Regardless, the point is... My medical
team has told me to think of May 6th as the first day of
the rest of my life. Hmmm.
Thinking about that: Both lives start
with an abrupt shock to the system. In birth, you're pushed out of a
warm, safe environment, and whether or not you have your bottom
slapped to get you jump started, it is, literally, a rude awakening.
With my stem cell transplant, all the blood was removed from my
system, the “good” stem cells taken out and frozen, then I was
given a double dose of a chemotherapy strong enough to kill me. Rude
awakening indeed.
To avoid the aforementioned “kill
me,” my baby stem cells, or sea monkeys as we came to think of
them, were put back and left to their own devices. The idea was that
they would start generating healthy white blood cells to bring back
my immune system which was destroyed during the kill me stage. That
was the idea. If that did not work, see previous references- “rude
awakening” and “kill me.”
While my nurses and doctors at Brigham
and Women's Hospital were all, “This will take time,” and “Things
look good,” I was all, “Really?” There was a dry erase board in
my room that I could see from my bed and the key number I kept
following was my WBC (White Blood Cell) count. While the staff was
being reasonably optimistic and definitely encouraging, the first
time I looked at the WBC on the board and it was 2, my first thought
was that the 2 must stand for something. Two hundred? Two thousand?
Two something.
As it turned out, it did stand for
something- 2. When I talked to Sheri about it, I felt like The Count
from Sesame Street. “Vun vhite blood cell. Two vhite blood cells.”
I thought about naming them, but I just didn't have the energy at
that point that being a smart aleck required.
Since the WBC count had to be at least
6,000 before the doctors would even consider letting me go home, we
seemed like a long way from Tipperary. Two. Though we didn't find
this out until quite a bit later, at the time, I had as many white
blood cells as I did spleens. Go figure.
Well, after some IV this, and some
injected that, and some pills containing the other, my WBC climbed
quickly. Then I needed to look at the other key number, at least for
me. That was- how many of the WBCs were surviving? The staff had a
ratio/formula, but I didn't really care. That's what the doctors and
nurses were for. My job was make sure that I asked “Can I go home
yet?” at least every other hour.
I must say: the first few days of the
rest of my life kinda... well... sort of... they sucked is what they
did. My sea monkeys were doing their part, busting their little sea
monkey butts trying to help me heal, but I wasn't sleeping or eating
and I think we all know that's not a good thing. Right?
Still, the sea monkeys won their battle
and dragged me along in the process, which included going home after
17 days in isolation. Frankly, that seemed more like the first day of
the rest of my life. And, as written in the Gospel of the Mainenites,
“It was good.”
And it has been ever since. Now, since
life doesn't give you too many do-overs, you'd think I would swear up
and down that I was going to do it differently this time. Well, is it
to my credit or detriment that I didn't even swear up, never mind up
and down. I was very happy to have my life extended by an incredible
team of health professionals, but... there is nothing in my history
to indicate that I would do too much different faced with the chance.
Oh yeah, I would try...still.
Look, I still forget my grandchilren's
birthdays. I'm still unsure how old a couple of them are. I do
remember their names, which, while it counts for something, just
doesn't seem like enough. I love my wife and children, and my cat,
with all my heart. That's a plus, right? I reach out to others and
try to share my hope with them. I hand out encouragement like candy
bars on Halloween (The good ones. You know, actually full-size candy
bars.)
And, I guess, since I'm only a year old
in my new life, that will do for now. If I can provide a positive
example for anyone who struggles with a major issue in their life...
well, happy first transplant day anniversary to me!
There are a variety of versions of
the story that gives this blog its name. The pony is the constant in
all of them. A man is on his way to a party when he comes across a
young boy shoveling ass over tea kettle at an enormous mountain of
manure. The man asks the child if he wouldn't rather go with him to
the party than shovel all that poop. The kid says, “No way man.
With all that poop... there must be a pony in there somewhere
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