Friday, March 2, 7:25 a.m.
Of course we had a snowstorm last night. Of course I just now cleaned from the car about forty feet of snowfall and ice.
Because, you see, we are scheduled to drive soon down to University Circle to Seidman Cancer Center (see pic above), where, we hope, I will receive my final infusion of my own pumped-up T-cells that have spent the last couple of days in Atlanta (getting pumped up to fight my cancer).
Will planes be in and out of Hopkins this morning? The "product" (as they call it) has a brief shelf life--13 hours (I think) from the time it leaves Atlanta to the time it returns to my body via this annoying catheter that I've been hoping to see go away today ... so ... nothing like a little extra tension on a late-winter morning, eh?
Oh--and rush hour, too. In the snow. (Can you tell how sanguine I am about all of this?!?)
We're scheduled for a busy morning: blood draws, meeting with my oncologist, infusion, removal of the catheter. I can't believe all that will go well, but I will report later today (or tomorrow) ...
Saturday, March 3, 10:30 a.m.
Well, it's over. We can say that for it. But ... what a long, long, long, long day. We left the house about 8 a.m. and arrived back home about 4:45 p.m.
The trip up there was madness: snow, accidents and breakdowns on I-271 ... but we got there in time for my first appointment--the lab for some blood draws.
But ... (oh, there is always a but in all of this) ... when I told them I had a catheter, they told me I had to go to a different location; I did--where I learned that only one nurse was available to do draws from a catheter--and she was booked all day. No openings.
So ... back to the lab, where the nurse (a good one) stuck me successfully on the first try.
Next ... to my oncologist, who warned me that my T-cells might not arrive in time to be infused (weather, delayed flights), so that added a bit more anxiety to a day that was already difficult.
So ... down to the infusion center, where we could do nothing but wait and see. I read some Michael Connelly on my iPad. And--miracle!--the T-cells arrived. And not only did they arrive, they arrived about 45 minutes earlier than they had the last time. A few glitches during the infusion--but the nurse solved them all--and about an hour later, it was all over.
She asked me if I wanted to "ring the bell"--a thing they let people do who have completed a course of chemo or immunotherapy. I declined. I'd seen some of those people going through chemo, and what I had just gone through was, to coin a phrase, a walk in the park by comparison. My "suffering," such as it was, was nothing like what I'd seen ... so .... no celebration.
It was now nearly two o'clock, time for my appointment over in the main hospital to get my catheter removed--and oh was I excited for that. But I had a bit of a wait. It was nearly three before the nurse came in to do it. I had to lie flat on my back, take a deep breath, let it out, and as I was letting it out, she pulled the catheter out (of my heart!) as easily as Wild Bill Hickok used to pull his Colt. She showed it to me: It looked like something a clever serial killer would use.
She put pressure on the area for about ten minutes, stuck on a new bandage, and we were good to go. Joyce and I stopped at the little snack bar in Seidman, had a muffin and some yogurt, then off we went (Joyce driving), arriving home, as I said, about 4:45.
We had a supper of leftovers, watching last night's The Daily Show, cleaned up. I headed upstairs and got in bed and was out by about 6:30; I slept about fourteen hours--with a few Old Man Visits to that Little Room Where Old Men Go in the Middle of the Night.
I think it all just kind of caught up with me, you know? All the meds, the driving, the tension, the worry. I haven't slept that much since I was a teen.
Meanwhile, I'm feeling a little better now and may even try to do a walk to the coffee shop after lunch. That would be ... awesome!
Oh, I still can't shower, not till Monday morning, so Joyce, late this morning, once again had the Deep Pleasure of helping me in and out of the tub, of washing my back, my hair.
It's pretty obvious, I know, but I could not have gotten through all this without her. When, in my mid-twenties, I raced through those vows--"for better, for worse, ... in sickness and in health"--I had no idea. Now I do.
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| final infusion, yesterday |
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