OCTOBER 31, 2023 – During the first week of May 2022 in a galaxy far, far away from Rutherford, I underwent what I referred to as “stem cell transplant boot camp.” Each day I attended various sessions with two groups of medical personnel. One group scared the living daylights out of me regarding the stem cell transplant procedure itself and the other group subjected me to a battery of tests to determine whether my body could handle it.
My favorite test was a timed walk 25-feet down a hallway—and back. I was told I set a new record by over three seconds. My second favorite test was also by the clock—in 10 seconds, how many times could I stand up from a chair and sit back down. At nine rotations, I busted the record for that one too—by three. When it came to the mental part, I scored obnoxiously high in the humor section—which, as it turned out, wasn’t part of the test[1].
After making accommodation for my (inherited?) eccentricity and evaluating my physiological ability to withstand the transplant, the doctor overseeing my case gave me the green light to proceed with the transplant—subject, however, to satisfactory results of a bone marrow biopsy at the end of “boot camp” week. The purpose of the biopsy was to determine whether my conventional treatment regimen over the previous four months had knocked the rogue cells down enough for the transplant to bring optimal benefit.
I flunked. I’d be put on two more rounds of the magic drug, Revlimid—each round consisting of two weeks on, one week off. In August I’d have another biopsy taken, and if I passed, I’d be scheduled for a transplant the last week of that month. Everyone was confident that the two additional rounds would do the trick.
This deferral meant I still had time to drag matters in Rutherford to the finish line. Back at Ground Zero, however, Cliff continued his ping-pong matches with the fire marshal. The frustrating aspect of this game was that there was no way to appeal any decision—or non-decision. The fire marshal operated entirely independently of mayor and council and everyone else at the borough hall. Fire marshals were hired and fired in Trenton, the capital, which meant that any appeal up the chain of command would be an exercise involving a nag, a lance, and a windmill.
What we did manage to do was arrive at a basic understanding about what items needed to be addressed before a certificate of occupancy would be issued and what items could be tackled after we closed on our sale—and the deadline for doing so. This required making a price concession to Steve to induce him to assume responsibility for the post-closing matters. For both Steve and me, this resolution was a good one. After closing, Cliff would continue to manage the properties and do the best he could to satisfy the fire marshal.
Once we’d resolved the ping-pong match and obtained the marshal’s sign-off on the certificate of occupancy, I worked for another week wrangling the final report from the environmental firm, chasing down the boundary survey from the surveyor who’d gone AWOL, and battling the title company over evidence that I had signing authority for the family LLCs.
On the afternoon of June 11, 2022 the title company wired out funds and released for recording the deeds bearing my signature on behalf of “Holman Holding Company, LLC” and “Nilsson Properties, LLC.” One hundred thirty-seven years after my widowed great-great-grandmother, her daughters and son George had settled in Rutherford, New Jersey, our family no longer had ties to the borough. The inheritors of the remains of George B. Holman’s moving and storage business had . . . moved on. (Cont.)
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© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
[1] To the question, “Are you currently experiencing any psychiatric or psychological conditions?” I said, “Well, prior to entering the M. C. Escher Memorial Parking Ramp down the street, I was doing just fine. However, after driving around in there for 10 minutes trying to figure out my way around, I’m certifiably out of my friggin’ mind.” The physician’s assistant on the receiving end of my response burst out laughing. She knew exactly what I was talking about and told me how much the staff hated parking in that poorly designed facility.
