Mick McKellar Update--Day +49
Spring sunshine is pouring in my hospital window this afternoon as Marian has finally left for the day. She's been here since 8:00 AM and watched for the first time as they transformed me from Mick to Mummy/Gumby Mick. She even took a couple of pictures which I may post after I get out of the hospital (some days ahead, I fear).
I am still getting steroids inside and out. My kidney numbers, although higher than before may simply represent a new normal for me after transplant. My liver functions are returning to normal and there is high hopes for full recovery there. My skin is improving slowly. I look like I've had the worst possible sunburn and like a snake am shedding my damaged skin. There are still serious problems, but they appear to be coming under control.
In fact, my doctor told me she is rather pleased with the outcome, because those who fight off GVHD often do much better in the long run and have less chance of the cancer coming right back. All thanks to my brother's hyperactive T-cells.
Typing as torture
I normally love typing on any old keyboard -- and believe me, the keyboard on this old Inspiron 2200 is an old keyboard -- but please forgive errors as my hands shake incessantly and I am constantly double clicking keys and retracing my steps. I have re-read with horror some of my earlier journal postings and discovered missing letters and additional letters, etc. As an editor, I hang my head in shame.
Yet, I think if I could not write down my thoughts and send them along to you, I would feel lost and without purpose. For nearly thirty years of my life, my job was to write and edit other's writing. Seeking to perfect thought and fact into a compact and understandable package. Now, it is my own rambling thoughts I send along, and I find it difficult to edit my own words.
Trapped in my head
There are thousands of stories and memories trapped in my head. Each day, as I journey with the doctors, Marian, and with God at my shoulder, I learn about my limits and my strengths and I want to share them. Yet, they thoughts are not fully formed, more like the moan in the night or cry in the darkness of an infant -- I have not yet the words to describe the feeling or the insight or the terror I faced.
That you all give me the chance to work through this process, unformed and (perhaps at times) incoherent is a double blessing to me. For I believe all patients with serious illness, especially those facing possible death, must address the same doubts and same fears and same insights and same revelations, but have no one with whom to share. What a lucky man I am to have all of you to listen and share with me.
Big Windy
Not far from here, in northern Iowa, a small town was devastated by a tornado last night. I've never lived in tornado country before and felt no fear of the storms last night, yet those storms could have turned their fury on Rochester MN. Folks here live with that possibility as we live with the everlasting snow threat in the Keweenaw Peninsula. Funny how that suddenly came home with a few images on television this morning.
Yet, it touched me differently than it would have a year ago. For I am intimately familiar with the incredible fragility of our lives. Not just the life we carry in our bodies, but the structures we build about ourselves and call our "lives." It takes little more than than the breath of storm or flash of lightning to take it all away and leave us with just the gift God gave us on our birthday -- that spark of Him that burns in each of us. All else appears subject to change. After all, we all live in rented housing and eventually must vacate the premises.
Do I have anything else?
You bet I do. I have the connections made with others. I have over 39 years of marriage and love. I have four children and four grand children and friendships and a network of all of you to tie my soul to this place and give me reason for living and loving. I know the connection would not be severed should I stop breathing, but the nature of the connection would change, and I would miss dearly that connection. I have so many reasons to live on and fight this illness I cannot count them all. I have so many folks praying and caring for me I cannot credit it all. I am so blessed I nearly burst with the thought, yet I do not fear to die only regret the lost chances that might come with the severing.
Talk with those who are near the ends of their lives. Ever wonder why they seem so much at peace with the loss of "everything?" Maybe it is just because we are looking at the wrong everything.
Tomorrow is day +50 -- half way to day +100. I will likely still be wrapped up as Mick Mummy/Gumby and still peeling like an old snake.
Last evening, the Mennonite women dropped by my room and sang a couple of old hymns for me, The Old Rugged Cross and (at my request) Just a Closer Walk with Thee. It was dark and stormy outside, yet as they say, the clouds opened up and a ray of sunshine washed across my bed and stayed there until they finished. Try that on size for a precious moment!
Well, I must sign off before they come to mummify me again. Thank you all for your prayers, chants, thoughts, messages, jokes, cards, and care. It is indeed the fuel for my fight, and it is working!
God bless you all,
Mick