Hemoglobin the Hard Way

My clinic appointment yesterday was grueling. I was in dire need of blood, so my doctor ordered 2 irradiated units. I had already negotiated with my doctor to eliminate the steroid pre-medication (I still got Tylenol and Benadryl) because it had made me so nutty during Monday's platelet transfusion. That turned out to be a very bad idea.

Half an hour into the transfusion, they checked my vitals and my blood pressure was something like 77/46 and my temperature 101 degrees. Oops. The transfusion was immediately stopped and I had to get the steroid anyway and wait for my signs to improve. Interestingly, I didn't feel woozy or even especially hot. Whatever. An hour or so later, blood was once again flowing and I appeared to be fine. They checked my signs every 20 minutes to be sure.

Transfusion #2 didn't get underway until 5 pm. The additional pre-meds made me jumpy, and the easy-chair I was sitting in had lost much of its ease. They'd pumped me full of fluids, so I spent much of the time wheeling my pole into the bathroom (my, that sounds off-color) and then walking back to my uneasy chair.

We sludged out of the clinic at about 7:15. The blood had given me a bit of a boost I suppose, but I was way too exhausted to notice. I slept most of the ride home.

I'm not even going to try to mine this little episode for a hint of humor or a silver lining. It was bad; I got through it; this disease is awful.

Navigating the Nadir

The only body part firing yesterday was my brain. I guess that organ takes minimal blood cells to function properly. This may be debatable.

I spent most of the day sitting, chatting on the phone and writing. I wrote a letter to President Obama about some policy issues as they currently affect me and my family. At one point, I got off the couch and took a shower, and then went on a slow walk with my husband. The couch beckoned once more, and there I remained parked for most of the afternoon. Time passed extremely quickly for some reason, and before I knew it my husband was back from shopping and my sons home from school/practice. It was time to move on to the next room, where I draped myself over my chaise and demanded tea and crumpets. We were fresh out of crumpets so I had a biscuit.

My husband made dinner and I read a little. I listened to all four sides of Stevie Wonder's Songs in the Key of Life. I even read the liner notes (yes, I'm talking records here; we actually have a turntable). This was good for the soul. Thanks, Stevland.

I managed to stay conscious until roughly 9 pm. What I don't understand is, if I'm essentially doing nothing, moving oh so slowly through the day, why is time speeding up? It's a conundrum wrapped inside a paradox parading as an enigma.

Mellow Yellow

As expected, I needed a platelet infusion today. My CBC showed I only had 3,000 of those clotting babies, whereas normal is 150,000-400,000. It's possible that merely typing this post is risky. I will type softly.

My reds are also on the low side of low, but my doctor opted not to transfuse me as I'm asymptomatic, that is, I'm still breathing. Looks like I've reached the "nadir" in my counts. This is a certified SAT word, so if you know a student currently embroiled in applying to college, be sure to mention this. Nadir=the pits, the lowest point. That's where you'll find me.

I've also been running a low-grade fever since yesterday, 99-100. This is my body's response to the low white blood count situation. I'm willing myself to stay under 100.5, because when my temperature hits that, I'm cooked. I have to call my doctor and most likely be admitted to the hospital for antibiotic infusions.

You may be wondering why I've titled this post with a Donovan tune, other than the fact that I'm probably doing way more drugs than he did when he wrote it. Mellow Yellow is my name for a bag of platelets which are a soft, creamy yellow. I guess it did mellow me a bit, because I slept away the afternoon.

Kafkaesque

I picked up Kafka on the Shore, by Haruki Murakami a year ago at Barnes and Noble. The book sat on my bedside table collecting dust and shooting me the hairy eyeball from time to time. Twice I tried to read it, and twice I failed to get beyond the first chapter. Some books just have to be read at the right time, a time that had not yet come for Murakami's book.

Apparently, six days of chemotherapy and its lingering effects put me where I needed to be (trapped?), and I finally made it to the second chapter. Maybe the fantastic, the gruesome, and the incomprehensible go down easier when the reader is experiencing her own tenuous grip on reality. Brain damage is also a handy excuse for being unable to comprehend much of what happens in the novel. I was a lot less likely to question serious breaks with reality, a lot more willing to accept the odd, the outrageous, and the frequent challenges to the space-time continuum.

Kafka on the Shore is partial to libraries, to books, to metaphor--my safety zone. Its two main characters include the 15-year old Kafka, who's a voracious reader, and an older man who's completely illiterate. A major theme of the novel (and a favorite of mine in general) is how memories are made, stored, changed and passed on. Kafka walks away from the novel with a memory of his mother, a personal fulfillment of his quest.

The book is mysterious and compelling. I was hoping for a few more "answers" but settled for the fleeting insights and tenuous connections drawn between past and present, male and female, violence and kindness. Kafka on the Shore is at once a song, a painting and the novel itself. You'll have to read it to know what the heck I'm talking about.

In Leukemia News, I'm remaining fever-free and struggling to put some shape into my days, which float by cloaked in shapeless housedresses--a flash of floral and then they're gone.

No Neutrophils

It's official. The chemo has knocked out all of my neutrophils, the first responder white blood cells that appear at the scene to do battle with pathogens. I'm on my own now, trying to limit my exposure to bacteria, fungi and other nasties.

I don't know if my defenseless state had anything to do with it, but I spent much of yesterday parked on the couch. Marty and I took a short walk in the afternoon, and that used up all my energy. I spent the rest of the day reclining on my chaise longue, drifting in and out of consciousness. I managed to drag myself to the dinner table and consumed two enchiladas (Sexto de Mayo--we missed Cinco). Then I did another hour of couch time before crawling up to bed at 8 pm. You'd think that after 10 hours of sleep I'd be raring to go, but the only place I'm raring to go is back to bed.

This extreme lack of energy is normal--my blood cells are dead or dying. Hopefully, the leukemic cells are experiencing a slow and painful death, Geneva Convention be damned.

No plans for the day. I'm giving myself up to extreme lassitude. Were that I were relaxing on an empty stretch of beach sipping a margarita.

Infinite Jest--What Would You Call It?

What a difference five days make. When I left here last week to enter the hospital, my yard was still cloaked in grays and browns. A little warmth and a bit of rain have transformed the place into a lush green landscape punctuated with pink blossoms, arching forsythia and the occasional daffodil and hyacinth. For the first time in years, the dogwood is actually blooming. In contrast, I was a picture of rosy health last week, and am now reduced to a barren landscape.

I'm parked on my chaise longue feeling like a slug, and probably not looking much better than one. On one hand, the toxins are exiting my body; on the other, my counts are dropping and I feel listless and unmotivated. I have surrounded myself with heady reading material. Even if I fail to turn a page, I am among books I hope will lend me the gravitas I currently lack.

Kafka on the Shore is providing me with gruesome scenes involving cat decapitation and quirky plot twists. I have no idea where this book is going, but it's certainly surprising. In the What Was I Thinking Category, I ordered Infinite Jest from the library, a 1000+ page footnoted tome I've been planning to read for some time. Now that I have the luxury of huge blocks of time waiting to be shaped and managed, I hope to finally tackle this heavy book. And I do mean heavy. I can barely lift it.

Time for a nap.

All My Trials, Soon Be Over

The cumulative effects are starting to kick in. Eating is a challenge. The three books I brought to the hospital thinking I'd get some reading done mock me from across the room. I think it's Sunday.

I get one more round of clorfarabine tomorrow and then I'm done. I plan to get out of this place Tuesday. The crabapple's in full bloom, one of the most beautiful sites you'll ever see in my yard, and I won't miss it.

Friends, I feel your power pulling me toward the light.