JANUARY 17, 2023 – Today I had my monthly follow-up appointment with Dr. Kolla, followed by an encounter with the “infusion center,” where nurse Patty administered two butt shots plus a rabies injection. In more professional lingo, the butt shots were doses of csxzysesisterkappalambdaiotazonifer and xylicriminelamndanumuomicronpiclomyaquavazine, otherwise known as mono-clonal antibodies packaged under the brand name, Evusheld. Delivered to the immune-compromised derrières of people who’ve undergone chemo-therapy, the butt shots provide added protection against Covid. What I call a “rabies shot,” because it’s a needle to the stomach, is actually betadeltaepsilonzetasigmatau, designed to repair skeletal damage wreaked by (formerly) rampaging myeloma cells.
The highlight of the butt shots was my answer to the question, “Are you ready?” which, tongue in cheek, so to speak, was, “Sure, but the bigger question is—Are you ready?” whereupon Patty, very much a person of science, allowed a laugh. As a veteran of 8,000 (give or take) needle pokes last year, I was able to bare—I mean bear—this round with diminished drama and anxiety. During the lengthy injections, I distracted myself by examining the floor plans for my next gnome home. While waiting for Patty to prepare the shots, I’d sketched the plans on a hand towel from the dispenser in the room. I’m not sure of the causal relationship between shot and thought, but the butt shots coincided with a new idea for the gnome home,
To avoid a sore rear after reassembling my trousers, I paced the spacious room for the full, hour-long waiting period required under Evusheld protocols. I experienced no ill-effects butt—I mean and—used the time productively, revising the gnome home floor plans on proper paper secured on a clipboard provided immediately after I’d answered the question, “Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?”
The rabies shot, given at the end of the hour, was likewise administered flawlessly. To distract myself this time, I imagined that I was visiting a rural clinic in East Africa. In a low-lying, cinderblock structure, wide-open inside with flies buzzing in and out of the window openings . . . the poorest of the poor were being vaxxed against various tropical diseases. A small group of haggard, sweating NGO medical volunteers from Norway managed the shots.
As Patty applied a band-aid to the injection point, I described the scene I’d conjured up, then said, “It’s how I remind myself how fortunate I am to be receiving the world’s best medical care.”
My appointment with Dr. Kolla was a day-brightener. After examining my shiner and hearing the story of the bungee cord’s left-hook to my eye (see 1/11 post), he interpreted the counts from my latest blood draw. All is good and improving. First prize went to hemoglobin—14.5—the highest I’ve ever recorded. Second prize was awarded to the M-protein count (the myeloma) of < 0.1, my lowest ever. In his usual manner, Dr. Kolla condensed volumes and years of medical research, knowledge and experience down to terms I could readily grasp. He talked about my future, about statistics, about treatment options years down the line. But beyond the next three to five years, it’s all an abstraction. I’m focused on living life abundantly—here and now, each day a gift like no other.
Then came the fun part: informing Dr. Kolla that yesterday was my 50th day of skiing this season. He expressed surprise—not at the statistic as a reflection of how great I feel but on account of yesterday’s conditions. “How did you manage in that rain?” he asked.
“Visibility was a problem,” I said. “With rain pelting both sides of each lens. I took off my glasses . . . so I could see better.”
After my appointments came the best part: skiing my 51st day of the season—with glasses.
(Remember to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.)
© 2023 by Eric Nilsson
