DAY 11: RESCUE AT SEA

SEPTEMBER 3, 2022 – (Cont.) It’s not what I’d pictured. The hospital room, I mean, where most likely I’ll be until Tuesday—Day 14. It’s a luxury suite with a commanding view of Mississippi River, as it wends its way between Minneapolis and St. Paul. If I’m still a little seasick, I’m in the best care possible.

Yesterday I felt depleted of the energy that had carried me through the preceding nine days. I took a long nap before lunch; dawdled over lunch and cut short my daily walk up and down the driveway; I took another nap late in the afternoon.

When I awoke, I felt the chills. I summoned Beth for a temperature check and hit 100.7F, 0.3 above the threshold for sounding the alarm. Of course, but this time, the Cancer Clinic—our first “go to” place in case of an emergency—had already closed for the day, so Plan B was to call another line and request a call-back from a BMT (“bone marrow transplant) physician. Within minutes, a Dr. Jain, a BMT fellow, lit up my caller I.D. He asked questions and made the anticipated decision: get ourselves down to ER, through which I’d be admitted to the hospital.

I viewed this as a set-back, but the good doctor, like my providers along the way, reassured me that there was nothing to panic about. Most likely it was a “neutropenic fever” relating to my near-zero level of neutrophils thanks to the chemo, which, of course, targets the multiple myeloma cells. He was very kind, and said he’d follow up with a call to ER.

I told him how grateful I was that he’d “found his calling.”

“Found oncology?” he said.

“Well, that too, but I mean that you’ve found your calling in life.”

“Hematology oncology?” he asked in a subcontinental accent.

I realized that he was unfamiliar with the idiom, “found your calling.” I called up another phrase that would work as well, if in a broader application: “The world is a better place because you’re in it!”

He understood. I could “hear” the smile behind his “Thank you, Mr. Nilsson!”

Dr. Jain was good to his word—he called ER twice to talk to the lead physician, but things didn’t work out according to plan. ER was filled with ailing people, who, by the looks of them, were in far worse condition than I. Nonetheless, no one, I assumed, had exactly my condition—zero white blood cells to stave off infections. As half an hour turned into an hour, I felt as if at mid-ocean, I’d been swept off my plucky vessel and hurled into the nighttime, fathomless sea. My fast-thinking crew had managed to toss me a ring-buoy equipped with a whistle, a flashing light triggered by saltwater, and a GPS transponder. But soon I lost sight of my boat and its running lights, as it plunged behind growing swells—at first to reappear before falling again into a deep, wide trough. There was no way that with winds climbing up the Beaufort Scale, my crew and I would ever see other again out on the dark, blustery sea.

After an hour of sitting in relative isolation from the rest of the crowd, Beth, went to bat. She would have done so earlier, had I not said, “No, not yet.” Suddenly, doors opened. We were given royal treatment by “Jenn,” the head nurse on duty.

I’ve never seen a person “multi-task” so effectively and efficiently. She gave “triage” a whole new definition, as she placed and received calls using a desk phone and a mobile phone; upon hearing a question from one staff member or another, she leapt to and marshaled resources, changed direction as facts required, and delegated tasks. She. Made. Things. Happen. And yet, at the same time, she was as patient, personable and respectful toward everyone—staff and patients—as a person could possibly be. If she treated Beth and me as posing royalty, she treated other elderly patients in distress as if they were her grandparents for whom she had unqualified love.

We learned that she’d grown up in NJ, graduated from NYU, and was a serious artist—line drawing and sculpture. When I asked what her medium or media of choice was/were, she said, “Waste products of medical care—to bring attention to the very serious environmental hazards to which most of us are oblivious.”

I told Jenn that I was glad and grateful she’d decided to leave New York for Minneapolis.

After waiting the results of a Covid-19 test, I was rescued by what’s turned out to be a luxury liner cruise ship: the BMT ward of the University of Minnesota hospital.

For the next couple of hours, after what seemed like days adrift in the ocean, I was in the care of yet another circle of angels—Dr. Her, daughter of Hmong refugees and who, as a child had had to translate at her parents’ medical appointments. I thought of the similar story of Jessica, the nurse from Ecuador (see 8/31 post). Dr. Her was the kindest, gentlest person you’d ever be lucky enough to meet. Yet here too was a scientist, a hospitalist, whose command and confidence gave me great assurance. America. What a great country.

Next up: Morgan, a cheerful, get-the-job-done nursing assistant. Then, Kaylen, the 12-hour-shift night nurse. Blessed with excellent communication skills, a ready sense of humor, tons of nursing experience based on a foundation of serious training and education, and an innate sense of empathy honed by her remarkable rapport with patients, she is my new hero.

In the course of conversation, I learned that Kaylen is a good friend of Anne Streater—see 8/29, post. I was delighted to hear this and said, “The fact that you’re close friends speaks well of both of you.”

Kaylen was such a stellar nurse, I was a bit worried when her shift ended at 7:30 this morning. No one could rival her. But then Kristie appeared, as if she were Kaylen’s clone. With perfect timing, the baton of care was passed, as if from a relay runner’s left hand to the same runner’s right hand. Now I have yet another hero.

Along the way, came Kelsey, a P.A., to answer questions, discuss my concerns, give assurance. Then Dr. Betts, who’s in charge of my case. He’s a research doc, a product of UVA and Sloan Kettering, and again, I marvel that a person of his work and talents was attracted to one of the world’s leading facilities for such research—and just 20 minutes from our front door. As remarkable as his smarts is his bedside manner—engaging, encouraging, accommodating, and liked by all.

I mustn’t forget either, Dao, and his trainee, Efe, just starting out on their medical careers; for now, attending to more mundane tasks but with higher aspirations. Dao’s mother was a nurse, who insisted that he go to medical school. He told me that he’d love to read all the essays of medical school applicants, “Because I know everyone of them has an inspiring story about what motivated them to pursue medicine.” I pondered this. I’m so sure my generation wasn’t more motivated by lucre—in law and medicine. Dao will make an excellent doctor. Efe, also from a nursing family, said she’s pursuing medicine to help people. As I’ve said, the country is in good hands.

I’ll be aboard the rescue ship for a few more days, but feeling “a bit crappy,” (back in January, My oncologist, Dr. Kolla, had said, “I’m not going to sugar-coat it—for a few days you’re going to feel pretty crappy.”) But shortly, the neutrophils will start climbing, and home port will come into view, and I’ll dance my way off the gangway. (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson