Every time I’ve thought about starting a post within the past few days, the laptop seemed too heavy and I’ve fallen into a deep sleep. As with last time, the Wednesday and Thursday of chemo were fine, but by Friday evening, I had a deep tiredness. It’s that kind of physical exhaustion that sleep doesn’t help, even though it’s all you can do. You don’t wake up refreshed, but just mildly not as sleepy for a few hours. My hemoglobin had also been low before chemo, so I got a transfusion boost. I’ve been fighting off a cold all week so I had to wear face masks to my doctor appointments so I don’t infect anyone. I drew fangs on my mask to celebrate my transfusion.
I should have worn my Bela Lugosi earrings.
I’d been feeling relatively well for the past few weeks; I’m not sure why I’d optimistically hoped that this chemo might not hit me as hard. On Wednesday, my hair started falling out, and it’s getting progressively patchy. My new insurance covers a wig (or at least part of one, as insurance often does after a series of steps: after a copay and a preauthorization from a doctor from an authorized place and then with a limit). I also have a list of wig places a friend gave to me that I haven’t had the energy to look at. My neighbors/community garden members set up a meal train so I came home on Wednesday to a home-cooked meal waiting for me. On Thursday, we celebrated the cats’ birthdays, and they were allowed a small bit of cheese. As I noted on social media, I was at the cheese counter, becoming increasingly annoyed with the man next to me as he humblebragged about how he had been a farmhand in Italy where his parents sent him after high school and how he was selecting cheeses for entertaining friends, when I remembered I was there to find a cheese most like Spanish manchego for my cats’ birthday celebration.
I’d been trying to boost my mood in small ways, but by Thursday I was starting to fall apart a little bit and become sad, and by Friday, I’d started to descend into a depression.
Cats airing out their bellies; cat realizing that the Eataly cheesemonger’s recommendation is not as delicious as her preferred manchego from Fairway; cat posing with candle; cat with a cheese plate.
Friday, I managed to stay awake for a movie. (I’ve never seen Singles. That’s weird. I know.) My guts started their post-chemo roiling and complaints that night. Saturday, I managed to read for a bit and put away my laundry and then I slept. Then I slept again. After I ate and watched the beginning of theRock & Roll Hall of Fame induction and wondered why love is a lie, I started shivering and realized I had a fever, so we called urgent care. They told me to come in, but then the fever went down. On Sunday, I was feeling better until around noon and then my fever returned. A bit after noon, we arrived at urgent care, where I slept and had blood cultures and tests taken, and we were allowed to go a bit after five, when a swab showed a rhinovirus (a common cold). I thought I’d beaten it but I guess I hadn’t so I left with instructions to rest. I watched TV and had taken my tincture of opium. I was in bed and was so tired, I didn’t answer the phone when it rang right before midnight. My boyfriend listened to the voicemail and called the urgent care doctor back: The blood cultures had shown bacteria in my blood, and I had to come back right away. In hindsight, I wish I’d gone in late on Saturday, but I packed up my things and went back to urgent care and arrived at my room around 3 am. I have my own room, since I have a cold, and people have to wear gowns and masks to come in.
This bacteria seems to have entered my bloodstream from my gut. My post-Whipple anatomy doesn’t have as many barriers to bacteria, so with my post-chemo exhaustion and diarrhea, mixed with this cold that hasn’t really manifested itself, was too much for my immune system, and bacteria got into my bloodstream.
At first, I was a little panicked about being here. I can’t be here. My mom is flying in from Cleveland tomorrow as my boyfriend flies out for a business trip tomorrow, and we had plans for Mother’s Day weekend. The soonest I can get out of here is Wednesday, and I know that’s a big “if.” I felt defeated and tired of fighting. For every victorious I-can-do-this pic or post, there are moments of feeling like I can’t and don’t want to do this anymore.
By midday, I’d cheered up and started feeling physically better, even with less roiling guts. I’d been cheered by the prospect of ordering off the new Sloan-Kettering menu, which got a makeover and some healthier options. (Farewell, beloved mozzarella sticks, but I was intrigued by the idea of the apple crepes special for breakfast and the new aloo chole and wheatberry crunch salad for dinner.)
By 5, I was happy that my biggest disappointment was that my favorite new neighborhood pizza place a few blocks from my apartment was giving out free slices tonight and I would have to miss it. “Are you OK?” someone asked, when I posted the event on social media, noting I’d be missing it because I was in the hospital. “No, I am missing free delicious pizza!” I responded. Around 7, however, I got the telltale chills and had another fever spike—not a good sign for my infection. I’m so upset and impatient. I need to get out of here, even if I don’t have time to try the new butternut squash ravioli. Really, though, I need to get out of here and get rid of this blood bacteria.