ROOSTER, SCHMOOSTER

AUGUST 18, 2022 – (Cont.) By day’s end yesterday, I was an A+ patient. The stem cell harvest produced a bumper crop—over 9 million cells, topping the goal by a million. My sister Jenny calls me a millionaire. Now the orders are in for the next few days: Covid test today—good thing, having woken up with a runny nose and slight cough, a repeat of yesterday, but no other symptoms–fingers crossed, which is why this post might require editing; line flushes daily through Sunday. Translation: I’m more or less “out of jail” until Monday, when the heavy lifting occurs—provided my breathing is clear.

That’s when I’ll receive an infusion of Mafalin, which term I’ve probably, if not knowingly, butchered. Despite having heard/seen the term 100 times, I just can’t recall it accurately. I blame this disability on a mental block, as opposed to a cognitive disorder. My evidence: I start feeling nauseous at the mere sight or sound of the name. In generic terms, it’s “chemo.” In this patient’s lexicon, it’s the “chemo blast.” From a scientific perspective, “M’s” chemistry will smack down the cancer in my bone marrow to an absolute minimum. (A continuing, post-transplant, non-onerous medication regimen will hold the disease in remission for a number of years—and, I trust, to allow time for an actual cure developed from very promising current research.) As I’ve told a number of people on my care team, “I can’t decide whether I wish I’d taken more science in college or I’m glad I didn’t take more science.”

After the “chemo blast” on what’s officially called, “Day Zero” (for “blast-off!” – Get it?), “Day Plus One” will be when 4 million of the stem cells collected over the past two days this week will be “transplanted” back into my system.

Six months ago—nay, six weeks ago—I would’ve fainted at the mention of the process I’ve just described. This is because, as I noted in yesterday’s post, I’m a big fat, well, actually skinny, retail chicken. But I like to divulge that up front to the nurses, adding that I’m a wholesale wimp. They accept this with neither dismay nor surprise. When I recently joked with a nurse that I faint at the mere sight of a needle because I’m a guy, and therefore, I’m a wimp, she said, “Oh, we have a number of people who faint that way.”

“Let me guess,” I said, intending to be funny by hyperbole. “Ninety-nine percent of them are men.”

“Actually, closer to 100%,” she said, adding, “and I’m not kidding.”

So my joke was only half-a-joke.

Yesterday evening while out for a stroll down our block, I encountered a neighbor walking his dog; a witty, retired architect (the man, not the dog), with a wry sense of humor and passion for Bach, and who dabbles in computer-assisted music composition. We hadn’t talked in a while, and when I asked how he was doing, he said “Fine,” though qualified it with mention of a stiff left hand. He explained that last spring he’d been pruning a fir tree in his yard. The tool of choice—despite his apparent high intelligence despite his being a fellow guy—was a power saw with a small circular blade that was, in his words, “razor sharp, turning at 10 million RPMs.” Upon showing me the scar on his hand, I went nauseous. When he offered to show me a picture taken on his way to the ER, I went faint.

“And you didn’t pass out?” I asked.

“Are you kidding me? At the mere sound of the word ‘stitches’!”

We laughed together.

In all events, I find assurance in the fact that my chicken status hasn’t yet warranted a psychiatric or psychological evaluation. By some measure, months ago I co-opted such a diversion by having lined up a (male) therapist. The online sessions have allowed me to embrace my male chicken nature (rooster, schmooster)—provided I take deep breaths, surround myself with positive thinking, and remember that even when saw-blade-push comes to needle-and-stitches-shove, humor is the best medicine, even if it’s only half a dose. (Cont.)

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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson