It was my re-birthday and I forgot all about it

Nobody can deny that many things have made it hard to concentrate and along with that, easy to forget.

Election, insurrection, inauguration, crazies in Congress, and of course, COVID. As a person with what one friend jokingly called "50 co-morbidities," I have been worried about the slow, and some say, ineffective, vaccine rollout in Massachusetts, the supposed pinnacle of healthcare in the country. Friends and relatives in the 65 and up group in other states have gotten their first shot, while in Massachusetts, Feb. 1 marked only the beginning of 75 and over. I have gotten on some waiting lists in the area, and Dana-Farber is going to vaccinate transplant patients. But it's unclear when it will happen. 

I was upset when the state for some reason moved those with two-plus co-morbidities down a rung. People ask, "Haven't you had that vaccine yet?" as they did when I was two weeks overdo with Ben. ("Haven't you had that baby yet?")

One of my doctors said we are 30th in the nation in terms of the rollout. Sheesh. 

On the other hand, I am well aware of vaccine inequities throughout the country, and throughout the world, with people in crowded living conditions not even knowing when they will have access to a vaccine, so I could, maybe, possibly, stop whining...

But wait, we have a new president! What a relief to see someone capable and sane in the office, from top to bottom. And press briefings with no insults! 

On inauguration day, I was nervous and excited, like I was anticipating a big party but afraid someone would crash it. In total, with running and walking, I did about nine miles. I don't usually admit it, but I think I overdid it with the five-miler in the morning. Stamina-wise, I could do it, and I got those endorphins that you don't get in a shorter run. But my knee started talking to me, sending some twingy signals. It is OK but I don't want to bust it. I need to save it for tennis season...and shorter runs.

Bernie in front of my house

And I got to be on the Bernie meme train. So much fun to have something to laugh about and be proud about instead of what could have been a day of tears. 

So wait, what did I forget?

I wrote this post about getting confused about my birthdays. I remembered my first birthday...and then forgot that Jan. 30th was my 12th re-birthday.

When Ben texted "Happy birthday," I had to think about it for a moment.

Then I checked my email and saw that Denise, my donor, had sent a happy re-birthday email.

Then I thought, wow, how strange to forget. I guess in a way it is good for it to not be such a focus. Frankly it is hard to remember which day or month it is. There aren't the same markers, such as tennis on certain days, then Starbucks or the Thirsty Mind, locally, and other places, for writing. It was much easier to finish something if I told myself I was going out to write somewhere and NOT coming back until I finished.

The Zoom yoga and fitness classes are some kind of marker, but they are all in the house, so it is not the same thing.

It just so happens that on Jan. 30th I had talked to both Diane and Margaret, who were both by my side through it all. We hadn't mentioned it, but maybe the universe invited me to call them.

On that day, it was freezing, and I had gone for a shorter run. I "instagrammed" a photo of me wearing the neck warmer that Joe gave me. 

Afterwards, when I remembered, I texted with Diane and Margaret about the transplant day and the events following the transplant, when I was hanging on for dear life. Feb. 14, "coma day," ... Feb. 22, the day Dr. Alyea called the troops and said I might not make it. 

It is good to remember, but not also so bad to forget.

Birthday and beach day good, foot pain bad

I had a great pre birthday, birthday and post birthday followed by a bad foot day. The bad day turned into more. Something re-activated the dreaded plantar fasciitis, making me a bore to anyone who hasn't suffered from it. One of my tennis buddies had it so badly that she had to skip tennis for a while and go to physical therapy. In between games on the court, she showed me some of her stretches. I feel like I know them all...I actually threw out my boot because I was done with it. The moral might be that even if you have a dumpster in your driveway, never throw anything out.

I have been going to the chiropractor and have contacted my orthotics guy, Ken Holt, because I wonder if it's just a matter of getting new orthotics.

A friend said he couldn't keep track of my birthdays, and I understood. One original birthday and four re-birthdays. 

It was great to have the three kids and one cute little boy at my house for the pre-birthday. We ate outside and were going to stay outside (because, COVID) but Callen wanted to go in. We thought of not doing it but all of a sudden we were all inside. We spaced out and that was a while ago already so I figure it was OK. I loved seeing him at my mother's piano next to one of her paintings.

On the real birthday, I played tennis and went out to eat with Boyfriend, for the first time. People said that 30Boltwood, in Amherst, does a good job, and they were right. 

A couple of days later, I got to go back to the Fairfield Beach Club, where I had great success in getting Callen's little shoes on him while Ben was busy with Nell. Callen had eaten a Spiderman pop and got more on himself than in his mouth. I suggested we go wash up. He took my hand and we headed off. That little hand in mine was worth the two-hour drive. I thought we were going to a certain bathroom but he led me to another room with a big sink in it. I picked him up and turned on the water, which he seemed to be trying to catch in his hands. 

This of course makes me think of doing the same thing with my little kids.

At the end of the day I enjoyed a swim in the calm Long Island Sound. I miss seeing the ocean at Cape Cod, but I think it was Katie who pointed out to me that since I'm not allowed in the ocean, this is a good fit for me. Ben pointed out that there were also no sharks.

If you don't care about feet, you can stop here.

 On top of that, my neuropathy, which has been pretty tame, has gone on and off crazy. The other night, I felt like my feet were electrified. I don't post too much in FB groups such as Our Neuropathy Friends, because everyone is going to have a different opinion. But if a lot of people have the same opinion, for example on a kind of CBD that is effective, I might be interested. That group is recognized by The Foundation for Peripheral Neuropathy, by the way, 

Hello! I haven't posted in a while because I've been doing OK, meaning, a low buzz in my feet but not that bad. 900 mgs of gabapentin twice a day, or an extra 300 if I want. I don't know what happened. Maybe it's the rain that is coming. My feet got totally electrified, on top of a return of plantar fasciitis. A while back I tried CBD, THC and a combination and was never that happy with the results so I stopped. I was just staring at some chocolate that is 1-1 and wondering if I should take a nibble but I didn't. CBD doesn't really do anything and THC makes me a little stoned, even if I take a little/ I guess it works to take your mind off the neuropathy but I've kind of been there done that with that feeling. As you all know it is very upsetting. I took 5 mgs of oxycodone before. Now it has worn off. Ibuprofen has a bad effect on my kidneys and Tylenol of course is bad for the liver. I put CBD cream on my feet and that helps a little. I guess my question is whether people have had good luck with CBD. The kind I have now is made by Good Body Products in Vermont, for what that's worth.

Mostly it was good to get a little support.

"People that dont deal with this problem have no idea of how debilitating and relentless it is," one said.

Mostly they are doing the same as I am, rubbing different things in their feet. One said he had it so bad that he had to stop work and apply for Social Security Disability.

Someone said capsaicin in a gel, but I put that on my toe once when I had problems and it burned my skin. 

But then after a string of bad foot days I had one of my best tennis days ever. So in conclusion it's hard to figure.

Thoughts on being a (sort of) eleven year old

Toasting my donor 

We tend to like the number one, because it is the first of something, and after that, we like round numbers. We celebrate the fifth anniversary of something or the 10^th. At the paper, if someone sent in a press release about the “first annual” such and such, it was one of my pet peeves. I would change it to the first, because how did they know if it was annual yet?

The first anniversary of my stem cell transplant (s) was big. My first re-birthday. I did it twice. (For the other two out of four transplants, I didn’t make it past six months.) I had made it a year! Most restrictions were lifted. I could go places, eat strawberries, sit inside a restaurant. 

Even though two isn’t the round number favored in journalism circles, it’s a big one in stem cell transplant world. It’s when the cancer is unlikely to return. I didn’t make a big deal out of two years, not wanting to jinx myself. I did it twice. I think I might have had coffee with friends. 

Five years was the big deal. It was when I could say I was cured. (Though I never would actually say it myself.) My words: “They say I’m cured.” Doctors don't always say it this way, preferring to maybe cover their bases with “You’re no more likely to get leukemia than the rest of the population. "All the kids were around. We went out to Mulino’s, a favorite restaurant in Northampton, for a celebration complete with birthday cake and the number five. The waitress sang along. Maybe she wondered about the number five, maybe she didn’t even notice. 

A photo popped up on Facebook last month of my seventh “re-birthday,” showing my memory from four years ago of having a cake with Ben and Joe. I assume Katie was in Minnesota. I think we’ve done something on or around the date every year. 

Seventh re-birthday with Ben and Joe

Ten years was obviously super big. I don’t remember what we did, but we did something. Eleven, well, what can I say? It kind of slipped through the cracks.

A few weeks ago I thought about the approach of the 11^th one. The date: January 30^th. For a while we thought it was the 31^st, but Denise, my donor, set the record straight. She should know. We were all in a fog, so being off by a day is understandable. 

Then came the date, Jan. 30^th, 2020. My 11^th re-birthday. I got an email from Denise, with the subject line, Happy Re-birthday, and reading, “I can’t believe it’s been 11 years.  Here’s to many more!” 

It was strange to not have a plan. 

But wait, I did have a plan, just not a plan with the kids.

My friend Diane and I had a coffee date at Barnes and Noble. That’s where we frequently meet. We sat next to each other at my first job at a daily newspaper, at the Transcript-Telegram, aka the T-T, in Holyoke, and then again at the Union-News/Sunday Republican, which morphed into The Republican. We are sisters of the newspaper world. So in a way I was seeing a relative.

Our birthdays are close to each other, mine in August and hers in September. We had already bought each other our birthday coffee. But when we went up to get our coffee, I said to the barista, “It’s my birthday!”

I wasn’t fishing for a free coffee. I just felt like saying it.

Diane said she already bought me my birthday coffee. I explained that it was my stem cell birthday.

“Well, that’s better,” she said. She got me my “re-birthday” coffee. I bought my own chocolate chip cookie.

She had already left when I realized it would be nice to get a photo. A bookstore staffer said she would be happy to do it. I mentioned the occasion and she said she was on the (bone marrow donor) registry but hadn’t been asked to donate. I thanked her and said you never know when a match might come up. 

I took a deep dive and read my post from Jan. 31, 2009, headlined, “New stem cells signed, sealed, delivered.” I can still picture the wild ride I had in the little room. After I got the cells, I reacted, like so: “I started shaking vigorously, and my heart rate went up. Helen gave me 25 mg. of Demerol, which didn’t stop the shakes. She paged a doctor who came in quickly. I got another dose of Demerol, more Benadryl, hydrocortisone and some Tylenol. Also they put me on oxygen.”

The night before, when I had gotten anxious, I wrote that Diane reminded me,“ You’re getting another shot at a whole new life. It’s great. It’s the miracle of modern science.” 

And she was right.

Last week when I told someone about the occasion, I said, "I'm 11 years old and a walking side effect!"

A couple of things to note.

1. I'm walking, which is more than I could say for a couple of months in bed, in the hospital, after that transplant.

2. After everything I've been through, the four stem cell transplants, the graft vs. host disease, the neuropathy, the 13 teeth lost, and the skin cancer that is partially a result of the treatment, I still have my sense of humor. Actually my sense of humor may even be better, because I need it.

For starters, birthday kisses from the dog

The first words out of my mouth today (at the crack of dawn, as my father used to say) were, "Go away, it's my birthday," but when the dog who doesn't bark made her intense yelping sound, I got out of bed and got down on the floor for our morning routine.

My arm over her back, her paw over my arm. I rub her belly and back and we look into each others' eyes. That is my morning medicine. I tried to take a photo, as you can see, but she doesn't like it. She went across the room and I tried it again. The sexy attire I'm wearing is one of my father's T-shirts. I had a drawer full of them and gave a few away and now I think I gave away too many because I could wear this one down to shreds. I talk about my mother a lot, but a photo of him pops up at odd

Gray haired ladies

times when I'm looking for something so I believe he's around also. I think he would be (I mean, I think he is) proud of my serve. He was proud of everything I did but worried about my serve. He wanted me to take the racquet back further down my back. I think I finally figured it out, thanks, of course, to serving lessons with George. It's not that hard but I twisted it and put a little slice on it.

Hi Dad!

You don't want to use the word torture for things that aren't really torturous, in light of all the horrible things in the world. Taking it down a level, in the past couple of days, people found different ways to "torture" me. First, on Thursday, when I checked in at Dana-Farber for my checkup with Melissa, the intake guy asked if I wanted them to leave the needle in, after the blood draw, so that it could be used at my next procedure, at 4 p.m., the ECP at the Kraft Family Blood Donor Center. Nobody ever asked me that before, but I said sure. Tina, a nurse who became my friend during my first year or so of ECP, had changed jobs and was doing the blood draws on Yawkey Two. She came over and explained the required needle to the nurse. The nurse got all FARBLUNGET.  Instead of putting in the required bigger needle, she did the usual one and slapped a bandaid on. This was after Tina had called my nurse Deb at the Kraft Center to confirm what I would need. Later when I got there and she asked if nurse number 1 had left a needle in and I said she hadn't, she said, sarcastically, "Of course she didn't."

So I got stuck three times instead of two.

My appointment with Melissa was mostly about dermatology. She said she would try to straighten out the confused state of affairs having to do with three dermatologists telling me three different things to do about my skin. Especially my hands, with each of them contradicting the other on how to deal with the pointillist canvas of pre-cancers and who knows what. But I don't want to ruin the day by getting too much into that.

My numbers were great. My platelets were normal, yay! I used to get the printout but I don't anymore. I know that normal platelet range starts at 160, and when I heard 190-something that was all I needed to hear. If you search the blog for "platelet," you'll see that I've always had a platelet problem.

Dr. Marty came in with a new doc on the block. We gave each other a hug. He explained to the new doc how we go way back. We laughed about what happened at last year's US Open when I had a crazy, itchy, burning rash and cold sores around and on my lips having to do with a "perfect storm" of decreasing Valtrex, an antiviral, and using Efudex, the chemotherapy cream. I wrote him and Melissa, and almost as soon as I sent it, he replied, "Get a selfie with Nadal," because I said that's who I was watching from the nosebleed seats. I wrote back that he was too far, and he said something along the lines of tell him to come up to you. As for the lips, I think he said to go back up on the Valtrex and use Vaseline. He had already given me some good medicine by replying so quickly and making me laugh.

Oh I almost forgot the other "torture."

At occupational therapy, Karen, the therapist, made me a hand brace to open up my left hand while I sleep. I sleep with my hands curled up into fists underneath my chin. Now I won't be able to do it. Together with hand exercises (when I do them), my hand is hopefully going to be able to flatten out in yoga (or any other time I want it to) and my hands will hopefully be able to get into "prayer position," the inability to do so having to do with graft vs. host of the skin affecting my fascia. In general, we don't want it to turn into a claw. I texted the photo to the kids and Katie said that looking on the bright side (if I can sleep) I'll be able to do a better down dog, which is just what I was thinking also.

I was walking around with the backyard birthday photos, at 77 Coronado St., Atlantic Beach, with Jane and Michael Kass in them and now I can't find them. They seem to have morphed into other beach photos. They'll turn up next time I'm looking for something else. They're such good memories. One of these days maybe I'll recreate something alone the lines of what my Vassar classmate, Amy Drake and I, did after college, driving down the coast (all the way from Portland, Oregon!) to LA. Now I should stop and get ready for a little trip to Fairfield for a little celebration to see some of my favorite people and talk to others.

I'm ether 65 or 10. Who knew?

Getting a 'visit' from my mother, thinking about Atlantic Beach birthdays

Atlantic Beach birthday 

A week or so ago I dreamt that packages were arriving with my address in my mother's beautiful handwriting. I was confused. I sensed that she was around but was upset that I couldn't see her.

Then last night, she was standing right next to me saying she had sent them. It was so good to see her. Maybe she sensed that just sending the presents wasn't enough and that I needed more. 

I had the dream that I have had before. I want to go to the beach house (in Atlantic Beach) but we can't go there. Someone else is in the house and they won't let us come. My parents say we just can't go there anymore.

The puddles in the streets here in South Hadley the other day reminded me of the puddles on Bermuda Street, riding our bikes through them after the rain. The humidity made me think of driving to Long Beach to get ice cream at Baskin Robbins, my mother getting mint chocolate chip.

Best present ever

My informal research has turned up an interesting factoid: Birthdays weren't such a big deal in some families, but they definitely were in ours. At night: "Wake up to a happy birthday!" In the morning, sleepily, kicking the present at the foot of my bed with the crinkly light blue cover. The present of all presents: the blue Smith Corona typewriter. My sister was jealous about my summer birthday and I was jealous of hers in the winter. I didn't like being thrown in the pool, at day camp, with my clothes on. The parties in the back yard were pretty sweet, though. The trips to Cedarhurst to buy the party favors were a lot of fun. She made a centerpiece and attached ribbons to it and the ribbons went to each place with a little favor on it. The memory game helped me later on in my writing. Study random items she put on a tray and try to remember as many as possible and then write them down.

Later when I outgrew the parties, my parents took some friends and me out to dinner.

My 50th birthday party, here in South Hadley, seems like yesterday. It was more than a year after my first transplant, so I had gone back to work at the newspaper. Paper people and neighborhood people were coming. I was just going to have cake. "You can't just give them cake!" she said, or something like that, and we rushed to the store and got what turned into a big festive spread.

I have also had the usual nightmares. I want to go back to work but the newspaper has closed. Or I go into work and there are more empty desks than there are people.

In real life, though, I've done some dreamy and maybe even daring things. I rode Margaret's e-bike and got the feel of it. It wasn't really daring because it was on a bike path, though daring because my crew doesn't trust me on bikes. A matinee at Jacob's Pillow, to see the Martha Graham Dance Company, with a drive on back roads to and from, was dreamy. A ladies' lunch with Tami/Tamar in West Hartford (our annual summer meeting) doesn't fit into daring or dreamy but I'm into the Ds so I'll say it was definitely a lot of fun.

Headless at Tanglewood

Did I say that I have a big birthday coming up? My sister reminded me that it's cause for celebration. Part of me knows that. The other part has internalized our culture's ageism and thinks I'm pretty much over the hill. At least I can walk up a hill when at many points I couldn't even do that. I didn’t get past Season Two of Grace and Frankie and decided to revisit it and I’m glad I did because it’s making me laugh about all this aging stuff.

On Sunday when we were at Tanglewood, I was taking a photo of the beautiful scenery when a woman came up and asked if I wanted her to take a photo of me. I said OK, sure. She chopped my head off. Maybe she was trying to tell me something.

Along the Charles River, belated 'birthday bash'

View from the path along the Charles

A gazillion years ago when my friends from the newspaper and I were locked out of the Forest Park clay courts before our early morning tennis game, we would shimmy through the gap in the fence. Sometimes we had eight or even more, and one at a time we'd get in.

I thought of this Sunday after Katryn and I lay down on the cement and shimmied, belly down, under the gap in the fence on a walkway along the Cambridge side of the Charles River so we could cross the bridge to get to the Boston side, where we had started. We couldn't see an opening and didn't see any other recourse other than wandering around looking.

Just like when our newspaper group had gotten through to the courts, it was a triumphant feeling. Of course when we had gotten onto the tennis court, I was standing up, while the other day I was belly down when I got through. Katryn cheered me on. I rolled over and got onto my hands and knees. She offered me a hand. But I had to get up myself. I did it the usual clunky way. Kind of like how I take the third option when the yoga instructor says to get from the back to the front of the mat by hopping, jumping or getting there any way that you can.

We had walked almost four miles by the end of our joint birthday celebration. We started and ended on Charles Street. My mother always loved it there. It is at the base of Beacon Hill and very chi-chi. We went to a gallery to look at a painting and came out with postcards, which were free and the only thing we could afford. We ended up at a Starbucks (there are two), and I got a red eye for the ride home.

Years ago, we started getting together on our actual birthdays, the last week of August, but it has gotten pushed back from year to year. When we can't do it in August, we say we're going to do it before the snow falls. I think this was the latest we ever did it. I drove back in the dark but it was worth it to see my college friend. Actually the better way to say it is "friend from college" just like I would say "friend from tennis" instead of "tennis friend" when I'm talking about certain people because they become more than a person defined by a place or thing.

Katryn lives in the Portland, Maine, area. So Boston is almost a half-way point. I think this is the third year we met at Panificio Bistro on Charles Street for lunch and then walked on the path around the Charles. It's where I used to run when I lived in Brookline. If you don't mind a little exhaust, it's a beautiful place for a run.

We didn't take a photo or use a hashtag but yes, we were still there. I found a photo from Aug. 21, 2016, and we look pretty much the same. That time we got it on our birthday week.

We've done some fun and interesting things. Sometimes we're inside, sometimes out. We've gone to the beach and to museums.

One year we visited the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum, where we had lunch and walked around. It is the site of the largest art theft in the world.  Empty frames show mark the spots where the stolen paintings would have been. If you follow the link to the museum website, you can take a virtual tour of the stolen artwork. If you have information leading to the thieves, you can get a $10 million reward.

For our 60th birthday, we went on a tall ship sailing cruise in Boston Harbor, where we got to help hoist the sails. The year we went to the Peabody Essex Museum in Salem on Halloween weekend probably wasn't such a good idea. We somehow forgot about Salem and witches. The place was so mobbed, we thought we might never get out of there.

Many years ago the whole family came here. Somewhere I have one of those now-embarrassing photos of one of her children in a bathtub with one of mine. Naturally I wouldn't publish it.

Way before families, we biked around Nova Scotia. We had a wonderful time except for getting sick on the ferry ride back. The only ones who weren't sick, if I remember correctly, were two little old ladies who had taken their dramamine. Ha, well, they seemed old but maybe they were the same age as we are now.

Basically it doesn't matter where we are, because we have such good time laughing and talking.

Sometimes serene, sometimes not so much

Highlight of the week

The sound of a woman's voice with an accent I couldn't pinpoint was encouraging when I picked up the phone for last week's ride, as was the name of the company: Serene Transportation.

I wasn't disappointed. The driver was a lovely woman wearing a long flowing skirt. It turns out she was Nigerian. Usually I find out something about the driver but I drifted off because I was tired from almost three hours at our tennis clinic. It was not my usual destination, but rather a trip to Mass Eye and Ear on my week off from  ECP for a checkup on the status of my eyes, which are drier than the normal person's due to the transplant. Dr. Dana was pleased and said I should stay on the Restatis (the drops advertised by the woman with the bright blue eyes) and come back in a year.

I knew I would have to wait a long time based on what happened before, so I wasn't as annoyed because I wasn't surprised by the two-plus hour wait.

On the way back, I was happy that my driver was listening to All Things Considered on NPR — a first.

Tomorrow is my ECP day, followed Thursday by a visit with Melissa. I had to make a separate trip for Dr. Dana because he only sees patients on Wednesdays, which obviously means three weeks in a row for a total of four appointments.

Everything is fine, and some great things happened in the interim between last week's Boston visit and tomorrow's, but I have to admit that although I usually present as super cheerful, I sometimes get down because I don't get any distance. Almost eight years is in some ways a lot of distance, but it is undercut by being such a frequent flyer.

When talking to a friend about something that had upset me, I said I didn't feel right about complaining because all the people I knew who had the same illness had died. She said to the contrary, I have every right to get upset. So I had a little cry

I  didn't have much time to dwell on it because I was consumed by the Democratic Convention, staying up so late on Thursday that on Friday it took me most of the day to think of getting out of my pajamas and get out of the house.

Proud Grandmas

Saturday was Nell's first birthday party, a fun and memorable day, meaning so much on many levels, as I wrote in my blog post a year ago.

Sunday I went to Tanglewood with a group of Boston University alumni for lunch and an all Brahms program.  I used to go to Tanglewood a lot, always picnicking on the lawn, and only once sat in the shed. I loved sitting in the shed and although when you listen without seeing it you obviously know that real musicians are making the music, actually seeing them do it is quite another thing.

I wished they would do an encore, but watching the encore bows was a treat that you can't experience if you're not there.

Last night I played in a great tennis match with my summer team, the Paper Dolls, against our sister team, the Valley Dolls, followed by pizza. If I could play tennis all the time I would be happy. Even better, if I could take a portion of the Holyoke Canoe Club clay courts with a slice of the river view around with me I would be all set. I would have to add coffee and a few other things.

But tomorrow it is back to Boston. I'm going to drive myself and sleep over at Margaret's due to the appointment I have on Thursday. When I have back-to-back appointments I sometimes combine the long distance rides with the local service, The Ride, but at other times like this week I feel like I'd rather not deal with the extra moving parts.

Birthday celebration

Had a good "original birthday" on Wednesday.

Tennis clinic, dog walk with Deb, coffee at Starbucks, a little reading and writing, sitting at the computer watching the Facebook greetings roll in (only kidding, sort of, but it is fun), talking to friends/family, missing my parents but appreciating their wonderful lives, dinner out with Joe at Joe's Pizza and Spaghetti House in Northampton (Katie was working), talking to Ben on the phone, and then, back home, watching an episode of "The Gilmore Girls" with Katie.

And celebrating another year of life.

They say it's my (regular) birthday

Top, birthday girl, today with my sister, Diane, and

at my party around age 7.

In transplant land, there are two ways to look at birthdays. One is the date on which you are born. Your regular birthday? The other, of course, is the date of transplant, marking the day when you receive your stem cells and get the chance for a new life.

Well, today is my regular birthday. I guess I can just say it's my birthday and most people get the idea. I've since had four other birthdays, the last on Jan. 31, about seven months ago. (In transplant lingo, that's seven months out.)

I celebrated with platelets and cake. It was a good day spent mostly in my favorite haunt, the Dana-Farber clinic. Joe drove me to Diane's, where she made a great variation on a Nicoise salad that I was happy to be able to eat. She then drove me to the clinic. I needed platelets (they were 12) but not red blood cells (hematocrit was 29). White count was normal at 6.3. I thought it would be a short day. Turns out that now my sodium is low, which sometimes happens post-transplant. I got an infusion of saline solution, and so by the time I got out of there it was after 5. Oh well, that's actually a pretty short day, since I didn't arrive until 1.

My instructions are to eat salty snacks and drink beverages other than water, which I was guzzling in the heat. Lemonade and Gatorade are two good ones. I usually have to water those down because they're so sweet, but I guess I should go a little closer to full-strength. Melissa said changes in intake will probably fix it, but I need to get my blood tested in a couple of days to make sure.

While I was getting my platelets, the nurses came over with a cake and a bottle of sparkling grape juice and sang Happy Birthday. That was very sweet.

Diane drove me home and dinner was almost ready, courtesy of Joe, who was making linguine with chicken, broccoli and carrots. Yum. Then we all had chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream. Katie and Joe dimmed the lights, brought the cake over and the three of them sang happy birthday, Katie surprising us with a lovely harmony at the end.

Tomorrow we head for Cape Cod, where we will meet Ben for three nights in Wellfleet. I'm looking forward to it.

I guess I forgot to say how old I am. Oh well, it's my birthday and I can do what I want to.

Home with Joe and Katie and the cake, and below, earlier

today getting platelets at the clinic, where Kerri and other

nurses have just sung Happy Birthday and delivered cake

and sparkling grape juice.