“I think we should take that photo
down,” Sheri called from some unidentified part of the house the
other day. “I think it's time.”
I wasn't sure where she was calling
from, and I probably should have wondered, “What photo?,” but I
knew. It had been on our fridge door- the only thing on our fridge
door except for the “We can fight cancer together” magnet that
held it in place- since a couple of weeks after I got home from
having my stem cell transplant; so, let's say it had been there since
early June 2014.
Truth is, that since it had been in the
same spot without really being moved in all that time, it had pretty
much disappeared from my view. It was there. I knew it was there. I
knew what it was. I looked at it, but I no longer saw it. Know what I
mean?
It was a photo Sheri had taken in my
hospital room during my recovery from the aforementioned transplant.
I was standing (in itself a photo-worthy event at that point in
time), leaning against my IV pole. I looked... unkempt...
bedraggled... sadly cheerful. I'm not a big smiler for photos at the
best of times and this was hardly that..
My hair had begun falling out and what
was left presented itself in clumps. I wouldn't say I looked like
“Alfalfa” from the Little Rascals, but I could have been taken
for blood kin. There were five or six bags of fluids hanging from the
IV pole, in various stages of distribution. Since I had a Hickman
line, I was never quite sure what was going in at any given point,
but the number of bags looked impressive. There may have been a day
when I had one more, but I don't really think so. This was a...
highlight?... low light?... sad moment?... hopeful point? Probably
all of those. It certainly was dramatic, even if I, myself, looked at
least a little lost and overwhelmed.
We put it on the fridge as a reminder
of where we had been; that as the recovery process dragged on, at
least we weren't... there.
So, sure enough; that was the photo and
down it came. It went into a box along with numerous other reminders
of moments of our transplant process: the first day visit to the
cancer clinic here at home; traveling to Boston for the transplant;
my room in the hospital; various shots of me not sleeping; the
transplant itself where the blood was being IV'd back into my system;
the slow steady climb of my white blood cell count till it reached
the point we could go home; and on and on.
These things aren't in a box in a
closet to be forgotten, obviously. It's sort of the same thing I do
with my brain. I can't have all those bits and pieces pinned to the
front of my brain where I have to deal with them every day- there
lurks madness (haha). No, they're there... Well, I can't say
carefully filed away because, yes, they are in one basic location,
but, if you think of it as a file cabinet... some are on top waiting
to be put away, some are on the floor where they fell. It's untidy,
but they are somewhat put away. So this one went on the pile.
The magnet is still there, but right
now it isn't holding anything. You might wonder if there was any
emotion to putting the last visible trace of my experience out of
sight and I would have to say, “Not really.” Or, at least, “I
don't think so.” It was time. Simple as that really.
Interestingly enough we made a truly
significant change to my treatment this past week as well. Since a
few months before the transplant, and just about every month since,
I've been receiving a once-a-month treatment with an IV fluid
designed to repair damage to my bones cased by multiple myeloma.
When I was meeting with my oncologist
prior to this month's treatment, we were talking, again, about my
stomach issues. They have always bothered him because he is a
conscientious person and doesn't like to see one of his favorite
patients in pain, being unable to do anything about it. (Actually, I
don't know if I'm one of his favorites, but, for dramatic effect, I'm
going to claim that status, earned or not.)
As we talked, he wondered if it might
be this bone fixing chemical that lurks at the heart of my stomach
issues. It can cause those symptoms, evidently, and as he did some
quick research while I was there, we decided it would be well worth
stopping the treatment for at least a month to see what happened. We
have tried so many other things, I couldn't see any reason why not.
So, two constants of my post-cell plant
treatment changed this week. One put the transplant experience one
step deeper into my memory, while the other opened a door to perhaps
getting rid of this lingering pain that is severely affecting my
quality of life.
All in all, I'd say that's quite a
week. Stay tuned.
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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