The Beast Dismantled

Things are looking up a bit, folks. I'm less than three weeks out from transplant and my counts are recovering, many of my nasty symptoms are improving, and my appetite has returned with a vengeance. I have been largely spared the wrath of crazy nurses and evil doctors (I had some fun with a guy I now call Mister Sparkle a few weeks back, but that's history now. Serious asshole.)

One great thing is that The Beast is being taken apart bit by bit. I had a big pain medicine pump and now it's gone. They had me on IV food and that's going to be gone today. They're changing a lot of my IV meds to pills, and eliminating several of my antibiotics. I don't imagine I will lose The Beast altogether anytime too soon, but The Beast is already diminished greatly.

I was told by my nurse that it was okay for me to take a walk off the unit today but then one of my Nurse Practitioners busted my ass and sent me back. It's amazing what a big world the hospital floor looks like to me now, having been confined in this room for weeks.

It's a good room, of course. Palatial, with giant windows. I can see Silvercup Studios out one window, which makes me feel at home (it's very close to where I live) and I can see the Empire State Building, too.

The docs seem generally happy with my progress. They are using words like "Runway" and "Launching Pad," in reference to my getting out of here. I kind of have no idea what post-hospital life will look like. Even with good counts if I'm lucky enough to have them, I will be on anti-rejection medicine that will affect my immune system. Long ago I asked my transplant doc about this recovery period at home and she said something like, "If you want to go to the movies, do it in the middle of the day when there's nobody there." I was like, "wha?" That sounds pretty good to me. For many weeks before my admission, I was not only immuno-compromised but I was sick. The Leukemia made me tired and achey and I spent most of my time at home and a lot of it in bed.

Meditation words of the day are "remission" and "engraftment". It's too early to know if I have either yet, but the smile on the face of my most dour doctor this morning and the good news about the meds and the launching pad were welcome encouragements.

I got some good advice a while back: "see yourself well." I have been practicing this daily. It's very different from counting on being well or hoping to be well. It's a practice of actually visualizing myself in my well life, looking well and acting well and doing the things I love to do - little things and big things, from going to Paris to going out to eat in Sunnyside to meeting friends for coffee to teaching an English class. It's like a movie I can play in my head and I never run out of material. It really helps me keep my spirits up and it reminds me what I am doing all this for.

I have gotten so many wonderful cards and emails and phone calls of condolence...I so appreciate it all. It's still so fresh for me every day that Neal is gone. Mom brought me some stuff from his apartment, including a bag of cards and letters I had written him that he had saved...he saved everything. He even had postcards I wrote to him when we were children and he was at summer camp. I'm so grateful to have them.

More soon...keep your fingers and toes crossed for my cells. And thank you, as always.

xxoo L