AUGUST 18, 2025 – I wouldn’t have it any other way—a week-long visit by our out-of-town two-year-old grandson . . . and his parents. The little one was on hand for his second birthday, and every new word (e.g. “Gosh”) and attempt at a new phrase (e.g. “Geezlouise”) brought us one delight after another.
Only two problems arose during the visit. First was that despite my wife’s best and persistent efforts, she couldn’t get the little guy to say “Gra-MA.” As far as he was concerned, “Gra-PA” worked just fine for both Beth and me, and I suggested to her that what he was meaning to say was “Gra-PARENT.” Somehow, she wasn’t convinced. Whenever she pointed to herself and asked him to say, “Gra-MA,” he insisted on “Gra-PA.”
The other little snag associated with the visit was the kiddo’s runny nose, which transmitted a cold to his mom and later to me. I’ve never been a good “cold patient,” and my medication regimen, which reduces my neutrophils and WBC, never bodes well for my fighting a cold virus. I must suspend the medication until the neutrophils and WBC recover and I can whip the virus. This time around, this scenario fell right on the heels of the 10-day interruption required by my treatment for ehrlichiosis.
The crew left for the airport Sunday morning at 5:00, whereupon I began a day of lying extremely low, blowing my nose continuously and coughing so hard and long that by sunset I felt as though I’d been tortured to complete 10,000 sit-ups. Honestly, it seemed as though masked ICE agents had nabbed me off the street and thrown me into a dark, dank prison. At just before 10:00 p.m. my temperature, which I’d been monitoring regularly since the onset of symptoms, jumped into the fever range.
I worried about the beginnings of a neutropenic fever and dreaded a repeat of the hospitalization required in the aftermath of my stem cell transplant—the worst of it being the four-hour wait in ER amidst its usual chaos.[1]
“What do you want me to do?” asked my wife solicitously.
“Nothing. Just be ready to take me to ER if I decide that’s where I need to go.”
“Why don’t you call the night-care line?”
I didn’t say it, but I knew how the conversation would go:
ME: Hi, I’m [me]; my birth date is eight-seven-fifty-four. I’m Dr. Kolla’s patient. I’m taking lenalidomide. I’ve been nursing a cold for four days. Without consulting, I suspended yesterday’s dose and was going to suspend today’s as well—next one would be at midnight. So far my temp has been normal—three times daily—until just now, it spiked to 99.5. What should I do?
NIGHT NURSE: Keep checking your temp—say every half hour. If it hits 100, I’d recommend you go to ER. Otherwise, call the clinic in the morning. Do you want me to get in touch with the doctor on call?
ME: No. But what you suggest sounds like a plan. Thanks.
So I told my wife, no. I’m not calling yet. A half hour later, my temp had dropped to 98.9. As I’m fond of saying, no matter what the context, to evaluate one number, you need at least one other number. In this case, the trend was positive. I’d wait until morning.
The next 90 minutes, however, were pure hell. Whenever I attempted to lie down, the coughing would send me into a fit, writhing on the floor of the prison cell. How would I ever escape this damnable place?
Eventually I fell asleep with head and upper body propped up by pillows laid against the generous arm of the living room sofa. When I awoke 90 minutes later, I felt as though by some inexplicable edict I’d been released from my cell and granted unfettered roaming rights on the prison grounds. I stumbled forth, first across the living room, then through the entryway and into an adjoining room, thence into the kitchen to see the glow of the digital clock on the stovetop. Hmmm, I thought. I’m better off than when I was at the point of my last coughing fit. How can that be? My first reaction was, “True deep sleep is the best antidote for what ails you. Now that you’ve been given a dose, take another!” By the dawn’s early light I was convinced I’d live to see another day—and then some.
All of which is to say, yesterday I was not mentally or physically fit to muster a post. I vowed not to use this “Get out of Jail – Free” card two days in a row, and as it turns out, I didn’t need to.
I’m not entirely out of the woods yet, and I’m giving myself another 24 hours suspension of the lenalidomide and “no work” other than reading, drawing and . . . writing.
I’ve not been wholly unproductive during my prison stay. For example, I’ve not read or listened to a lick of news. When Beth asked me over supper on the porch with Illiana (between her live online Monday art classes), “Have you heard anything about the big meeting today between Trump and Zelensky and the other European leaders?” I hardly knew what she was talking about. I was able to say I’d heard absolutely nothing. The attendant feeling is one of liberation.
At our older son’s request, I designed and prepared drawings for a mobile adjustable shop easel to hold a large plate of glass on which he can cut tint film and car wrap material.
I watched Morituri, starring Marlon Brando and Yul Brynner and perhaps the best (acting, direction, screenplay, cinematography) WW II spy movie ever made.
I spent the majority of the day, however, reading Simon Winchester’s The Man Who Loved China, “The fantastic story of the eccentric scientist who unlocked the mysteries of the Middle Kingdom.” The “eccentric scientist” was Joseph Needham, the English academic and polymath who led a remarkable effort to provide books, research and laboratory equipment and supplies to scientists in free China during World War II. In addition to his official role, sanctioned by the British government, the inquisitive Cambridge don and world famous biochemist undertook an intense study of the history of Chinese scientific discoveries and technological inventions. Thus far I have traveled in relative comfort through 125 pages of the 265-page-turner that takes the reader down many-a-rough-and-tumble passages, all colored with marvelously crafted descriptions—and side-trips—by the reader’s guide, Officer of the Order of the British Empire Simon Winchester.
On this trip I’ve been well-served by a gigantic hard-cover National Geographic atlas with excellent maps of “the Middle Kingdom.” I’ve learned more about the geography of China in the past 12 hours than I’d learned in the previous 12 years.
Now I must find passage to another exotic place, a place of dreams, a place called . . . Nod.
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© 2025 by Eric Nilsson
[1] In contrast with the next five days of care in the BMT (bone marrow transplant) wing of the University of MN hospital, where around the clock I received the very best medical attention available anywhere on the planet and in accommodations that were indistinguishable from the five-star quality aboard a luxury cruise ship. (And yes, I did wonder at what extraordinary cost, and how one could begin to understand the Byzantine American medical system, including insurance and cost structure.)
