“DAY FOUR”

AUGUST 27, 2022 – (Cont.) Today at noon, I reach “Day 4” after transplant—better than halfway to the halfway mark toward “Day 14”— the day by which the engraftment of stem cells reaches a stage where transplant patients begin to feel better. That leaves 10 days in between. Ten. These are the really tough miles of the marathon that for so long this year I’d anticipated running. It’s when the chatter diminishes among our fellow competitors. No more, “Where you from?” or “This your first Boston?” Everyone’s hunkered down, concentrated on one’s own race, one’s own body, one’s own condition.

That’s where I am now: hunkered down. Yesterday’s visit to the clinic was routine: vitals, blood draw, consultation with the P.A., this time, Sarah. She told me that my low (for me) blood pressure might be from dehydration, since by 11:00, I’d consumed only eight ounces of water. I keep track of my daily hydration—the goal being between 50 and 60 ounces—but I’d gotten a slow start yesterday. She checked my labs, and had such a command over the data, she converted them into a highly articulate, informative and reassuring narrative as she read them. She answered practically, thoroughly, and reassuringly, all my delicate questions about this, that, and the other unpleasant symptoms I’d been feeling—or perhaps . . . anticipating. She encouraged me to keep drinking water and feeding myself—anything; didn’t matter, though she said if all else fails, think of a “BRAT” diet: “bananas, rice, applesauce, toast.”

I was released on my own recognizance and ambulation at mid-day.

Upon Sarah’s advice, I took my first nausea medication (with water), heated a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup, and made one piece of toast. I then parked in front of the living room TV and without commotion, consumed my. The screen was turned to “Breaking News”—the Affidavit. I soon lost interest in it. Not as a matter of national security, but as a matter more compelling than simply trying to keep my wits about me and to focus on the task at hand: getting myself to “Day  14.”

The weather outside was beautiful and breezy. I imagined all sorts of microbes swirling around in the delicious wind, so, with my white blood count falling rapidly (from Monday’s “chemo-blast.”), I masked up fully, and within the protection of our driveway, I “hiked” laps the best I could around our driveway—two 10-minutes sessions in all. I survived.

I also took a nap. I’d started off with a recording of Jamie Laredo on the violin playing Bach and Vivaldi, but it didn’t last long—the music, I mean. I was fast asleep—dream-filled—before I could notice.

When I awoke, I could’ve slept more, but I felt some inner coach saying, “Ya gotta get up!” Plus, I had to go to the bathroom because of my earlier initiative to improve hydration.

Later, I received a call from our good friend Liza, who’d just returned from Ireland; good friend James from New York; then from my sister reporting on her husband’s recovery after marathon open-heart surgery the day before. She said he was hooked up to more machines than she could count. In a photograph taken right after a bowl of ice-cream, he was sitting up—amidst a tangle of tubes, cables, monitoring devices—but not ready to walk very far. Clearly, he, not I, was now the Frankenstein of the family. When the surgeon visited the next day, my brother-in-law said, “Don’t worry. I’ve already forgiven you.”

For the rest of the evening, I hunkered down. I started watching the dated Netflix series Better Call Saul. Good acting, good writing, good distraction—but not enough to to divert my attention from “Day 14.” I wish I could change the channel to it. I started dosing and couldn’t wait for 10:00 to roll around, so I could fold up and crawl into bed without my inner coach telling me I was “slacking off.”

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson