I've got a serious conflagration going here as I torch all the 2007 calendars in the house. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. It was not a very good year.
A person who posts on the LLS Discussion Board gave me the idea. She actually had a worse year than I did, I think. Lots of people did. All over the world.
Not that 2007 was a total washout. Some good things happened, too. Even in the worst of times, there was occasional humor to be found. Go back and read earlier posts and you'll see that some of the circumstances I found myself in were too ridiculous not to laugh about. And of course I'm still here authoring this blog, a huge plus.
So tonight, we'll take a cup o' kindness (about all I can have a cup of, my dears), ring in 2008 (probably around 9:30 pm) and look forward to a better year.
SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT: Tune in tomorrow for a hair-raising multi-media edition of The Plog.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Ode to Sleep
On this my pensive pillow, gentle Sleep!
Descend, in all thy downy plumage drest:
Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep,
And place thy crown of poppies on my breast. --Thomas Wharton, Jr.
I've never been a great sleeper. The only way for me to sink into a deep sleep is through illness or heavy drugs, and then it's more like unconsciousness than restorative sleep. These days, I feel pressured to sleep, since it's said to boost the immune system.
Lately, I've gone to bed tired, positive that I'll fall asleep right away. But no, as soon as my head hits the pillow, I start having conversations with people. Sometimes I talk to my doctors about my illness; sometimes I talk to my brothers about our childhood; most of the time, these conversations don't cover any new ground, nor do they lead to any apparent insights. Last night, I was telling someone about how I started running at age 44, reliving how difficult my first 5k race was. Thinking about running is no way to fall asleep.
Often, I'll think about the people I've met on the Leukemia/Lymphoma Society discussion board. These people--some patients, some caregivers--are at the center of my social world at the moment, more real to me right now than my best friends. That's because we share a bond that we don't even want to share: all of us have struggled with the Beast. It's an interesting and informative community, unconstrained by time and space. The downside of participation is that members die, often of the very disease you happen to have. That's hard to take. Every time I read a post about another passing, I feel like crying. Sometimes, I do. Right now, there's an "in memoriam" thread listing all our comrades who lost their battle in 2007. It's like entering a virtual veterans cemetery, where everyone who's died has died from the enemy you're still fighting. It's not easy, but it's important to remember.
And I need the reminder. Some days I forget what I'm up against and become too complacent. I forget I'm walking through a microbial minefield, a mental defense mechanism that could be deadly. I must: Think Germs! Wash Hands! Take Meds! Drink Lots of Fluid! Hand Sanitize! Don't Stress! Get Lots of Rest! Live One Day at a Time! Eat Right! Make a mistake, or too many mistakes and BOOM!
When I go to bed tonight, I'm going to try to shut out the voices, the worry, the fear, the cataloging of experience. Maybe I need to look into getting a crown of poppies. The other stuff I'm taking just doesn't work.
Descend, in all thy downy plumage drest:
Wipe with thy wing these eyes that wake to weep,
And place thy crown of poppies on my breast. --Thomas Wharton, Jr.
I've never been a great sleeper. The only way for me to sink into a deep sleep is through illness or heavy drugs, and then it's more like unconsciousness than restorative sleep. These days, I feel pressured to sleep, since it's said to boost the immune system.
Lately, I've gone to bed tired, positive that I'll fall asleep right away. But no, as soon as my head hits the pillow, I start having conversations with people. Sometimes I talk to my doctors about my illness; sometimes I talk to my brothers about our childhood; most of the time, these conversations don't cover any new ground, nor do they lead to any apparent insights. Last night, I was telling someone about how I started running at age 44, reliving how difficult my first 5k race was. Thinking about running is no way to fall asleep.
Often, I'll think about the people I've met on the Leukemia/Lymphoma Society discussion board. These people--some patients, some caregivers--are at the center of my social world at the moment, more real to me right now than my best friends. That's because we share a bond that we don't even want to share: all of us have struggled with the Beast. It's an interesting and informative community, unconstrained by time and space. The downside of participation is that members die, often of the very disease you happen to have. That's hard to take. Every time I read a post about another passing, I feel like crying. Sometimes, I do. Right now, there's an "in memoriam" thread listing all our comrades who lost their battle in 2007. It's like entering a virtual veterans cemetery, where everyone who's died has died from the enemy you're still fighting. It's not easy, but it's important to remember.
And I need the reminder. Some days I forget what I'm up against and become too complacent. I forget I'm walking through a microbial minefield, a mental defense mechanism that could be deadly. I must: Think Germs! Wash Hands! Take Meds! Drink Lots of Fluid! Hand Sanitize! Don't Stress! Get Lots of Rest! Live One Day at a Time! Eat Right! Make a mistake, or too many mistakes and BOOM!
When I go to bed tonight, I'm going to try to shut out the voices, the worry, the fear, the cataloging of experience. Maybe I need to look into getting a crown of poppies. The other stuff I'm taking just doesn't work.
Saturday, December 22, 2007
Camptown Races
The results of my latest chimerism test show that the Colorado cord is widening its lead over Australia. The analysis of my peripheral blood puts Colorado (60% )out in front by at least two lengths, with Australia (40%) starting to fade in the stretch. My bone marrow shows an even bigger gap: 28% Australia / 72% Colorado.
Can Australia come from behind and win this thing or is he out of gas? Can Colorado maintain his commanding lead? It's a horse race: anything can happen and winning is up for grabs. And we still can't rule out a dead heat.
I'm uncomfortable with the impersonal nature of calling a person's blood by the name of his country or state of origin. Colorado will forthwith be known as "Peetz" after a Colorado town of same name. Australia will be called Paleroo, or Pal for short.
Do-dah, do-dah.
Can Australia come from behind and win this thing or is he out of gas? Can Colorado maintain his commanding lead? It's a horse race: anything can happen and winning is up for grabs. And we still can't rule out a dead heat.
I'm uncomfortable with the impersonal nature of calling a person's blood by the name of his country or state of origin. Colorado will forthwith be known as "Peetz" after a Colorado town of same name. Australia will be called Paleroo, or Pal for short.
Do-dah, do-dah.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Solid Information
Liquid information is good, but solid is better. The bone chip off the old block showed no leukemia and no host (that would be me) cells. My baby boy donors are partying without me, doing the XY shuffle.
The battle of the boy blood rages on. Who will win? Will it be Little Mr. Colorado USA or Little Mr. Australia? Vote for your favorite now!
The battle of the boy blood rages on. Who will win? Will it be Little Mr. Colorado USA or Little Mr. Australia? Vote for your favorite now!
Thursday, December 20, 2007
"The liquid information is excellent."
Now we're just waiting for solid information.
Allow me to translate the title quote. When a bone marrow biopsy is performed, marrow (liquid) is extracted as well as a teensy piece of bone. Don't faint. It's not that bad. Really. The results from the marrow show no leukemia and 100% donor cells, which is basically FANTASTIC. Solid information (i.e., from the bone chip) should be available today or tomorrow.
My 15 minutes of elation have ended. As Yogi says, it ain't over 'til it's over, which for me will be sometime in the Summer of 2012. That's when I will be certifiably cured. Only four-and-a-half years of anxiety to go!
Considering the good news, I'm feeling a bit piffy today. I didn't get enough sleep last night (I was seduced into watching a questionable TV show; my bad). I physically went way over the limit yesterday, and dem bones are protesting wildly. My knitting project required pretzel logic, not to mention mathematical and spatial concepts unused since my last IQ test, circa 1974. And the stress, oy the stress.
Let's collectively exhale.
Allow me to translate the title quote. When a bone marrow biopsy is performed, marrow (liquid) is extracted as well as a teensy piece of bone. Don't faint. It's not that bad. Really. The results from the marrow show no leukemia and 100% donor cells, which is basically FANTASTIC. Solid information (i.e., from the bone chip) should be available today or tomorrow.
My 15 minutes of elation have ended. As Yogi says, it ain't over 'til it's over, which for me will be sometime in the Summer of 2012. That's when I will be certifiably cured. Only four-and-a-half years of anxiety to go!
Considering the good news, I'm feeling a bit piffy today. I didn't get enough sleep last night (I was seduced into watching a questionable TV show; my bad). I physically went way over the limit yesterday, and dem bones are protesting wildly. My knitting project required pretzel logic, not to mention mathematical and spatial concepts unused since my last IQ test, circa 1974. And the stress, oy the stress.
Let's collectively exhale.
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
"I sing to use the waiting"
I'm not going to bore you with more blather about waiting. I'm just going to cite some other folks who've explored the topic, starting with Emily Dickinson who's quoted in the title of this post. There's a novel called Waiting by Ha Jin; also a film by the same title. There's book-to-film Waiting to Exhale (Terry McMillan). Jim Morrison was Waiting for the Sun. Tom Petty reminds us that The Waiting is the Hardest Part. In Samuel Becket's Waiting for Godot, waiting is boring, slavish, funny, pointless and intensely human: "Such is life."
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
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