The gift of life

Thursday, my blood counts were scary-low. So low, in fact, that I needed to have a blood transfusion. I was terrified, but the nurse practitioner assured me that the blood supply was very safe...except for things like the newest strain of hepatitis, "E", for which they don't have a screen yet. Thus, the sheaf of release forms thrust at me.

I've been unable to donate blood my whole adult life, since I lived the better part of three years, starting at 17, in Europe, during foot-and-mouth disease. (Though it's rather ironic - I've been a vegetarian for some 15 years and there's no possible way I could have been infected.) But I'd like to thank all those who do donate, since I was dependent on two pints of someone else's Thursday.

I got my very last chemo infusion first, while they took a couple hours to find me a perfect blood match, then make triple sure (a) the blood was clean and screened; and (b) the blood really *did* match mine. Of course, they don't have screens for all the possible diseases, and there's always a possibility my blood's antibodies will try to fight off the foreign blood cells. It's still dangerous, but I've been lucky, I made it all the way to the last week on my own blood-power. The nurse practitioner said most patients on Stanford V usually have to have at least two transfusions.

All of the feeder lines between the blood bag on the IV stand and my port were quite long, and watching the blood creep ever-so-slowly along them, gradually turning the clear tubes red, was quite unnerving. Like climbing up-up-up on a tall rollercoaster. You look down: holy crumb, we're up high...you look ahead: and we've got a hell of a long way left to climb!

But nothing untoward happened. It was a very long day - 8 hours at the hospital plus an hour or so commute each way...and the shuttle drivers were on strike, so it took a bit longer to get to and from. I have to say though, it was terrific not to feel blackout dizzy every time I stood up; or for my heart to pound painfully with every flight of stairs, no matter how small.

So the chemo is over. I read the other day in an AP article that Sen. Arlen Specter, who was diagnosed three years ago with Stage IV Hogkins (the most advanced stage, with only a 50% survival rate), and went through chemo and radiation then; whose cancer went into remission only to return this spring, and who just finished up three more months this summer of chemo, has been putting in full days of work throughout. He was about to celebrate by drinking a martini with friends and family, before he started radiation. Now I don't necessarily support his politics, but this guy - nearly 80 - is one tough nut. My hat's off to you, sir.