Friday, November 10, 2017

Look Ma, two hands. (Well, actually arms).

Two arms are better than one at ECP at Dana-Farber
The new machines for extracorporeal photopheresis, or ECP, at the Kraft Family Blood Donor Center at Dana-Farber are faster than the ones used when I started getting my blood sunburned two years ago.

They are even faster, by almost an hour, if you use two arms instead of one. That's a substantial decrease in what is normally a three-hour procedure.

The nurses have broached the topic of going to two arms but I always chickened out, worried about the pain  or the loss of one free arm to use the computer or try to read a book. Yesterday, though, my nurse, Marc, sweet-talked me into it so fast that before I knew it, I had a needle in both arms. He said we could just try it and if I didn't like it we could always go back to one.

He said everyone uses two arms.

"Larry, do you use two arms?" I asked my fellow ECP-er sitting in the chair diagonally across from me. Turns out he only uses one, but Marc wasn't deterred. With a big smile and joking about not trusting the nurse taking care of the patient on my left, he got the first needle in on the left arm so smoothly I hardly felt it. While I was complimenting him, he put another needle in my right arm. And I had two arms connected before I knew it. I had taken an oxycodone right before I came in, so that probably helped. It also, as per usual, made me more chatty.

"Marry me," I said to Marc.

He had said he would fix it so that I could use one arm, but that didn't really happen. The time went by quickly anyway, what with chatting with the nurses and talking to the two fellows who stopped by.

I had had a good ride in, following another good one two weeks before.

My only issue with Angel from Serene Transportation on Wednesday was that when I asked him to turn the radio down, he did it such a smidgen that I hardly noticed. (Like maybe a kid would have done.) It was hard to hear when I had to make a call. Then he took the sound out of the back speaker and said he realized the problem was with the speaker nearest him not working. So maybe while I thought he was messing with me, he was just trying to hear the radio on his end.

I brought him a couple of snacks for the way home. He said it had been a long day of driving.His rear end was killing him. My arms were hurting so I know how he felt. I thought of taking another oxy but instead took the edge off with Tylenol and a bowl of chocolate and vanilla ice cream.

The previous week, I had the Russian driver Sergei from the bad trip that caused me to miss my appointment. It wasn't his fault – the scheduler had screwed me by putting in another patient who lived way out of the way – and I could tell how bad he felt.

Two weeks later I was coming down the sidewalk after a quick walk when I noticed a car in my driveway. It was 15 minutes before my scheduled pick-up time. But it was Sergei, who said he didn't want anything to go wrong this time. Nothing went wrong. What a relief! (Amazing how something as outwardly easy as a ride to Boston could seem so fraught with peril.)

Today I played my first Friday morning round robin of the year at the Enfield Tennis Club. You do three rounds with different partners, keeping your own score, for about 45 minutes each round. At the end, they add up points. The one with the highest number gets the prize: a can of tennis balls.

I won 5-3 with one partner, 5-3 with the next, and then tied 4-4 when we ran out of time. It was relaxing fun tennis with talk in between games about things such as the first mice in someone's basement (a mouse now in mouse heaven).

My slice light was on. (Thank you George.) I got a lot of balls at the net, playing with two different people who set me up nicely. I told my first partner, a longtime tennis friend, that if this was hockey, the announcer would credit her with the assist after I got a good angle at the net. (Channeling my father.) Using my poor imitation of Joe's announcer voice, I demonstrated what that would sound like.

At one point I thought I might get the can of balls, but it was not to be.

Afterwards, I thought about how at one time, I wasn't strong or steady enough to play in the Friday round robin. It is more competitive than on Wednesday, and I heard back then that only one person wanted to play with me. If this resembles playground talk, it's because at any level, people want to be on the winning team. This was hurtful but I saw their point. (Thank you my friend with whom I won at The Districts while playing with pneumonia for being such a good cheerleader. That part of my Lives essay is near the end.)

Obviously I don't really care about the balls. I'm just happy to feel good out there.

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