JUNE 21, 2026 – (Cont.) I hate talking about my health, except when people ask about it in a manner that signals their awareness of my particular history and their sincere concern about my condition and prospects.
On the other hand . . . Four out of five trips by air make me sick with some kind of respiratory virus. I don’t know what’s to blame first and foremost.
Was the onset of symptoms this past Friday the manifestation of exposure to a cold virus while traveling by air the previous Friday? Or is my cold the result of inhaling the virus from hordes of people transmitting all sorts of viruses inside restaurants, New York Subway stations, heavily traveled elevator cars, and myriad other public gathering places? Ironically, during the worst pandemic to circle the globe since the Influenza of 1918-19, I stayed healthy—thanks to rigid masking regulations, public and self-imposed—and later, the world-saving, life-saving vaccination. But my greatest defense was simply self-imposed isolation from most other people. With greater irony, however, as the world emerged from the worst of the pandemic, as the worst of Covid was winding down, I was diagnosed with multiple myeloma. Treatment of this disease was—and remains—at the cost of my immunity to viruses/bacteria. After my stem cell transplant going on four years ago, the loss of immunity was total. Over a period of two months or so, I recovered much of that immunity. Since then, however, a maintenance drug compromises my WBC and neutrophils—the main lines of defense against infectious illnesses.
This condition is problematic but manageable—to a point. As soon as cold symptoms appear, I suspend the medication—usually for a week or 10 days, depending on the rate of symptom abatement. This throws my medication regime off balance, however, which used to worry me: When I asked my oncologist if these cold-related medication interruptions are cause for concern, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Life gets in the way.” More irony. He could just as well have said, “Preserving life [suspending the multiple myeloma medication to avoid complications from a cold] gets in the way of preserving life [taking the multiple myeloma medication diligently].”
But life is replete with trade-offs and risk balancing. Will I attend a Bruce Springsteen concert at First Avenue in Minneapolis? Probably not. Will I visit our grandchildren and encourage them to visit us? Definitely so. In any event, I’ll have to play things by ear . . . nose and throat.
This weekend, however, I was not about to take a rain check, despite the onset of a wicked sore throat, followed by the usual cough and nose running as if it were anticipating a role in a certain (ahem!) Chekhov short story. For weeks Byron and been plotting and planning our excursion to Boston, and I didn’t want to disappoint him or anyone else on the expedition—including myself.
On Friday we arrived at our Airbnb in time to unpack the camel caravan, inspect our digs, then take the T to Back Bay for our first “organized” event: a duck boat ride. The trip aboard the WW II Era amphibious troop transport took us from Back Bay to the Common, up Beacon Hill to the State House, down the other side, across the Charles, then into the Charles for a short trip upstream—but far enough to see the crew of another Duck Boat rescue a flailing then soaking young man aboard a small inflatable—then back into the North End, past the crowds of World Cup fans outside Faneuil Hall and Quincy Market.
Having experienced this Boston tourist tradition (and its Wisconsin Dells counterpart) back in the Age of Dinosaurs, Beth and I knew what to expect, but nevertheless, we benefitted from the live narration by an historian from “Krakovia,” with a “PhT” in “trivia.” His humor-filled non-stop spiel was actually quite informative, and served as a great introduction to Boston history for our 10-year-old granddaughter. It proved to contribute to her “frame of reference” for an understanding of the American Revolution—and, as it turned out, the Abolition Movement, which was centered in Boston.
From Back Bay we returned to our Airbnb in an increasingly gentrified section of Roxbury, then drove to the home of Byron’s good friends in Chelsea, A and A. There we were treated to a gourmet meal of so many traditional, made-from-scratch dishes it was easy to lose track. At the end of the repast I was stuffed, just from eating what seemed to be sample-sized portion. Yet, I couldn’t be sure that I’d tried everything on the large round table of these generous, hospitable, interesting people.
By the time we returned to our Airbnb, out expedition members were quite ready for sleep. (Cont.)
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© 2026 by Eric Nilsson
