AUGUST 29, 2022 – (Cont.) Day Six. Yesterday’s appointment was another visit to the “MERCY CLINIC,” rather abandoned on the weekend, except for skeletal staff to administer to transplant patients like me—a two-day patient, a three-day, a six-day patient, I was informed. The wait was long enough for me to log a 10-minute walk up and down and around the waiting area. When a nurse stepped out and called my name, I shouted “Reporting for duty!” When she asked how I was feeling, I said, “Act enthusiastic, you become enthusiastic!” She chuckled—having encountered my eccentric side the day before.
“Step right over here, Mr. Enthusiasm,” she said, pointing at the scale. I first unloaded my phone and medical diary. “Lately,” I said, “I’ve had some heavy phone conversations; don’t want to distort the scale.”
“Perfect!” she said.
Next thing I knew she was taking my blood pressure, then my temperature. Fine. I knew the step that followed. “Time to bare my soul,” I said.
She laughed. “Well, at least the right side of your chest.”
I unbuttoned my shirt and lifted my T-shirt to grant access to my port tubes. “I like this part,” I said.
“What, the blood draw?”
“No, pulling my T-shirt up so I can’t see the blood draw.”
“I totally understand,” she said, playing along.
We talked a little about the State Fair, which had just gotten underway not far from our neighborhood. She and her husband were taking her grandparents later in the afternoon. I told her I had a hunch the weather would cooperate. She agreed with my assessment.
After the lab results came back, minutes later, I met with Dr. Veronika Bachanova. She had the weekend shift, so we’d met Saturday too. I’d looked her up among the U of MN medical faculty and learned she’s a 30-year veteran of the research/clinical team. Originally from Bratislava, she maintains close ties to her place of origin, visiting twice a year. I mentioned to her that I’d been to Bratislava, hiked all over the High Tatry Mountains in Slovakia along the Polish border (see 3/26 – 3/28/22 posts), and found her homeland to be stunning in its beauty, history and culture. This resonated with her instantly and triggered a most rewarding, wide-ranging conversation. She’d come to the U because of its international reputation in her specialty, and she and her immediate family have been fully ensconced here ever since.
What a wonder this world in which we live and move about!
After addressing my concerns as if I were her only patient, Dr. Bachanova bade me a good day . . . or I should say, an even better day.
Then Anne, the nurse took over to administer my first post-transplant “sub-cu” injection of “growth factor”—to stimulate engraftment and production of the proper counts. These will be administered daily until the neutrophil count are “2.5, two days in a row”—generally in four to five days. She announced “poke” with perfect pitch, and the patient felt nothing during the steady, 10-second press of the syringe. Again, I was rewarded with conversation with a person whose intelligence is intertwined with empathy and insight, forged by hardship. We talked about her father, Mike the lawyer, for whom law was definitely his calling, except . . . perhaps not, as Anne proudly showed me an image of her favorite painting of his, which hangs in her apartment; the kind of work that both the critic and the unpracticed eye would agree, “Now this is the work of an artist who’s found his calling!”
Yet so modest is he, the big-firm, hard-pressing litigator, that he won’t brook compliments. So I told Anne, “Don’t tell him that I told you to tell him his art is great. Simply tell him, ‘Eric was very impressed by your work.” I provided additional information to lend second-hand credibility to my compliment: my mother was a docent at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts and herself, a practiced watercolorist. (But my compliment was rooted in my self-confidence in knowing the difference between “good” art and “superb” art, and Mike’s work is clearly among the latter.)
I left the clinic not thinking of myself or the days, weeks, months ahead, bring what they may, but of the windows into life my illness and its treatment have afforded me. If, for very good reason, you’re down on the state of our world and country, speak to me. I will set you straight. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
2 Comments
Eric, I’ve been trying to think of words to say to help you get through the toughest times, but nothing I think of seems adequate. My own most difficult time was 19 months ago when I was an inpatient for 18 days with a mysterious illness that left me physically ok but with my brain “scrambled” – my doctor’s words – so with little remaining cognition. The nature of the illness however meant that I felt pretty well physically (save for a 3 weeklong headache) but without any appreciation for or ability to recognize my own neurological shortcomings (I apparently was asked by the ER doc who the current President was and quickly identified Ronald Reagan). Maybe that was the trick to no longer fearing needles? Treatments worked well once a diagnosis was found, but after that the time passed without any heroic efforts on my part, thanks to the unbelievable competence of the medical professionals (I thanked several of them for studying so hard when they were in school).
I do think back to my own efforts at running marathons. The first time it was quite casual, and I just got through it, but the second and third times I planned carefully on what I would do mid-race to try to achieve my goal. I tried visualization, rehearsing in my mind what it would feel like to start a little slowly (not to go out too fast), then pick up the pace for the next ten miles when the crowd thinned out. I even took to writing in ball point pen on my wrist my hoped-for splits at 10 miles, 15, etc. which I actually glanced at during the run. Of course, unexpected things happened along the way, I felt better for a time and ran a little faster, then had a couple of low points where I barely held pace but thinking of how good it would feel at the end made me able to do it.
You seem to have thought this through very thoroughly including the successful conclusion.
Paul, what an ordeal!! My gosh, where was I? So relieved that you received the care you did. Your posting really helps me–I think a large part of effective empathy derives from shared experience, familiarity with great hardship overcome. –Eric
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