Days Of Our Daze

The graphic above is sort of a rough approximation of how things feel right now in the Jarlsberg home. There are dark and spooky clouds out there, but for now we're enjoying relative peace.

Last Tuesday, Kathy checked back into the hospital (scheduled - not an emergency) for her second round of chemotherapy. This amounts to 3 days (rather than 5) of the same old toxins they walloped her with last time, but rather than stay in the hospital during the recovery period she gets to come home (with twice weekly visits to the hospital to see if she needs a transfusion or other care). 

We were somewhat shocked when they really DID let her out on time, and Kathy was back at home by early Friday evening. It's worth noting that being home isn't exactly a cakewalk: the chemo continues doing its destructive thing for a few additional days, after which Kathy's red blood cells (for oxygen) are low, as are her white blood cells (for fighting infection), and her platelets (for blood clotting). 

When you have really low platelets you're warned against high-risk activities like cutting your fingernails, flossing, or blowing your nose - any one of which could apparently lead to a tsunami of bleeding.

But that being said, Kathy is able to get around without her walker (albeit carefully) and do a number of things. And the whole house just feels alive and inhabited again with her in it. 

At some point on Monday (we still need to hear from the hospital) Kathy will be getting an injection of something to encourage her body to start making various blood cells again so we don't have to rely as heavily on transfusions (unlike Biden, probably), then on Wednesday we'll be meeting with a member of the doctor's team to update us on wherever the heck we are in this whole process because there's apparently a HIPPA rule against giving patients more than about 48 hours worth of useful information.

But today is a good day, and I wanted to share that with you! 

FROM THE VAULT: Spring Forward, Fall On Your Face...

In Stanley Kubrick's classic "Dr. Strangelove," the world is plunged into nuclear war owing to General Jack D. Ripper's obsession with protecting our nation's "precious bodily fluids.

Frankly, Hope n' Change thinks that General Ripper, while well-intended, was completely missing the more serious threat. Specifically, the threat to our nation's "precious bodily biorhythms" owing to the pernicious Daylight Saving Time conspiracy.

Seriously, the government just declares a reversal of time and expects us to suck it up without confusion, nausea, and disrupted sleep patterns? Granted, this hits us harder at Hope n' Change than it does many others owing to the fact that we suffer from "dyscloxia" which prevents us from reading the face of a clock after the time change and having any idea whatsoever what time it really is.

We're not kidding. We're writing this at 1:22 pm and can honestly tell you that we are clueless about whether it should actually be 12:22 or 2:22. But we know with absolute certainty that it's only an evil and all-powerful government claiming (preposterously) that it's 1:22 and we're not buying it.

We fail to see any upside to Daylight Saving Time whatsoever, with the slight exception that since the government has declared time to be malleable, we can pretty much declare it to be "happy hour" whenever we like.

The Horrible Thing On The Seventh Floor

Halloween is just around the corner, and it seems the perfect time to share a spooky story that I've only hinted about in the past several weeks of hospital tales: The Horrible Thing I Saw On The Seventh Floor.

When Kathy first entered the hospital with a terrifying diagnosis, I was in a constant state of panic. Every day felt quite literally like a matter of life and death. And I displayed pretty much every symptom of stress that bodies are capable of: shortness of breath, speeding heartbeat, chest pain and...and...the screaming trots.

I'm not talking regular diarrhea here, friends. No, this was noxious, still-bubbling green stomach acid which burned like a blow torch. And when it was time to go to the bathroom, every second counted.

Mind you, I couldn't use the bathroom in Kathy's room because everything that came out of her was being weighed, measured, and analyzed. So I'd have to hotfoot it to the only public bathroom on the 8th floor - a single-seater unisex bathroom which was first come, first served.

On Wednesday, September 29th, I felt the stirrings of blazing doom rumbling in my bowels and left Kathy's side to hit the bathroom. But the bathroom door was locked from the inside. I could hear someone else in there, shuffling around. So I waited. And waited. And waited.

Beads of sweat appeared on my brow. I was getting stomach cramps. The urgency got worse and worse. And then...there was a flush from behind the door!

I waited...and waited...and no one emerged. I heard more stirring from the bathroom and realized that someone was camped out for the duration, perhaps giving birth, having a heart attack, or enjoying a picnic lunch on the cool tile floor.

In desperation, I decided to make a run for the elevators so I could go to the 7th floor, hoping that the layout would be the same as the 8th. The elevator came, the door opened on the 7th floor (which was the same as the 8th except for dimmer lighting, fewer people, and everyone wearing gowns, masks, and hair coverings), and I bolted for the bathroom. It was open! Oh, sweet joy of joys! Blessed, scalding relief!

My business finished, I washed up and headed back through the dim hallway towards the elevators. And then I saw The Horrible Thing On The Seventh Floor.

It was a sign. A sign tilted in such a way that you couldn't read it when coming from the elevator, but was perfectly legible when going the other way. A sign that said: "COVID-19 Floor. Do Not Enter Without Authorization."

The bowels which had so recently held a reservoir of lava were suddenly packed with ice. 

In a daze, I returned to the 8th floor and went to Kathy's room. I told her that I might have been exposed and so had to leave immediately because of her weakened immune system. But she wouldn't hear of it and wanted me to stay with her in that frightening environment. And so I did, for two more hours.

It was on my way home that the full horror of what I'd done hit me: if Kathy died of COVID-19, it would be because I'd been too tired and confused to do the only logical thing and leave immediately. Instead, I'd taken leave of my senses and suddenly turned into Typhoid Mary.

I thought I had killed my wife. It felt like one of those awful nightmares in which you do something horrible and completely out of character, making you grateful to wake up to the realization that it didn't happen. Only it did happen and there was no waking up from it. I didn't know that I could feel even worse than I'd been feeling before, but I could and did.

A subsequent COVID test showed I didn't have the virus. And the month that has passed since that awful day showed that Kathy didn't have it, either - no thanks to me.

So you can have your Halloween ghosts, ghouls and things that go bump in the night. But none of them can ever be even vaguely as scary as The Horrible Thing On The Seventh Floor.

HALLOWEEN BONUS: ARS GRATIA ARGH...

Need a little last-minute decorating for a Halloween party or a really uncomfortable Thanksgiving? Then print out this painting by my Dad to hang on your wall! (Click this link to download a 20MB printable version)

Many Happy Returns?

Just a quick one, owing to the fact that I'm completely pooped. But not for any particular reason, as the day’s medical stuff went well. Granted, that’s with air quotes around “well,” but you get the idea.

Kathy’s blood numbers were very good - her platelet count has tripled in a week, which is great. Other numbers are moving in the right direction.

So this more or less spells success for the “induction” phase of leukemia treatment when they throw everything at a patient to keep them (mostly) alive. Next will be the “consolidation” phase, in which they try to clean up any straggler cancer cells in her body. 

The process will continue to be challenging: she’ll check into the hospital a week from now and be given chemo for 3 days instead of the 5 days she got last time. Then, rather than spend 3 weeks in the hospital trying to recover, she’ll be sent HOME and try to recover while I monitor her vitals and generally have a panic-stricken look on my face. Twice a week, I’ll also take her to the hospital for blood tests which will tell us if she needs a blood transfusion, platelets, or other treatment she can't get at home (in other words, anything other than an ice bag). And every 4-6 weeks, we’ll repeat the whole cycle - over and over - until such time as we may be eligible for a stem cell transplant, which is not a non-risky procedure. 

In the interim, her immune system is somewhat less than half of what it would normally be, and all of her vaccinations and natural immunities have been wiped clean. She'll need to start from scratch after that transplant, and in the meanwhile obsessive hygiene will be the rule in the Jarlsberg household.

We continue to take one step at a time and the path we’re on - however challenging - is the only path that can potentially lead to a good long-term outcome. So all in all, this was a good day and one I wanted to share with you.

And I also want to share that with Halloween right around the corner, Kathy dressed in black for her appointment today - including a t-shirt which created the illusion of her having a skeletal rib cage enclosing a hot pink heart. A bold choice to wear to a crowded oncology clinic, but that's one of many reasons that I love her.