Mick McKellar Update--Day +66
Our sky remains locked in soft gray unbroken cloud cover. Occasionally it drizzles or softly rains, but not enough to keep the intrepid walkers from making two trips to Rochester Methodist today. We walked over at about 6:30 AM, so blood could be drawn for testing. Later we walked back so that the doctors and coordinators could use that data to modify medications and change protocols.
Apparently, I am doing quite well on most of my numbers. As usual some are up, some are down, and a few are getting closer to normal values. My liver numbers are good enough that they can reduce the amount of Prednisone I must take. I will take more magnesium and stop taking a phosphorus supplement. However, it will be some time before they stop the steroids, so I continue testing my blood glucose levels and continue to inject insulin. Sigh.
I did not know it, but a vial of my blood was drawn for a second Chimera test. We should know next week if I remain 100% donor. In the meantime, we don't report back to the hospital until Monday morning early, unless we find more rash or something else weird happens. We still face lots of changes and the questions continue.
Uncertainty
An advantage to accepting God's gift of life one day at a time, is the comfort to accept the uncertainty of medical treatment and my own physical response to those treatments. I already know that there will likely be some change each day and that not all the changes are going to be positive ones. This realization makes it easier to look for the small indicators that something might be amiss.
However, I find the steroid treatments have added an edge to my responses that can be difficult to manage. So, I must acknowledge that my one day at a time attitude requires more reflection, prayer, and care to maintain while those healing chemicals continue to circulate, doing their repair work on my liver and causing such a dust-up in my erratic attic.
Asking too much?
It is simply human nature, at least in my own experience, to latch onto the flotsam and jetsam of a shipwreck like leukemia, expecting a dramatic rescue and salvation all in one swift package. I still ask questions about what should happen during treatment, when the doctors really don't have those answers, because each person lives a different experience throughout treatment, responding to medications and transfusions and transplants uniquely and individually.
I should know this, for I am still changing, still sorting, still reacting to challenges, and still becoming. I think perhaps we are all becoming, growing, and changing, but some choose to adopt a snapshot of who they are. What a surprise when an opportunity reveals there has been a change! Finding that first gray hair or feeling that first twinge brought on by a change in the weather can be traumatic.
My face looks different to me every day, partially because of the medications, but there is something different in my eyes and in my gaze which tells me I have changed again. I believe it may be one of the finest gifts I have been given...as part of my journey...to see that change and feel that change and live that change every new day the Lord grants me.
Speaking of change: Just as the sun set this evening, it broke through the cloud cover, touching everything with a golden glow, offering a brilliant prelude to twilight and the symphony of the night.
Your communications, cards, pictures, e-mails, and stories brighten our days and bridge both the months and miles from home. Thank you all so much.
God bless and good night,
Mick