AUGUST 24, 2022 – Blogger’s note: Being under the gun to make it on time to my daily appointment at the “Center,” I haven’t proofed this post.
(Cont.) Yesterday I learned another lesson in hope for humanity. Before the transplant procedure yesterday afternoon, I hadn’t known the somewhat ritualistic significance that the medical team assigns to it—from the perspective of heart and soul. In all the tests, medical equipment, pharmaceuticals, one sees a mind-boggling concentration of math and science. And of course, the medical team—with women in the overwhelming majority—are highly versed in the these disciplines and their most practical and meaningful application: saving human lives. But these “math and science” people are also wonders at dispensing hope and inspiration. In curing me with their medical skills, by their humanity they’ve transformed me into an incurable optimist.
When the Laurens (see yesterday’s post) ushered me into my space, they drew my attention to a sign on the wall that said, “Happy 2nd Birthday!” signed by more than 20 personnel. They and others who participated in yesterday’s proceedings all spoke about the transplant as “a new beginning” and me as “a new person.” The clinic chaplain, whom I wrote about in my August 19 post, led a brief blessing ceremony—if quaint in its format, it was profound in its content and centered on hope and gratitude.
The transplant itself is a rather simple process: A bag of blood is removed from a delivery box from the cryo-storage facility. In the fashion of pilots talking to air traffic control, the Laurens repeat my name, birthday, patient number back and forth from box to bag to computer to wrist band and back again—all to ensure I’m not getting Joe Knickerbocker’s blood. Next, Lauren One hooks the bag on a standard, rolling IV contraption, then attaches one end of a plastic tube to the bottom of the bag and the other end to my “port” system. (Mind you, I might have that sequence backwards.) With the opening of a couple of valves, gravity does the rest of the work. Approximately 30 minutes later, the transplant, as it were, is complete.
In medical science terms, a helluva lot is going on right now inside my body. In metaphorical terms, however, it’s a different picture. Without cause, a dark, vicious enemy army quietly invaded the country. It surreptitiously worked its way into the country’s infrastructure, then started cutting off water, electricity, food supplies, communications, and transportation. Last December it reached a tipping point. The capital city went dark after the hammer fell.
Relief came relatively swiftly, though not without pain and suffering. But the invading army had not been dispatched altogether. It’d simply gone underground—into the sewers and cellars. To salvage more time for the city, more drastic measures were required. A nearby ally, with strength and weaponry capable of meeting the enemy toe-to-toe, came to rescue, but at a price: the city center would have to take a direct hit from a huge neutron bomb. But first the good citizens of the city would have to be removed. They were, without incident. Once the evacuation was complete, the neutron bomb was dropped, scoring a bull’s eye. Without further action, the city would be uninhabitable and would die. A highly select group of good citizens were issued haz-mat suits and instructions for cleaning up the nuclear fallout. It will take time, for every corner of the city must be scrubbed and in some cases (hair, for instance!) must be scrapped. Their fellow citizens, meanwhile, living with the hardships of displacement, must endure. But endure, they will.
As the transplant procedure progressed (i.e. as the haz-mat group entered the city), each member of the medical team was able and willing to engage unhurriedly on a deeply personal and unfettered level, sharing stories, anecdotes, their humanity. Like birds a-wing and singing around me, they gave palpable lift to hope, not just for me as one of billions, but for the billions of which we all are one united race, the human one.
Perhaps most telling about this crew was the impromptu visit by Anne, the nurse with whom I’d had two previous encounters during work-up week, and whose father I know well professionally. She was leaving work for the day but saw my name on the day’s transplant list. The vivacious and gracious rapport between Anne and the Laurens spoke volumes. Anne also wanted to express how much she and her dad had appreciated the email I’d sent to the latter after my appointments with Anne. I reciprocated by telling her how that the reply email from her father—a tough litigator with a wry and often sarcastic wit—meant much to me. She was genuinely pleased to hear that and reiterated her esteem for her father, which admiration bolstered further my respect for her.
The procedure went according to plan, and my “vitals” proved to be vitally optimal. One item discussed yesterday, however, was nearly as distressing as the doctor’s recommendation Monday that I sacrifice downhill skiing. Fifty percent of transplant patients, I was informed, wind up being admitted to the hospital for a few days somewhere along the road to recovery. Smack on the heels of this information, however, was the reassurance that this statistic isn’t cause for alarm; nothing to freak out about; in fact, it’s a positive—when something appears to be getting off track, it can be addressed quickly and aggressively, which is why the center insists on 24/7 in-home care (spouse or other) and no more distant than a 30-minute drive (we’re 15-20 minutes in heavy traffic). At first I found myself swallowing hard, but then I donned my analogy cap and found peace of mind.
I went straight to commercial aviation—again, this being natural given the parallels between aviation and complex medicine with regard to risk management/mitigation. On every flight, everyone is required to wear a seatbelt, but rarely does anyone need a seatbelt. And that need is almost never because the plane is going to crash. Nearly 100% of the time, the need is because of turbulence during the flight, which on occasion can be severe. But as hairy and scary as it is, everyone aboard gets through it.
Concomitantly, I was reminded repeatedly that I should plan on feeling bodily turbulence nine days into the recovery mode. I’m pretending to be flying from LAX to LGA. The climb out of L.A. was smooth and uneventful, but shortly after we reached cruising altitude, the captain announced that summer thermals were creating unusual turbulence over the Rockies. I look around my area. One passenger is already snoozing; two are ordering drinks; another two are chatting, oblivious to the announcement; another passenger, with furrowed brow, seems deep into her book—or is she just scared out of her wits? Me? I’m a little like each of the people around me.
This turbulence over the Rockies could sap my strength and concentration, though I will try my very hardest to stay alert and write daily. If I should miss a day or two or even three, simply know I’m hunkered down—perhaps like the woman with her book—and that by hook and crook I’ll climb down out of the mountains, led by the shining lights of all who brighten my life. (Cont.)
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© 2022 by Eric Nilsson
