A Pain in the Neck

Some of you have asked about visiting, and as Greta Garbo was famously misquoted as saying, “I want to be alone.” I think.

That’s not to say I don’t want to communicate via Internet and phone. I had a few visitors during my most cognizant stay, when I felt the most well, and that was nice. But this isn’t going to be any fun. I wouldn’t be there if I didn’t have to.

The worst way to put this is that I’m going to get burned from the inside out the first five days, followed by seven days of being continuously poisoned intravenously. Then I’m going to be sick and sleeping — and, according to what I’ve heard, in a zombie-like state. Someone who’s been through a stem cell transplant said people came to see her, and she didn’t remember. The last week, I’ll be recovering, but I still expect to be in a haze.

I hate to be one of those people who inspires a Dear Abby letter. If you really want to come visit, you can. I think it’s nice that people want to, and I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. But honestly, I’d rather see people when I don’t feel the worst I’ve ever felt. Everyone’s been so supportive and nice, so I do feel bad. But again, that same person who had been through this said that there came a point when she had to ask people to leave and she had to learn how not to feel bad about it.

If you happen to be around and want to drop by, that’s OK. But if you plan to come to New York specifically to see me in the hospital, please don’t. Unless you’ve always dreamed of coming to New York without the obligation of seeing me very much.

I just honestly believe I really won’t be up for visitors. Like I said, that could change. I won’t have a roommate this time, so I won’t feel pressured to win a popularity contest. (Because you know I’d feel a little rivalry.)

If you’re worried I’ll be bored, I don’t think I will be. I grew up as an only child on a cul-de-sac with no other kids. I’m used to entertaining myself. And I really do think I’ll be sleeping a lot, if augmented ICE was any indication of how I’ll feel.

It’s possible I might change my mind, at least for that chemo week, before I enter the zombie part or “hell week” as it’s sometimes called. (I’ve thrown up on most of the people I’ve gone to college with, so this might be your big chance to join that exclusive club.) You can check with my boyfriend for the latest!

Here are the rules for visitors.

Visitors have to have received flu shots for this season. My boyfriend is going to get his first flu shot ever. I can’t say anything to its efficacy. I’ve had flu shots and I’ve not had flu shots, and I’ve never gotten the flu. (Well, not ever. I had it once in second grade and I had the worst flu ever—nicknamed the Thanksgiving Disease by my group of friends who survived that terrible 1996 plague—in college.) That said, I’m really bummed that this whole procedure is going to obliterate my immune system. My old immune system was pretty great, and I rarely got sick. Except for the cancer. So I guess it’s back to square one.

Visitors must wear face masks, gloves and sometimes gowns. I hope most people wear formal gowns and tuxes when they come to see me anyway, but the hospital will provide gowns. (I don’t think they’re hospital gowns and I don’t think you have to get naked under them, but if you do, that’s your choice.) If you wear a face mask, I’d like you to pretend you’re in the band Clinic.

Visitors can’t have any germs. Well, they can’t be sick at least. No cooties!

No kids younger than 7. As much as I complain about missing my cats as a cat lady, this must be a very sad rule for parents of young children undergoing stem cell transplants.

No live animals or plants. The last time I was in the hospital, a bed bug-sniffing beagle came around as a precaution. I had a scheme to dress the cats as beagles, but I decided not to compromise their dignity by disguising them as dogs.

After the transplant, I want to see everyone, but that’s not going to happen right away, sadly. I’ll be back to square one with my immune system, so I have to stay away from crowded places for three months. I realize New York City is a pretty crowded place. But it’s advised to stay away from places like grocery stores at peak times, something I try to do anyway because I work at home and don’t need to rub elbows with the hoi-polloi. (I assume this also means the train, which is supposedly “filthy” and officially plagued by “schmutz.”) I have to avoid people with colds and viruses and such, especially for the first three months.

Post-transplant, I’ll also probably have trouble concentrating or remembering things. (I know some of your will say I had trouble with that before — insert comedy rimshot here.) It’s something referred to as “chemo brain,” a lingering mental fog.

So far, I’ve noticed this only a few times, after emerging from ICE. In one case, someone sent me an email about one thing and I kept responding to the subject we’d discussed in another email. It’s been hard concentrating during chemo, when the fatigue sets in, and afterwards, when I awake from my days of sleep. After that, it’s a bit like Lazarus rising from the dead or Sleeping Beauty awakening from her spell—or at least how I imagine it would be—it takes a little bit of time for me to remember everything that was going on before I went into chemo-induced hibernation. If I feel as if I’ve been asleep for a thousand years after a few days, I think a week or two will be harder to recover from.

In any case, please bear with my forgetfulness and general confusion—as you always have. I will remember an anecdote in detail from 1999, but I can’t remember my keys. And I get some very different things mixed up as it is. I sometimes get Gary Numan and Randy Newman mixed up. Oh, and Billy Bragg and Billy Squier. I also get Tinder and Grindr confused, so it’s a good thing I don’t online date. Mostly it is confusing to me. If you’ve talked about one of these subjects and I’ve looked puzzled, I’m just working this stuff out.

So in short, it sounds like, for at least three months, I’ll be easily tired and worn out, but I can slowly start to get back into the swing of things. And visit—or don’t. I’m just going to be exhausted, and I might smell like garlic.

Hopefully I’ll be almost back to my old self by my birthday in October!