About an hour ago, my family walked out the door and left me home all by myself. I feel like the teenager whose parents decide he/she is ready to be at home solo. They're going on an overnight to Pennsylvania to attend a party at my niece's house. I do have the dogs with me, but as they've never been trained to handle anything more than sit/stay/et cetera, they're not going to be very useful to me in an emergency. Not that I'm planning on having one. No, I'm planning on enjoying this sun-filled warmish day. I'll go running after I write this. Reading, writing, researching, knitting are all on my agenda. I can eat whatever I want, whenever I want to. Don't worry, I'm not planning to do too many illegal activities. Mark will be back from his track meet late tonight, so I'll have someone to argue with tomorrow.
Marty vacuumed and washed the tile floor last night, relieving some of his guilt about leaving me home. He claims he did it because the floor looked disgusting, which it did. I'd already planned on donning an industrial strength mask today and doing it myself. Maybe he knew that.
There's something very positive in all this. A month ago, Marty wouldn't have gone away for the weekend, leaving me home. Now, he feels he can do so and that I'll be all right. And I will be all right. That's an accomplishment.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
Thursday, January 10, 2008
My Poetry to Protect Me
Thought I'd shake it up a bit and share a poem with you. I wrote this following my leukemia diagnosis, before my relapse and subsequent transplant.
Last March
This is the hour of lead remembered if outlived.
--Emily Dickinson
The doctor bears the news
to the unwitting patient
who hears sound absent meaning.
Thought drains away like blood
as she stares out the window, inert.
A gray-caped sky forces itself
upon the struggling landscape.
Please, no.
The yard is swathed in decay.
Scraggy oaks plead for reprieve,
for any sign of life amid the sepia.
Stray leaves curl their fingers
around clumps of limp grass.
Even the birds are bereft,
without song.
A voice thanks the poor man;
the phone falls away.
Tick … tick … tick …
the hour of lead begins.
Last March
This is the hour of lead remembered if outlived.
--Emily Dickinson
The doctor bears the news
to the unwitting patient
who hears sound absent meaning.
Thought drains away like blood
as she stares out the window, inert.
A gray-caped sky forces itself
upon the struggling landscape.
Please, no.
The yard is swathed in decay.
Scraggy oaks plead for reprieve,
for any sign of life amid the sepia.
Stray leaves curl their fingers
around clumps of limp grass.
Even the birds are bereft,
without song.
A voice thanks the poor man;
the phone falls away.
Tick … tick … tick …
the hour of lead begins.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
What I Learned Today
The first thing I learned today is that Jimmy Page of Led Zeppelin is 64. Seems every radio station in the Providence/Boston area is paying him homage by playing the band's tunes. The next thing I discovered is that I can drive myself to Boston and back and not get in a wreck. I haven't been on a highway since August, and wasn't sure if my baby blood was up to the task. I heard many many Zeppelin songs during my drive to Dana-Farber. The CD player in my car had one lone CD in it, the musical Camelot. Shows you how much I drive. Darling Marty must have loaded that. I still hate musicals.
I learned at the clinic today that my blood counts are completely in the normal range for the very first time since the last time I drove on a highway. I saw my doctor and he said I'm fine and I said I felt fine so that was that. He told me to cut back on one of my immune suppressant drugs (prograf) and to be on the look-out for any signs of graft v. host issues. Curious about how my spanking new immune system is doing, I asked what my CD4 count was. A healthy person's count is 500-1500 t-cells per cubic millimeter of blood. Last time mine was checked, over a month ago, it was 4. Geez Louise. Fragile as a Ming vase, I must remain a hermit.
Yesterday, I learned something very sad. One of our dogs that we left behind in Costa Rica had to be put to sleep last Friday. Her name was Allie and she was a bouvier de flandres we'd rescued when she was 2 years old. She was a full sister to our dog Asta, and a half sibling to our Turbo. Our friends in Costa Rica adopted her and continued giving her the good life, complete with complementary mangoes. Here's to you Allie, a good loving dog who no longer has to be terrified during thunderstorms.
Allie, November 1997 - January 2008
I learned at the clinic today that my blood counts are completely in the normal range for the very first time since the last time I drove on a highway. I saw my doctor and he said I'm fine and I said I felt fine so that was that. He told me to cut back on one of my immune suppressant drugs (prograf) and to be on the look-out for any signs of graft v. host issues. Curious about how my spanking new immune system is doing, I asked what my CD4 count was. A healthy person's count is 500-1500 t-cells per cubic millimeter of blood. Last time mine was checked, over a month ago, it was 4. Geez Louise. Fragile as a Ming vase, I must remain a hermit.
Yesterday, I learned something very sad. One of our dogs that we left behind in Costa Rica had to be put to sleep last Friday. Her name was Allie and she was a bouvier de flandres we'd rescued when she was 2 years old. She was a full sister to our dog Asta, and a half sibling to our Turbo. Our friends in Costa Rica adopted her and continued giving her the good life, complete with complementary mangoes. Here's to you Allie, a good loving dog who no longer has to be terrified during thunderstorms.
Allie, November 1997 - January 2008
Monday, January 7, 2008
No Time for Blogging
In a "true" blog, you post every day, at least once and sometimes more often. There's an article in today's New York Times about how the blogging life may be bad for your health. Ah, the pressure to post one's thoughts with great frequency. Fortunately, the writer of The Plog has resisted this urge and decided to post only when she feels like it. She has enough health-related issues with which to contend, and does not need the stress of daily blogmanship.
Somehow, the morning has disappeared and the afternoon is staring me in the face. How did this happen? Marty guilted me into baking a banana bread with the rotting bananas I'd intended to toss. It was such a Costa Rica moment. I was forced to read sections of the Sunday Times because I was soooo busy yesterday visiting friends in person and via telephone. I read, printed and emailed some articles pertaining to my grant-writing activities. I listened to a poem by Robert Frost called Desert Places on NPR, was compelled to google it and read said poem and several others. Then I remembered the meatballs. Isn't that the dryer beeping? Checked the LLS discussion board to find a post by the Long Lost Leah, successfully transplanted on Saturday. Yeah! Think about blogging but realize Time's winged chariot grows near. The meatballs aren't going to make themselves. Thank god the phone hasn't rung. So who's writing this post?
Today, there's no time for blogging. That's a good thing.
Somehow, the morning has disappeared and the afternoon is staring me in the face. How did this happen? Marty guilted me into baking a banana bread with the rotting bananas I'd intended to toss. It was such a Costa Rica moment. I was forced to read sections of the Sunday Times because I was soooo busy yesterday visiting friends in person and via telephone. I read, printed and emailed some articles pertaining to my grant-writing activities. I listened to a poem by Robert Frost called Desert Places on NPR, was compelled to google it and read said poem and several others. Then I remembered the meatballs. Isn't that the dryer beeping? Checked the LLS discussion board to find a post by the Long Lost Leah, successfully transplanted on Saturday. Yeah! Think about blogging but realize Time's winged chariot grows near. The meatballs aren't going to make themselves. Thank god the phone hasn't rung. So who's writing this post?
Today, there's no time for blogging. That's a good thing.
Friday, January 4, 2008
16 Weeks, Make That 17 Post Transplant
Too bad I only learned my multiplication tables through 10. Okay, 11. Every Friday is another week post transplant and if I want to convert that to days (the usual method of talking about it), I actually have to do the math. To top it all off, I thought today was 16 weeks post and it's actually 17. I guess it's a good sign that I don't wake up every day and think, I Made it to Day Whatever. Today is, ka-ching, Day +119.
So how do I feel on this frigid January day? Somewhat transplanted. In other words, I feel like I've had foreign blood cells planted into my bones. Or something. It's not a bad feeling, just an odd one. I feel a little cottony and a bit tired. For all I know, this is how you're supposed to feel when you're pushing 54. Pushing takes energy.
So how do I feel on this frigid January day? Somewhat transplanted. In other words, I feel like I've had foreign blood cells planted into my bones. Or something. It's not a bad feeling, just an odd one. I feel a little cottony and a bit tired. For all I know, this is how you're supposed to feel when you're pushing 54. Pushing takes energy.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Flame-Retardant Garments for the Politically Active
A friend of mine, commenting on my return to numerous pre-transplant activities, wanted to know when I would resume ranting about politics. The truth is, I get no kick from the subject, and most politicians make me cringe. That's because when I'm listening to a politician speak (a mercifully rare event), a little voice often starts chanting: liar liar pants on fire. But on this day of the Iowa Caucuses, it seems fitting to allow myself a moment of brief bloviation. Would that politicians be so courteous to their audiences.
Warning: You may be offended by the next paragraph. Immediately skip to the final paragraph if this occurs.
America, you re-elected George Bush. Democrats, you rubber-stamped some of his most questionable actions. It's not easy to swim against the tide, to say no to a mob of raving war-mongerers. It's difficult to say nay when the vast majority say yea, to have the courage to follow your moral compass, political expediency be damned. But when you approve something that turns out to be a disaster, not to mention unpopular, endless spinning is necessary to explain your misguided vote. Expensive designer pantsuits go up in flames. Experience? The most experienced politicians are quite adept at covering their hind quarters. Perhaps they should look into flame-retardant fabric.
Enough. I don't want to tax my immune system. Note to myself: avoid crowds, salad bars, politics.
Warning: You may be offended by the next paragraph. Immediately skip to the final paragraph if this occurs.
America, you re-elected George Bush. Democrats, you rubber-stamped some of his most questionable actions. It's not easy to swim against the tide, to say no to a mob of raving war-mongerers. It's difficult to say nay when the vast majority say yea, to have the courage to follow your moral compass, political expediency be damned. But when you approve something that turns out to be a disaster, not to mention unpopular, endless spinning is necessary to explain your misguided vote. Expensive designer pantsuits go up in flames. Experience? The most experienced politicians are quite adept at covering their hind quarters. Perhaps they should look into flame-retardant fabric.
Enough. I don't want to tax my immune system. Note to myself: avoid crowds, salad bars, politics.
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
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