[Counts]
WBC:10.3
HCT:31.8
PLT:58,000
The counts section ends here, as I'm pretty sure they'll all be good from now on.
[4:09pm]
My mom just said, "Well, this part is almost over." She said, "... this part is almost over." This nightmarish journey has an end in sight: a different nightmarish journey.
Ok, maybe I'm being a bit melodramatic -- the BMT hospitalization part is by far the most difficult. But I've been focusing so much on that aspect that I am so ready for it all to be done! Now I have to face the post-BMT Stanford infusion period, then the radiation period (hopefully in Berkeley area), then the life-long routine cancer testing phase (perhaps the most daunting of them all).
It seems that the most pernicious aspect of cancer is the fact that it is not finite. Diabetes may be a life-threatening life-long disease, but everything will work out fine if it's treatment is seriously followed. With cancer, on the other hand, one has to be subjected to harsh treatments with unknown outcomes...all you can do is suffer through it and pray to whatever you find holy. Even if the outcome is favorable, and the cancer is cured, it can always come back -- it's ghost is always there to haunt you. Which would you prefer? A pill to take to keep your cancer permanently in remission? Or a chemotherapeutic agent to attempt to destroy the cancer, but can cause severe long term side effects, unhinge your life, and, of course, can return at any time. That's what I mean by not finite: there is no end.
Taken to the other extreme, if one were to have a bullet shot through their head, then that would be it: a finite death. And that is, without question, what all cancer warriors are fighting against. But is a bullet through the head more pernicious than a few years fighting a losing battle against a cancer that has you so battle-worn that you are stripped of all identity and converted into this wounded animal? A wounded animal that no longer has the energy for witty banter with the nurses; A wounded animal that does nothing but poop, vomit, eat (if through a tube), and drink (again, if through a tube)... and all that is of concern to those around the animal is it's input(what comes in) and output (what goes out). Seems that the bullet has a greater respect for life with a smaller amount of suffering.
So, this part is almost over. They have transferred me into a double room, which is a good sign for those looking to get out of here -- it means your counts are good enough that severe precautions are not necessary.
As luck would have it, they transferred me into a room with a guy who was having his transplant today! I was glad for the guy, until I encountered that overwhelming stem-cell stench... the stench of poorly fried shellfish that had been left out in the sun for a few days.
The funny part is that everyone was fine with it, except for me -- I nearly vomited 7 or 8 times. I requested some Ativan and air freshener. When they arrived, I was spraying air freshner into my face as I was getting the Ativan -- it worked, for a time.
Fortunately, the smell goes away with time. Plus, my roommate just got discharged (a day after transplant! Why is mine so long?), so my mom and I stole his window seat. It's much nicer here.
Truthfully, I'm getting a little depressed in this hospital. I've just been here too long; been caged up to an IV for too long -- I want my freedom; I want to go home. Been trying to sleep away the days, but that never works. All you can do is make sure you eat enough, drink enough (3L), and do their little breathing exercise thingy enough to get discharged. They say that there's a chance I'll get discharged on Wednesday, but I don't really believe that... so, it looks like Thursday. Two whole days from now.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
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10 comments:
Hi Austin, So glad you're getting better. Really, really glad.
I can speak to one part of your post, as someone who has lived for the past 12 years (yes, 12, count 'em) with the knowledge that it could, and probably would return any time. All I can tell you is that I have developed a rather stingy attitude towards cancer. I only give it the time, effort and thoughts that are required and nothing more. In other words, I get my check-ups (which are farther apart all the time) and I occasionally check for lumpy lymph nodes, and that's about it. The rest of my time, thoughts and life are MINE. To do with as I see fit.
Quite honestly, I never could wrap my brain around a poor outcome anyway -- it was just too much to fathom. I imagine I'll figure it out (one step at a time) if the time ever comes.
And that's another thing . . . what if the time never comes? Then I will have wasted all of that time worrying about something for naught! I will have ruined my good time! No, cancer is not getting one iota more of me than necessary.
Don't blame you for being a little down . . . a hospital is not a fun place to be for as long as you've been there! Freedom is just around the corner! You're almost there! Tally ho! :)
Love,
Tante Laurie
It is part of the Way Things Are that old people get cancer sometimes. After all, at some advanced age, some kind of disease or weakness is going to eventually cause one's death. But I think surviving cancer when you are young is different though, because it robs the young of the luxury of ignoring their mortality. This I think might be part of what Austin is saying. He feels wounded by cancer, even if the disease is beaten. He is at a point where he might have told himself "Now my life returns to normal" but it can't really ever go all the way to the same normal as before. Something precious was taken away and he's angry, and sad, about it. At least, that is my reaction to his entry today. When I had my heart surgery at age 47, I was much older, but even then I had to go through some of the same process. I could have died, but I didn't, and I was glad of that, but also was forced to accept that I had become a heart patient, forever. I didn't want that. I wanted to just live, as if it had never happened. Well Austin, please pardon me if I am putting words in your mouth or incorrectly interpreting you. It is a heck of a thing to survive a lethal disease. You have to have strong feelings about it.
I guess I am reminded of the movie "I Love You to Death" with Kevin Kline in which Kline's character survives a bullet in the brain and describes how it has changed his outlook on his life forever: "When somebody shoots you in the head it makes you think."
Hi Austin
I'm not sure if it's creepy, but I keep up with your blog daily and am thinking good thoughts for your new bone marrow. I hear you so hard core on the never being able to just let go and say it's over. I have 2 year of chemo on my protocol. It's something my friends and family can't seem to wrap their head's around. I gave up recently and told them I was done so at least they could think it was over and it was gone. Anyway, I totally think your depression will clear up post-hospital. After 18 days last spring, I was a wreck--completely despondent... it was just the hospital. Being home changes EVERY thing. Until then, I found that listening to This American Life podcasts was the perfect way to be semi entertained/engaged and still left a lot of room to just pass out again.
Good luck!
Austin
Well said and from the heart. I find it best to deal with things one day at a time and not get ahead of myself with worries. (at least that's what I TRY to do) = p
BTW, your bullet analogy is spot on.
It's Wednesday, so there's a chance you will be sprung today! I bet you will be feeling loads better mentally when you are home. Nothing like some home cooking and your own bed to brighten the day.
Thank you for sharing your feelings with us.
Austin, you speak to me very clearly and I consider you to be my hero. You know how deeply cancer has changed my life by taking Beren. He's my hero, too. Right now you are being morphed rather harshly. Remember that the only finite thing is change. Actually that makes it infinite, doesn't it? Keep up this blog please. It is a lifeline for many new and old loved ones. Bring it on! Right?
That's a good attitude Taunte Laurie -- I think I'll adopt it.
Skymist -- I'm not used to being analyzed, but spot on!
jessie o -- Thanks, it's good to hear of another who has experienced sterile-wall melancholy... and had it lifted upon liberation.
Also, love the pic with you giving the birdy with the O2 Sat sensor. :)
Thanks Glo :)
I'll keep the blog up and running!
You're right, Austin - this is the end of a phase and time to move on to a new one.
I remember begging Wullie after his initial dx not to let this define the rest of our lives - truly, if he hadn't relapsed I don't think it would have, but he did and it most very much does define our lives.....as your mum said, getting cancer at a young age steals the sense of immortality that all young people have.....but the definition of our lives by cancer isn't all bad. The nerves surrounding relapse do fade (until appts approach) but the knowledge that that day COULD come makes you make more of the good times.........hope that makes sense and really hope you get out of there soon - sounds like you're ready!
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