DAY 26.2: THE ALL-IMPORTANT 385 YARDS

SEPTEMBER 19, 2022 – (Cont.) At this late hour, I feel a bit like one of the running marathon finishers holding onto my silver space blanket with one hand and a cup of water in the other, as I stagger toward the heap of plastic bags with my race number on the outside and a bundle of warm clothes inside. I can feel the lactic acid build-up that will stiffen the legs for the next week or so. My voice is shaky, I’m thirsty, and starving. But by George, I finished the race with a decent time, and now I can relax for a few days before pounding the pavement again.

The reference to a running marathon—and the space blanket—reminds me of the time I ran the New York City Marathon. It finished in Central Park, and as numerous finishers wrapped in space blankets headed out onto 59^th Street, a couple of clueless passers-by stopped me to ask, “What happened?!” They assumed that some disaster had occurred nearby. I laughed and said, “Oh, nothing—just a bit of a plane crash south of the Sheep Meadow, but miraculously, no one got seriously hurt.” For a second, Mr. and Ms. Clueless thought I was talking straight. What they didn’t realize is that their question had prompted just enough mischievous humor inside me to get myself to the subway station—and to my sister’s apartment, where I could stage the first part of my recovery.

This morning I had my meeting with Dr. Betts, my BMT doc at the U of MN. He was very, very pleased with my numbers and confirmed that by gosh, the transplant process had worked entirely according to plan. As he reviewed the myeloma numbers—almost so low as to be undetectable—I felt as if I’d just been told my marathon time and that it was a PR (personal record). For a few precious minutes he stepped outside his “research doc” mode and told Beth and me about his earlier career as a “vinyl” DJ, and his foray into quirky Covid research with a friend at Yale and another at the University of Michigan–like Dr. Betts, hard core scientists–who’d worked together on a theory that the enzymes in potato starch (one tablespoon a day mixed with water) could alter proteins in such a manner as to combat Covid. (Blogger’s Note: I’m using “enzymes” and “proteins” as if I were some kind of chemist. I’m not; just borrowing two words I heard out of Dr. Betts’s scientific explanation) Their test group was too small to produce validation, but when Dr. Bett’s father, skipper of the Kitty Hawk aircraft carrier, encountered rampant Covid aboard the vessel, Dr. Betts arranged for a large shipment of . . . potato starch by way of Bob’s Red Mill (Dr. Betts got to know “Bob” quite well). Did the trick, apparently.

We then talked about the regimen going forward—shortened calendar for Covid and flu vaccinations (60 days out from transplant date (instead of 100); which means I’m nearly halfway to that point); and the need to be extremely careful in the meantime. “Extremely careful,” again, pretty much means avoiding people and masking up outside, even in the great outdoors, not just against Covid but against wind-borne viral and fungal microbes.

When I explained that on Wednesday I need to pilot our boat across the lake for the marina folks to haul the ship away for winter storage—thus necessitating an overnight (two overnights, actually) at the Red Cabin—Dr. Betts stressed the importance of avoiding so much as a minor scratch from walking around in the woods—a fungal infection, to which I’m now (for about a year) especially susceptible, would be a serious matter.

Accordingly, I’m suiting up—including hat and gloves—and walking very carefully and only along established shoreline paths between the Red Cabin and the old cabin at the other end of Björnholm. This is unnatural for me; I can’t remember a time at the lake when I did not spend considerable time in the woods, doing trail work in my trädgård (tree garden) and, I should add, invariably scratching ankles and wrists in the process. And almost never do I escape hand scratches or shin lacerations of some sort when I work on any number of cabin projects.

Late this afternoon, emerging from the path that exits into the yard of the Red Cabin, my head struck a low-hanging pine bough. It’s been there for years, and I’ve resisted the temptation to trim it, because I pretend the sweet, beautiful pine is patting me on the head whenever I walk by. Today’s encounter, however, felt more like a scrape than a pat, and accordingly, I was relieved to have been wearing my OR hat and a ski buff (head covering) underneath the hat.

On the brighter, carefree side of life, I managed the equivalent of 15 “stair climbs” on my hike to the old cabin and back (28 “stair climbs” altogether today, moving gradually back to my pre-transplant daily quota of 75). Plus, I revved up the pontoon, which had been high and dry on its lift for over five weeks. The motor started right up, and I was able to power off the lift without trouble. I took the boat for a nice spin along our shore, waved at Beth, who was sitting on the dock at the Red Cabin, made a big arc out on the lake, then returned to port in the shadow of the old cabin.

My eye is now on Wednesday’s forecast, which calls for 10 to 20 MPH winds. We’re talking major whitecaps. The wind direction will be north-northwest, and since I’ll be launching out of the north, with about a half mile of western exposure, I’m hoping to power off the lift without incident, then head west (avoiding The Underwater Big Boulder) and hug the western shore all the way to the public landing two miles to the south.

Wind and waves: something to worry about besides my health—a bit like finishing the Boston Marathon and realizing, “Oh no! Now I’ve got to fight my way onto the crowded Green Line and find my way back to my sister’s family in Brookline.” The prospect of the trip seemed so daunting after having run all the way from Hopkinton to the Pru, and, ironically, having passed within blocks of my sister’s place at around mile 23. Somehow, though, I always found my way “home,” safe and sound.

“Keep the faith!” I tell myself. (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson