I went to Cleveland met with Dr. Lazarus at University Hospitals (UH) to discuss the prospect of having my BMT there. He was a short little Jewish man, with a grey-white beard and zero tolerance for humor. Whatever, I thought. I didn’t need a friend; I needed a miracle and someone who knew how to administer one. Any potential for friendship or an appreciation of my off-color jokes or his awful ties would have to wait.
Yes, he’d accept me as his patient. If a suitable donor was found for an
allogeneic transplant (cells from someone else, not my own), Dr. Lazarus would
handle the course of treatment from start to finish. The National Marrow Donor Program (NMDP) was
contacted and 6 potential matches were found.
To say that was lucky is an understatement. It almost never
happens. Even rarer, I would later find
out the donor Dr. Lazarus chose out of those six had gone through this once
before for a woman who lives in Las Vegas.
I tease her to this day that she has really
good stuff. (Her name is Beth, too. More on meeting her later.)
I was admitted to the hospital on April 14th,
1999. The day before, we drove a little
over an hour from my parent’s house in Canton to UH for my central port to be
surgically installed. Falling asleep on the cold steel table, counting back
from ten, I clearly remember thinking, here
we go. There’s no turning back
now. Please
let this work. When the intern
ripped open my gown to start the procedure, I was still awake, so I mumbled that
he could leave his money on the table for me.
Those people were gonna learn to love my humor or kick me out, one or
the other.
I woke up feeling like someone had socked me in the left
shoulder. Three prongs stuck out of my chest
kind of like those cool giant floor reading lights you see everywhere nowadays,
and they would serve as my lifeline for the next four months. I left the hospital that day, went back to my
parent’s house and watched the clock while trying to find something meaningful
to say.
But there weren’t any words.
I don’t find myself at a loss for them usually, unless I really need to
convey something like it’s the last time I might ever have the chance. Then I either say nothing or say way too much and royally screw it up. Maybe if they would have named me
Malcolm… In that instance I just said, “See
you when I get back” as I walked out their door into the unknown.
It was one of the longest and scariest car rides I’ve ever
taken. But it’s ok not to know sometimes, because knowing smothers
possibility. I walked into that hospital feeling like I used to when I
walked onto the basketball court for the big game. My stomach had butterflies, my confidence was
buried underneath the nerves, but this thing was getting done.
No way we lose today.
It’s not possible.
Thank you for continuing to contribute so that others can
win their own fights as well. We are
providing hope and possibilities to so many people.
31 Days!
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