkin, my editor of many years. If you liked this space, you would like him, and if you didn't, well, I'll be sure to let him know.

And now to the readers. You e-mailed me, called me, stopped me on the street with a constant stream of tips, ideas, criticism, even praise. One otherwise rational sounding father sought my help when his kid didn't make the Little League team. There were many days I was desperate for material; thankfully, that wasn't one of them.

This much I have learned: The power of a column isn't in the writing so much as it's in the reading. If you aren't there, this doesn't matter. But time and again, you were.

The Wall Street analysts say the newspaper industry is dying. Maybe that's true, but you wouldn't know it on this end.

I should probably have some profound thought to impart on my way out the door. I don't. But why break the streak now?

So I'll leave with a simple sentence, the most sincere I've ever written, intended for anyone who ever let this column be even the slightest part of their day:

Thanks for the ride of my life.

Brian McGrory is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at mcgrory@globe.com.