Has it really been a week since my transplant? It seems more like one long night of visits to hospital rooms and dark dreams. Today, for example, the morning test was one of the quickest visits so far -- about 10 vials of blood to test for therapeutic levels of chemicals and minerals. We were out of there, but I thought I could hear the faint “pre-sound” of the other shoe falling. Sure enough, as were about to indulge in a pre-lunch nap (need energy to chew, right?) my cell phone bleated at me and the disembodied voice of our nurse from that morning ordered us back to the hospital for IV magnesium and more fluids to prevent some possible kidney damage.
This routine replays itself daily for other patients, and has now injected itself into our daily schedules. They take special care to remind me that having to come back for more treatment is not a failure on my part. I can do everything exactly right, and still adjustments, treatments, and supplements will be needed. I started here needing one 5mg Norvasc pill each day (for elevated blood pressure), which they doubled because during the chemotherapy my BP skyrocketed. Two days later, they have stopped it altogether, because my blood pressure dropped too low. Go figure.
Marian has a cold. This creates an interesting conundrum -- somehow, I must avoid catching the cold while she remains my primary caregiver. I think we shall call it the Week of Masks. One misplaced sneeze, and I could be in-hospital for a week on IV anti-virals and antibiotics. This just serves to bring home the delicate nature of my situation. Two days ago, I scratched the skin on one finger while opening a blisterpac of cyclosporin. Today there is a redhot knob on that knuckle. Who knew I would become a delicate delinquent....
News flash at 7:34 PM -- the hospital called and now my cyclosporin levels are way too high and I need to skip tomorrow’s dose. Ah, life goes on.
I spend more time thinking about sleeping than I spend thinking about thinking. Focus is difficult and both wisdom and profundity are currently waiving at me from the other side of a chasm. Maybe tomorrow, I will again find a bridge to perspicacity, poise, and prudence and have the acumen to make more sense of these experiences.
Until then, please know that, despite bewailing my current condition, it is a joy to be alive and a pleasure to hear from all of you who e-mail, post to Facebook, and send the beautiful get well cards. For now, I shall go to sleep, and dream of lower cyclosporin levels...
Mick