“BE HAPPY!” AT NINE

SEPTEMBER 1, 2022 – (Cont.) When one is far out at sea, beyond the reference points of land, each day mimics another, except for the clockwork and declination of sun, moon and stars.

This morning I slipped out of bed  extra early for a 6:15 appointment with the Angels of the University.  In the glow of a bedroom lamp, I took stock of myself and said aloud but in a low voice, “Act enthusiastic, you become enthusiastic!”

I concentrated on the positives: I’m under the best medical care in the world; I have my wits, memory and memories; I have a wide circle of friends and family; I’m feeling great—all things considered; I have a roof overhead; I’m high, dry, and well-fed; I’m comfortable; I have lots to celebrate; and at noon I reach the end of Day 9, post-transplant.

The appointment proceeded as had the previous eight but with an added feature of an infusion of platelets—my own having dropped to 15—an expected plunge but one to be addressed immediately. I don’t want to mimic the last Tsarevich, Alexis Romanov, as a hemophiliac.

I radioed my wife, informing her of the two-hour delay. Though an airdrop of vital supplies was now required, it didn’t imperil my progress. But I had to wait delivery of the platelets. Imagine, if you can (I barely can) that somewhere nearby there exists a store of blood products, reserved for exigencies like mine; reserves that can be called into service and within an hour, delivered to the infusion center where I now waited.

The nurse apologized for the delay and began to describe its cause. I would have not of it.
“No worries at all!” I said.  “I’m a patient, and by definition, I’m patient.”

She asked if I’d like some snacks or beverages while I waited. (I went for the Chex Mix and cranberry juice.) She then asked if I’d like a window seat, and I said, “Yes! I’d love to look out on the good green earth.” All is good.

. . . with the drip, drip, drip of platelets into my bloodstream, I transported myself to one of my few previous medical challenges: my hospital stay following hand surgery in June 1977. Two years before on a mountain in Maine I’d snapped my right-hand ulna ligament (connecting thumb to wrist) in a skiing accident—thumb injuries being the most common of skiing mishaps.  To be a fully functional primate, I needed to restore use of the thumb of my dominant hand, and surgery was the only means.

The operation, conducted by a hand-specialist orthopedist who’d worked his magic on several string-players of the Minnesota Orchestra, was long but successful. After consciousness returned, I felt lousy and lousier still after the pain meds wore off. I remained hospitalized for several days—standard protocol of that time.

I was in a double-room, and my roommate was “Larry,” a man with Down Syndrome. Larry was scheduled to undergo major hip surgery (long before methods had been vastly simplified) and had been admitted two days in advance of the operation.

He was a huge fan of “Mi-ee Mouse” (“Mickey Mouse”), and his bed was loaded with “Mickey ‘Mice’” of all shapes and sizes and sartorial features.  All Larry could talk about was “Mi-ee Mouse.”

Having little energy for reading or other diversions—when my girlfriend was working and couldn’t visit—I had little else to do but interact with Larry.  As time advanced, I realized what a great capacity he had for happiness. Whenever I moaned and groaned, which was quite a lot the first couple of days, Larry would reassure me. “You be happy!” he’d say from his side of the room. “You need nurse? I’ll get nurse for you [whereupon, he’d hit his nurse call button], but you be happy!”

Once, with great difficulty, he got himself out of bed and shuffled over to mine. With a Mickey Mouse in each hand, he showed them to me, and placed them on my bed. “Mi-ee Mouse! Mi-ee Mouse happy. You be happy!”

Larry had frequent visitors—extended family members of all ages—and as I observed their remarkable interactions with their beloved Larry, I was moved by the happiness that Larry gave so generously, an infectious felicity that generated even greater good cheer among his well-wishers.

On the day of Larry’s surgery, our circumstances were reversed. He was in quite a lot of pain, whereas I was on the mend enough to be discharged the next day. Larry’s recovery and rehab would be much more prolonged and challenging than mine. His outcries tore at my heart. I got out of my bed and with the “Mi-ee Mice” he’d given me, I went to his bed. “Here, Larry,” I said. “Mickey Mouse to make you feel happy.”

Putting aside a groan, Larry reached for the Mickey Mouses said, “Mi-ee Mouse. Mi-ee Mouse.” For a time, Mickey Mouse was enough to divert Larry from his pain.

“You be happy, Larry,” I said . . .

. . . After the infusion, I texted my wife and exited the Center to await my ride. I left the well shaded pick-up area right out front, and strolled to a nearby, sun-splashed corner nicely landscaped with decorative grass and prairie flowers, and there I chose—chose—to be happy. (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson