So, the longest drive of my life…(including the 3 hour drive
home last night from the Columbus airport after being gone 9 days)…when I
arrived at University Hospitals to check myself in for an undetermined period
of time, it was surreal to say the least. Yet, a very real feeling of competitive
survival came over me the moment the automatic doors opened complete with a
light breeze I would not again feel for over a month. I had switched myself into game mode without
even realizing it. In fact, I could even
hear (don’t judge) ACDC’s You Shook Me
All Night Long playing remotely in my brain’s background, as that was the
exact song we’d run out to before every home B-ball game. The only difference was I could not allow my
thoughts to wonder What if we lose?
Before I was admitted to my room on the transplant ward, I
had to stop at the Concierge (Blood Draw Station). Up and until that point in all the
pre-admittance testing, it had only been blood drawn through a vein, but now
apparently artery blood was required. If
you’ve never had the pleasure, it’s something like Whac-A-Mole. With my right arm face up on the table, some
stranger watched with her naked eye for my blood to pump in between the blues
of my veins and then – whack! – She went in for the kill. After her third mulligan I though it prudent
to ask whether or not she’d ever don’t this before. Dirty look received from my non-rhetorical
question, but shockingly on the next attempt she nailed it.
Off I went to meet with the “Pharm-D” – otherwise known as
the jerk face who administered all the meds for every patient in the hospital.
Right. You’d think I’d make
friends with the guy. However, “jerk face”
is mild compared to what I wanted to call him during our introductory
meeting. He was explaining all the
forthcoming things I had to look forward to:
loss of appetite, puking, constant metal taste in my mouth, darkened
skin around every sweat gland, the obvious loss of hair…ok. Fine.
Good. Bring it if that’s what it takes to beat cancer. But it was his next statement which forever
rendered him with his new moniker: The steroids will cause you to gain weight
as well as lots of facial hair, kind of like your husband’s goatee, AND YOUR
DAUGHTER won’t even recognize you.
Big mistake.
In no particular order:
i.)
Yes, I had a husband then. He was great during my entire sickness. Anything else I’m taking the fifth or read my
personal blog.
ii.)
JERK
FACE. (The Pharm-D, people…please.)
iii.)
I told
him just because “everyone has to take steroids during a transplant” that I
wasn’t everyone and I’d let him know if I’d be taking them or not. Never had to.
Good guys up 1.
I was fine listening to each and every “bad” thing that was
potentially going to happen to me in the way of a side effect: but, you mess with my daughter and
consequently you’ve messed with the wrong mother.
I believe this to be a pretty universal reaction, not
necessarily cancer-related. But what I
will also say is this: it reminds me how
much more difficult it can be for the family members, friends, and caregivers
of cancer patients to watch their loved ones be attacked by another kind of
jerk face. They can yell, cry, and spew
wrath and expletives like I did – but cancer won’t talk back; it cannot be
goaded. It just keeps on coming – until
it messes with the wrong mothers (and fathers, brothers, sisters, aunts,
uncles, cousins, neighbors…).
We are a universally connected family. And I look forward to the day when none of
our relatives ever have cancer again.
18 Days.
Yikes! The 26th will be here before we
know it.
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