OCTOBER 1, 2022 – When people asked me how I was doing today, I replied honestly—“Not great.” My malaise wasn’t helped when yesterday I reviewed materials pertaining to my recent stem cell transplant for treatment of multiple myeloma. This (cursory) review was part of my belated effort to organize the reams of medical paperwork that I’ve accumulated over the past 10 months. As I flipped through a volume about the transplant, I encountered a chapter labeled, “Post-Transplant.” One condition that often arises, I was reminded, is depression. I found this to be . . . depressing.
As I reported a few days ago, my therapist says a degree of melancholy is natural now that I have new space to worry about matters other than my immediate course of treatment—the most intense part being behind me. What my therapist didn’t take into account, however, was the cumulative effect of isolation—and months more of it, particularly during late fall and the first 12 weeks of winter. Nor did my therapist (or I) anticipate the switch from “bright yellow latex paint” to “Nebuchadnezzar” (my nickname for monthly nebulizer treatments, the first of which occurred yesterday).
Ten days ago I reported that the antibiotic to prevent bacterial pneumonia “went down just fine.” It had—initially. After more days of the “latex paint,” however, I decided it was messing with my appetite. Each dose pushed me closer to rebellion. The worst of it was that every day I saw the inscription on the bottle: “11 refills approved.” The math made me sick. When I mentioned it to my oncologist, he arranged for a pulmonology appointment with “Nebuchadnezzar.”
Melanie, the woman in charge of “Nebuchadnezzar,” was kind, reassuring, and experienced—yet another person in my healthcare chain who’s an angel posing as a human being. But though I’d had some undergraduate exposure to the art and history of ancient Mesopotamia, I found that Nebuchadnezzar in “nebulized” form was a formidable character. I’d assumed that in lieu of swallowing 10 ml of “bright, yellow latex paint” every morning, I could take two or three deep breaths of an odorless mist administered once a month.
Wrong.
For 15 minutes, I had to hold at just the right angle, a plastic mouthpiece attached to a gizmo connected to a vapor chamber, linked to a tube fastened to a cylindrical, metal tank—and not swallow until I’d been fully “Nebuchadnezzarized.” A god-awful taste gathered in my mouth—worse than the “latex paint.” Moreover, I was informed that the “mist” is an irritant, for which I’d need Albuterol if I experienced shortness of breath. At the end of “Nebuchadnezzar,” Melanie gave me a Dad’s Root Beer-flavored throat lozenge to counteract the terrible taste. Unfortunately, my taste buds are still in recovery mode: I can taste “bad,” but I can’t taste “good.”
Though I coughed my way out of the clinic, fortunately, I didn’t later experience “shortness of breath.” Hours later, however, I had a notable GI event. Without any evidence, I indicted “Nebuchadnezzar.” In response, a figurative “Nebuchadnezzar” got inside my head and dragged me into the Babylonian sands. Like the ancients, I’ll have to navigate by the stars back to civilization—except . . . the skies overhead are currently overcast.
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
2 Comments
Eric, reading your blog is almost, but not quite, a substitute for talking to you about our endless efforts to become educated people about the universe. I value your articulate descriptions about what you are enduring, and appreciate your courage. If I can inspire you in any way, let me try by telling you my father died of multiple myeloma…at 96.
I dream that we will have a chance to talk and laugh about your treatment for many, many years after you are healthy again.
Thanks, Ginny, for your generous and uplifting comments! This was definitely a “day brightener.” Great to hear from you!
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