OCTOBER 10, 2022 – I don’t wish to tempt fate, so in telling the story about to be told—Grizzly Adams must wait another couple of days (See yesterday’s post)—I don’t want to appear dismissive of the doctor’s dire warning. At the same time, however, my reaction to yesterday’s “incident” underscores a hypochondriac’s susceptibility to medical terror.
That I should reveal myself as a hypochondriac is itself ironic, given the very real health issue through which I’ve managed to navigate over the past 10 months. I like to think that hypochondria is merely an extension of conscientiousness, for in many settings where I’ve unintentionally “screwed things up,” I’ve overcompensated, as if an excessive response would somehow cancel, not merely requite the wrong.
The story begins back at my 28th day, post-transplant appointment—on September 21—with my BMT (bone marrow transplant) doc. By that juncture, my port-line had been removed, my neutrophil and platelet counts had been restored to normal levels, and I was feeling quite feisty. After reviewing my numbers and covering maintenance and monitoring protocols for the next year, the good doc entertained questions. I mentioned that by mid-November I “needed” to “bud cap” about 1,000 white pine saplings up at the lake and sought the doctor’s approval for that laborious activity.
“Absolutely not,” he said, to my surprise.
“Really?” I said, not knowing how else to react.
“You don’t want to scratch yourself inadvertently on pine needles,” said the doc. “You could get a fungal infection, which could get very serious, very fast. I had a transplant patient who lost a limb because of a fungal infection.”
Lost a limb?! I thought to myself. I didn’t dare ask—a leg, an arm, but something more than a toe or finger?
What I did ask was whether it would be safe for me to be at the cabin at all.
“Are there mice?” By such a question, he threatened plans for my mere presence at the cabin.
My first, unspoken reaction was, Of course there are mice around. It’s a cabin—in the woods, after all.
“We have mice on the porch,” said my wife, “but we don’t have mice inside the cabin, if that’s what you mean.”
“You need to be wary of hantavirus,” the doctor said.
Hantavirus?! I thought. Of course I’ve heard of hantavirus, but I’m not sure at all that any case has been reported in NW Wisconsin.
Fast forward to yesterday. I went on a long hike with two of my sisters and a brother-in-law. Leading the way, I charted a course deep into a beautiful section of woods occupied by a marvelous number of enormous pine. The trail wound through undulating terrain around the northern and eastern borders of a large, picturesque marsh.
Deep into this territory we reached a hillock on which the landowner (another lawyer with whom I’ve worked on several local conservation projects) had placed a decorative, concrete bench. I sized up the scene for a photograph and decided I needed to take a couple of steps forward and one to the left, just off the trail. On the second move, I stepped on a dead, narrow, curved, pine branch—in exactly the wrong way such that it struck my hand. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
