Downhill all the way

I am sorry to have neglected the blog. It’s been a terrible week. I felt really sick all weekend, and when I called Dr. Alyea Sunday, he said to go to the Brigham and Women’ emergency room in Boston, from where I would get admitted. He also said he was sorry to tell me on the phone, but the pathology report on the bone marrow biopsy report showed that I had relapsed. I had to get to the hospital in a snowstorm, so I didn’t have time to digest it. I still haven’t digested it.

As I said, I felt sick for most of the weekend, but by Saturday evening I felt a little better. I walked the dog and even made cookies. When I was putting the first batch in the oven, I felt like I was going to faint, and slipped down onto the floor. Joe was out; Katie was uptairs. I wasn’t sure I could make it to the bottom of the stairs, but I did, and she came down and finished making the cookies. Then we ate them and watched “Fred Claus.” I only mention these things because of he incongruity: cookies and “Fred Claus” one night; relapse and hospital the next.

The bag that I had packed on Thursday remained unpacked, so I grabbed it and left uncharacteristically quickly. Joe drove to Diane’s in my new Forester (free ad here: thank you Subaru for such a good car), and then Diane and I went to the hospital.

I’m not sure what the plan is for me. First order of business is finding out why I have a fever (or not finding out and hoping it will just go away.) I am on a ton of antiobiotics and on an antifungal because there is something on my lung, which could be either bacterial or fungal.

I can’t write too much more now because I am lucky enough to just find the keys. It looks like I will get another “mini” transplant, though I couldn’t get any serious chemotherapy because there is so little in my marrow and it wouldn’t recover. I have been in such a fog that I can't remember what Dr. Alyea really said and what I dreamt he said. Hopefully I will be more lucid the next time we speak.

So, three weeks ago I was soaring on high counts. Now this. The mind gets stuck on it, uselessly. You could do it for anything. One minute the car was going slowly. The next minute it is acceleratorating and runs a child over. One minute the marketplace is full of lively people. The next minute it is devastated, blown up by a suicide bomber.

I have been crying a lot, picturing myself at the end of the road. Thinking I won’t see my children finish growing up, won’t see my grandchildren. I guess this is my mind’s way of going through the mourning process; I hope to get to the acceptance phase soon.

I wandered over to 6A (my home for the last transplant) from 6C (where I am now). Myra, a wise, funny nurse, who's been doing transplants for ages, knew what had happened. “Well, you have 48 hours to have your pity party, then you have to quit it and put on your fighting gloves,” she said.