Monday, November 26, 2012
Friday, November 23, 2012
Doing well...starting up the blog once more.
Julie and I are doing fine. It's been nearly three years since the stem cell transplant and I am feeling great. Both oncologist say we will cut back my visits to once each year...next one is in February, 2013, at the Medical Center. There are two hold over "side effects" from my treatments -- neuropathy in my left foot and daily naps. I find I really enjoy the afternoon naps -- very refreshing. The tingling in my left foot is annoying for me but dangerous for my massage therapist when I give an uncontrollable kick of my foot with the first touch.
If there are any pluses from this whole cancer experience, I guess giving myself permission to take a nap, gaining a truer sense of what it means to "be in the present", and allowing myself a regular massage rank right up there.
I am venturing out into social media. I have a Facebook page, twitter account and thought renewing the blog would be a good way to see how this goes in terms of our efforts to stay in touch. I say "our efforts" because Julie, although better at organizing "live" social engagements with friends and family, relies more on my efforts with electronic media to promote and support those relationships.
Julie and I have been blessed with our partnership for 39 years (plus 4 more years that we devoted to exclusive dating)...so far it seems to be working fairly well. We look forward to opportunities to break bread together and the sharing of our thoughts, prayers and joys with family and friends.
Tim.
Sunday, June 13, 2010
100 Days and all is well
Well, folks. It has been 100 days since my stem cell transplant (actually the 100 days was on May 21) and I have been through the follow-up tests. All is well!! No cancer cells were found and I am officially in remission. Whopee!
Julie and I celebrated with a trip to Salt Lake City to visit Andrew and Mary. Mary and her friend, Cara Despain, had an exhibit of their art at the Kayo Gallery and I was determined to see it in person. Here is a link to Mary and Andrew’s creative website: http://www.hankiefrankie.com/. Go to their blog scroll down to the “Into the White” area and a bit farther to see the short videos that Andrew put together along with his music to promote the exhibit. We have very creative children – I am claiming our daughter-in-law, Mary, in that statement -- if you meet her, you will understand why.
Julie and I will be continuing our celebration with a Father’s Day trip to Minneapolis to visit Courtney, Tim and Madeline. We have not seen them since April and Madeline is just a delight that cannot be kept in the shadows. We do “Skype” with them regularly but there is nothing like a real live hug, a kiss on the cheek, and the joy of holding Madeline on your lap to read a book or just having a conversation with her, eyeball to eyeball.
Hope. Having hope does not mean everything will turn out the way you want. Dr. Ellen Davis notes that “there is a difference between hope and a foolish optimism.” She reminds us that there is a “realism that we have to have about hope, [because of] how closely it can be mingled with our despair and yet survive.”
Throughout these past ten months, I can say the hope that I experienced is captured in those words. My diagnosis of cancer invoked fear and dreaded anticipation about the effects of the chemotherapy treatment. Hope had to mingle with my fear of the unknown and all the negative images of the future that the word “cancer” stirs up.
But as I moved closer to that fear and my chemo treatments began I tried to let my fear be embraced by my meditations and the loving support of so many. I realized that, for me, it was critical to stay focused on the present moment. My future would not be changed by my worries. Regrets about the past were no more than vapors of my memory. Now, this moment, was the reality of my life.
Surprisingly, and with the constant presence of a loving companion, in my focus on the moments of the present “all” was well. That’s not to say that there were not times of pain, discomfort and even a moment of despair and loneliness. But I was blessed with a hope that all would be well regardless of the outcome.
Grace and peace,
Tim
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Some catching up to do
I have heard from many of my friends inquiring about the absence in my blog entries. Here’s the answer in three steps: post stem cell fatigue, some minor complications, and taxes. I am doing better in all three areas. The fatigue is gradually lifting, the complications are subsiding, and the taxes are complete. So now I have some catching up to do.
No More Tassels. No More Hassles.
I was discharged from the University of Nebraska Medical Center on February 25th. One week later I had my tassels, aka, Hickman Catheter removed from my left chest. Even though I never mastered the skill of synchronized spinning of the dual ends of the catheter that I fondly referred to as my tassels, I do not miss their absence.
Oh stamina, where art thou?
I fully anticipated returning to work after my discharge. Julie bought me a couple of new shirts and I prepared my lunch menu. The doctor told me that the next thirty days would be a recovery period. “Sure,” I thought to myself, “I will work a few hours and come home to rest in the afternoon.” Oh, contraire. The weekend before my expected return I felt like I was carrying around an anvil. Just the idea of buttoning down the collar on one of my new shirts exhausted me. I succumbed to the bone tiredness, called the office to say “not this week”, and went to bed.
Asphalt or Shaker – You did say shingles, right?
The second week at home from the hospital, my left leg began to tingle and ache. We contacted the oncologist and he proudly predicted that I probably had shingles. This is apparently a side effect of the treatment. But unlike others that I have known who had to deal with shingles around their chest or belly, mine erupted from my left knee and ran down and across my left foot.
Can they make these tubes any smaller?
The shingles diagnosis however did not adequately explain the pain in my left hip and leg. An MRI exam was scheduled and off I skipped – my leg really hurt – to the medical imaging facility. I was invited by the technician to lie down on the hard slab she called a bed. She told me the exam would last about ninety minutes and then pushed the button to move the hard platform slab up and into the opening of the MRI machine.
I was familiar with the MRI since I had an exam a few months ago to check out my brain when the doctors had concern about some abnormal activity – that’s another story. The MRI machine is like a long tube and you are moved inside the tube for the MRI scan. As soon as the platform started to move into the MRI machine I knew this was not going to work. My shoulders were pushed down and squished into the sides of the tube. The technician stopped and tried again with my arms extended over my head; same basic result.
To my good fortune, she suggested I go to a sister facility with a larger tube rather than pulling out the Vaseline and rubbing down my shoulders. I traveled to the other examining site and all went well. Well, as best as can be expected with all the clatter and clanging of the machine and the nearly ninety minutes I had to stay inside with my nose nearly touching the top of the tube.
The diagnosis – bursitis in my left hip. I was off to physical therapy.
Clown cars and examining rooms
How many clowns can come out of that little bitty car at the circus? A similar question came to my mind at the doctor’s office. How many people can fit in this little examining room?
Once the shingles broke out in full bloom on my left leg and foot, Julie and I returned to the doctor’s office. I was in quite a bit of pain and my left big toe was hyper sensitive to the touch. The appointment was set with the physician assistant (PA) as a follow-up. Having never seen shingles, Julie and I wanted confirmation and some guidance.
The PA came in and she brought along a PA student with her. I took off my trousers and they both studied the rash that ran from my knee to my ankle and all around my foot. It was concluded that it could be shingles but they wanted the doctor’s confirmation.
When the doctor came into the room he brought another doctor from India who was here to observe medical care in the U.S.A. and to practice her English. Now we had six people in this tiny room – all looking at my leg and foot. Out came the colored diagram of major nerve paths and a discussion of the pattern of the rash and which nerves were involved.
A few minutes later, in came the doctor’s nurse. She commented on how warm the temperature was in the room. I suggested that it was not so bad without your trousers at which point the doctor gave me permission to put mine back on. “I’d be happy to doctor, but you’ve been sitting on them since you came into the room.” He quickly moved, I retrieved my pants and the room just as quickly cleared out.
Back to work
I returned to the office on March 30th. There are a few accommodations that I have implemented. I work at the office for 3 to 4 hours each day and feel stronger as each week goes by. I discovered that the hard chairs in the Boardroom which I use to believe were very comfortable are unforgiving on my left leg and hip. So, at Julie’s suggestion, I have toted a stadium cushion to meetings in the Boardroom. It provides some relief but after an hour I need to move around. I can walk about two blocks – very slowly – because my left foot hurts, so I drive if the distance is any greater. It is a great feeling to be back and interacting with my staff face-to-face and I am slowly expanding the opportunity to meet with other folks.
Reflections - back to community
I have also been able to return to church and a few activities in the greater community. With each of those opportunities, I have found that I really missed not only being with others but interacting, hearing and observing the stories of life.
One of the experiences I most missed from my absence from work was hearing the stories of our clients. I have intentionally started attending the weekly meetings where our staff presents their interviews with potential clients who are seeking help from our office. Through each story I am reconnecting to a greater community.
Most of the stories relay some hurt or injury experienced by the individual. As each story is shared, there is honor given to those individuals because their story is being heard. As the staff discusses the individual’s situation, there is also a sense of hope and expectation. They know they can not assist everyone. But even to those who we can not help there is a bit of advice or encouragement that is shared back to the individual which affirms not only the individual but also their story.
When I sit in the park or at church, I observe life stories unfolding about me. The love and wisdom of a mother or grandparent is shared as they hold the hand of a small child guiding them along the path by the lake and pointing out the ducks. “What does the duck say?” Genuine long-term friendship is revealed as one elderly person gives support to another as they stand to sing a hymn. A smile of gratitude is shared that for a moment reunites the two and acknowledges an understanding that within the fragility of age is the strength of friendship.
I am not a solitary being. I draw energy from others. The energy comes, not by being passively in the presence of others. It comes from engaging and being a part of a greater community. I am grateful today for that community that has sustained both Julie and me through these past many months and will continue to share our life story.
Grace and peace,
Tim
No More Tassels. No More Hassles.
I was discharged from the University of Nebraska Medical Center on February 25th. One week later I had my tassels, aka, Hickman Catheter removed from my left chest. Even though I never mastered the skill of synchronized spinning of the dual ends of the catheter that I fondly referred to as my tassels, I do not miss their absence.
Oh stamina, where art thou?
I fully anticipated returning to work after my discharge. Julie bought me a couple of new shirts and I prepared my lunch menu. The doctor told me that the next thirty days would be a recovery period. “Sure,” I thought to myself, “I will work a few hours and come home to rest in the afternoon.” Oh, contraire. The weekend before my expected return I felt like I was carrying around an anvil. Just the idea of buttoning down the collar on one of my new shirts exhausted me. I succumbed to the bone tiredness, called the office to say “not this week”, and went to bed.
Asphalt or Shaker – You did say shingles, right?
The second week at home from the hospital, my left leg began to tingle and ache. We contacted the oncologist and he proudly predicted that I probably had shingles. This is apparently a side effect of the treatment. But unlike others that I have known who had to deal with shingles around their chest or belly, mine erupted from my left knee and ran down and across my left foot.
Can they make these tubes any smaller?
The shingles diagnosis however did not adequately explain the pain in my left hip and leg. An MRI exam was scheduled and off I skipped – my leg really hurt – to the medical imaging facility. I was invited by the technician to lie down on the hard slab she called a bed. She told me the exam would last about ninety minutes and then pushed the button to move the hard platform slab up and into the opening of the MRI machine.
I was familiar with the MRI since I had an exam a few months ago to check out my brain when the doctors had concern about some abnormal activity – that’s another story. The MRI machine is like a long tube and you are moved inside the tube for the MRI scan. As soon as the platform started to move into the MRI machine I knew this was not going to work. My shoulders were pushed down and squished into the sides of the tube. The technician stopped and tried again with my arms extended over my head; same basic result.
To my good fortune, she suggested I go to a sister facility with a larger tube rather than pulling out the Vaseline and rubbing down my shoulders. I traveled to the other examining site and all went well. Well, as best as can be expected with all the clatter and clanging of the machine and the nearly ninety minutes I had to stay inside with my nose nearly touching the top of the tube.
The diagnosis – bursitis in my left hip. I was off to physical therapy.
Clown cars and examining rooms
How many clowns can come out of that little bitty car at the circus? A similar question came to my mind at the doctor’s office. How many people can fit in this little examining room?
Once the shingles broke out in full bloom on my left leg and foot, Julie and I returned to the doctor’s office. I was in quite a bit of pain and my left big toe was hyper sensitive to the touch. The appointment was set with the physician assistant (PA) as a follow-up. Having never seen shingles, Julie and I wanted confirmation and some guidance.
The PA came in and she brought along a PA student with her. I took off my trousers and they both studied the rash that ran from my knee to my ankle and all around my foot. It was concluded that it could be shingles but they wanted the doctor’s confirmation.
When the doctor came into the room he brought another doctor from India who was here to observe medical care in the U.S.A. and to practice her English. Now we had six people in this tiny room – all looking at my leg and foot. Out came the colored diagram of major nerve paths and a discussion of the pattern of the rash and which nerves were involved.
A few minutes later, in came the doctor’s nurse. She commented on how warm the temperature was in the room. I suggested that it was not so bad without your trousers at which point the doctor gave me permission to put mine back on. “I’d be happy to doctor, but you’ve been sitting on them since you came into the room.” He quickly moved, I retrieved my pants and the room just as quickly cleared out.
Back to work
I returned to the office on March 30th. There are a few accommodations that I have implemented. I work at the office for 3 to 4 hours each day and feel stronger as each week goes by. I discovered that the hard chairs in the Boardroom which I use to believe were very comfortable are unforgiving on my left leg and hip. So, at Julie’s suggestion, I have toted a stadium cushion to meetings in the Boardroom. It provides some relief but after an hour I need to move around. I can walk about two blocks – very slowly – because my left foot hurts, so I drive if the distance is any greater. It is a great feeling to be back and interacting with my staff face-to-face and I am slowly expanding the opportunity to meet with other folks.
Reflections - back to community
I have also been able to return to church and a few activities in the greater community. With each of those opportunities, I have found that I really missed not only being with others but interacting, hearing and observing the stories of life.
One of the experiences I most missed from my absence from work was hearing the stories of our clients. I have intentionally started attending the weekly meetings where our staff presents their interviews with potential clients who are seeking help from our office. Through each story I am reconnecting to a greater community.
Most of the stories relay some hurt or injury experienced by the individual. As each story is shared, there is honor given to those individuals because their story is being heard. As the staff discusses the individual’s situation, there is also a sense of hope and expectation. They know they can not assist everyone. But even to those who we can not help there is a bit of advice or encouragement that is shared back to the individual which affirms not only the individual but also their story.
When I sit in the park or at church, I observe life stories unfolding about me. The love and wisdom of a mother or grandparent is shared as they hold the hand of a small child guiding them along the path by the lake and pointing out the ducks. “What does the duck say?” Genuine long-term friendship is revealed as one elderly person gives support to another as they stand to sing a hymn. A smile of gratitude is shared that for a moment reunites the two and acknowledges an understanding that within the fragility of age is the strength of friendship.
I am not a solitary being. I draw energy from others. The energy comes, not by being passively in the presence of others. It comes from engaging and being a part of a greater community. I am grateful today for that community that has sustained both Julie and me through these past many months and will continue to share our life story.
Grace and peace,
Tim
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Home Sleep Home
We are home and I sleep. That seems to be the story of our return. Thursday was our return home and the smell, sound (quiet) and comfort of home is so delightful. Our friend and neighbor, Sue, prepared a sign to celebrate our return.
I am surprised how exhausted I feel. It is a physical and emotional release that is not yet satisfied by sleep. But that is what I am getting plenty of – sleep. Not only are we retiring early each evening but I am enjoying a nap each afternoon. As I lay down for my afternoon nap I don’t have any expectation of sleeping – two hours later I wake up feeling more refreshed.
All of this suggests that the forecast by the doctor that I should plan on resting for 30 days after my release from the hospital was correct. Much better forecast than what we have had weather-wise during the past month.
I return to the Medical Center for more testing on the 100th day following the stem cell transplant and will participate in a clinical trial for the next year. As my blood counts improve, the Hickman catheter hanging on the outside of my left chest will be removed. That will be a wonderful day. The port under my skin on my right chest will remain for at least a year.
Julie and I are so thankful for our return home. We will rest, recover our strength and continue to give thanks for the completion of my treatment.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
Released!
I have been released and will be heading home tomorrow!! The first item on my agenda when I get home is to lay down in my own bed for my daily nap. The second item is to have a glass of wine. My return to a more robust activity schedule is still a month away.
Julie and I are thankful for the good news and my renewing strength – especially those stem cells that are kicking in and doing their best to return me to wholeness and good health.
Grace and peace,
Tim
Julie and I are thankful for the good news and my renewing strength – especially those stem cells that are kicking in and doing their best to return me to wholeness and good health.
Grace and peace,
Tim
Monday, February 22, 2010
Day 12 - Discharged but not yet home
The view is so much improved - I no longer see the side of an old red brick building and the snowy isolation of a small garden. Now, I see the snowy roof tops of old red brick buildings and beyond to the street with all the hubbub of city life.
The other real advantage - I have a roommate! Not a bed mate, but a roommate nonetheless and she is lovely. I am hoping this does not mean I can't still take her for a stroll in the hospital corridors - or is it that she takes me?
I am grateful that the hospital stay is over for me. Being a patient requires patience, endurance and the encouragement of others. In my gratitude for my discharge I also extend encouragement to the other patients on the floor I just left who have been there longer than me and have farther yet to go.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Day 11 - Life left of the decimal point
Those little stem cells are waking up! This morning’s white blood count moved up from .3 to 1.2 and I am feeling much better. Amazing what happens on the left side of that decimal point.
Julie reported the last three days were challenging. I woke up this morning feeling better. My gut seems to have settled down and the cream concoction recommended by my night nurse has soothed that “unseen area of irritation.” Of course, my underwear has taken a serious hit – but we packed lots of Jockey shorts and there is a laundry area in our hospital hotel.
Butt paste is amazing stuff. Our granddaughter, Madeline, who is well on her way to a life without diapers, is very aware of its fantastic properties. I was introduced to its abrasive resistant as well as soothing qualities many years ago on RAGBRAI – the week long bike ride across Iowa.
Life on the left side of the decimal point holds the promise of more bike rides. Maybe not a week-long tour across Iowa or Nebraska, but certainly summer rides with Julie on the bike trails of Lincoln.
Life on the left side of the decimal point includes a trip to Salt Lake City to visit Andrew and Mary, taking in Mary’s art show, drinking a few cold brews at Squatters, and maybe a stroll through the farmer’s market. There is also a trip to Minnesota to hug Madeline, Courtney and Tim in person, see the remodeling project by Tim’s Dad, maybe a picnic, and quiet evenings of enjoyment being together.
Joyce Rupp is an author and spiritual guide introduced to me through my Prayer and Meditation Group. Her writings and meditations have been a steady companion for me during this journey.
She writes of liminality – “the uncomfortable ambiguity when we are standing in the middle of a juncture of significant change.” As Julie and I have counted the days since the stem cell transplant, we have been in liminal space knowing that significant change is occurring in my body but not yet able to see the results of the change.
Rupp reminds us: “Liminality requires acceptance of mystery and a heart full of trust.” At this time, I must accept the mystery of my body’s healing powers created by God and focus a “heart full of trust“ that those healing powers are well supported through the medicines and knowledge of my care providers as well as the prayers and encouragement of our friends and family.
Another way of saying this which I found humorous and shared with one of the doctors here at the Medical Center comes from the French writer and philosopher, Voltaire - “The art of medicine is in amusing a patient while nature affects the cure.”
I am grateful for the promise of life on the left side of the decimal point and for the creative, regenerative and comforting power that assures such a promise.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Julie reported the last three days were challenging. I woke up this morning feeling better. My gut seems to have settled down and the cream concoction recommended by my night nurse has soothed that “unseen area of irritation.” Of course, my underwear has taken a serious hit – but we packed lots of Jockey shorts and there is a laundry area in our hospital hotel.
Butt paste is amazing stuff. Our granddaughter, Madeline, who is well on her way to a life without diapers, is very aware of its fantastic properties. I was introduced to its abrasive resistant as well as soothing qualities many years ago on RAGBRAI – the week long bike ride across Iowa.
Life on the left side of the decimal point holds the promise of more bike rides. Maybe not a week-long tour across Iowa or Nebraska, but certainly summer rides with Julie on the bike trails of Lincoln.
Life on the left side of the decimal point includes a trip to Salt Lake City to visit Andrew and Mary, taking in Mary’s art show, drinking a few cold brews at Squatters, and maybe a stroll through the farmer’s market. There is also a trip to Minnesota to hug Madeline, Courtney and Tim in person, see the remodeling project by Tim’s Dad, maybe a picnic, and quiet evenings of enjoyment being together.
Joyce Rupp is an author and spiritual guide introduced to me through my Prayer and Meditation Group. Her writings and meditations have been a steady companion for me during this journey.
She writes of liminality – “the uncomfortable ambiguity when we are standing in the middle of a juncture of significant change.” As Julie and I have counted the days since the stem cell transplant, we have been in liminal space knowing that significant change is occurring in my body but not yet able to see the results of the change.
Rupp reminds us: “Liminality requires acceptance of mystery and a heart full of trust.” At this time, I must accept the mystery of my body’s healing powers created by God and focus a “heart full of trust“ that those healing powers are well supported through the medicines and knowledge of my care providers as well as the prayers and encouragement of our friends and family.
Another way of saying this which I found humorous and shared with one of the doctors here at the Medical Center comes from the French writer and philosopher, Voltaire - “The art of medicine is in amusing a patient while nature affects the cure.”
I am grateful for the promise of life on the left side of the decimal point and for the creative, regenerative and comforting power that assures such a promise.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Day 10
Greetings from Room 7435 at University Towers, University of Nebraska Medical Center. The last three days have had its challenges. Tim’s counts have bottomed out from the chemo the week before the transplant. He has received several bags of platelets and is getting two units of blood today. His biggest problem has been intestinal distress from the chemo. He has eaten lots of yogurt, applesauce, toast and Gatorade. He tells me daily that he is looking forward to the day when he can sit down to a steak and glass of wine. I am afraid that day is a few weeks off because even when things slow down, his gut will be sensitive. At least that has been our experience from the past. His white blood count still needs to come up before he can go to outpatient status and come join me in my room in a building adjoining the hospital. At that point they will monitor his counts, see how strong he is and hopefully after a few days let us return to Lincoln. They say it takes about a month of recovery at home before a person can return to work. This is day 10 since the transplant and typically the white blood counts will start to return sometime between day 9 and 15. The sooner the better as we are both getting weary of the process. They are telling us that if they had given him a grade compared to other transplant patients, he would be an A. Everything that he has had happen including a fever a couple of nights ago are to be expected. He and I have been able to walk every day since the beginning except for last Thursday when he was feeling bad due to the fever. The blood cultures drawn at that time have not grown anything so it was probably just his body fighting to make cells. We really don’t want another blood sepsis, but they assure us that they can deal with that too. So we grow weary but we remain positive and hold on to the belief that we are not alone. We are strengthened knowing that many are calling, emailing, sending cards, and holding us in their thoughts and prayers daily. We are planning on being home by this time next week barring any complications. It never hurts to have a positive attitude. Stay tuned. Julie
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Pictures of the Transplant / Re-introduction Process
For Julie's co-workers and our many friends and family who have expressed an interest in the process of re-introducing my stem cells to me - here are some pictures.
Harvesting stem cells
The stem cells arrive on transplant day and "their" nurse gives them a warm water bath. The bath looked like an old turkey roaster to me.
Harvesting stem cells
The stem cells arrive on transplant day and "their" nurse gives them a warm water bath. The bath looked like an old turkey roaster to me.Their spa experience with the warm water bath was required because the stem cells were frozen and came packed in dry ice. Each bag came in a metal container - the container was labeled as was the bag of stem cells inside.
The stem cells had their nurse to watch over them.
I had my nurse to watch over me throughout the process.
What a team!
Of course, I was prepared to greet those little fellas as well with a name tag - just to ease the introductions - and a sign to let them know how happy we were to have them back.
They monitored my vital signs through the process....
and Julie kept my spirits up.
Finally, stems cells are back and we celebrated with a cake provided by the Medical Center staff.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Day 5
I am sitting in the hospital room on day 5. That is five days from the reintroduction of my stem cells. The count of days started at minus 6 (-6) with the start of the chemotherapy to knock out my bone marrow. This is the twelfth day of my hospital stay.
My countdown proceeded upward to day zero – the transplant day. I received chemotherapy drugs each day during the countdown. The most eventful day was the last. I had to eat ice chips and popsicles before, during and after the administration of the chemo drug, Melphalan. Apparently, keeping a cold mouth helps to prevent or lessen mouth sores caused by the drug.
I didn’t complain – I like popsicles and there was a ready supply of grape and cherry, my favorites. Julie likes root beer flavor so I invited her to share in the mouth chilling fun.
On the day of the transplant, I broke out a sign welcoming my stem cells back and name tags for Julie and myself to avoid the awkwardness of a stem cell not remembering our names. This journey needs some light-heartedness.
Julie posted the sign on the heart monitor and I gave us both name tags to wear as we greeted my stem cells back to my body. The humor was appreciated by the medical staff and we have received many a smile and comment on our effort.
Julie and I walk each day. We wander the hallways. I have to wear a mask and gloves now whenever I leave my room because my blood counts have dropped. One of the housekeeping staff, Mark, who operates a floor cleaner, has become a friendly contact on our evening journey. From some reason, my mask and gloves is a clear give-away that he can spot from quite a distance down the corridor. Each encounter is cause for the sharing of brief pleasantries.
We have had a few welcomed visitors. Some of our visitors had to gown up and put on masks and gloves; others we have met in the large lounge with me in mask and gloves. Unfortunately, my blood count has fallen so low that I am not taking any visitors at the present time. As I hit the lowest point of the bone marrow’s shut down, my immune system has become so compromised that I am not able to fight off any invading germ.
So for now it’s Julie and the medical staff who are my daily companions – oh, and I bet we will see Mark, the floor cleaning guy, during our evening stroll. It’s always a good thing when you can share pleasantries with the people in the neighborhood.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
My countdown proceeded upward to day zero – the transplant day. I received chemotherapy drugs each day during the countdown. The most eventful day was the last. I had to eat ice chips and popsicles before, during and after the administration of the chemo drug, Melphalan. Apparently, keeping a cold mouth helps to prevent or lessen mouth sores caused by the drug.
On the day of the transplant, I broke out a sign welcoming my stem cells back and name tags for Julie and myself to avoid the awkwardness of a stem cell not remembering our names. This journey needs some light-heartedness.
Julie and I walk each day. We wander the hallways. I have to wear a mask and gloves now whenever I leave my room because my blood counts have dropped. One of the housekeeping staff, Mark, who operates a floor cleaner, has become a friendly contact on our evening journey. From some reason, my mask and gloves is a clear give-away that he can spot from quite a distance down the corridor. Each encounter is cause for the sharing of brief pleasantries.
So for now it’s Julie and the medical staff who are my daily companions – oh, and I bet we will see Mark, the floor cleaning guy, during our evening stroll. It’s always a good thing when you can share pleasantries with the people in the neighborhood.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Return of the stem cells
They’re back!! I successfully received my harvested stem cells this morning. It was quite a process involving thawing the frozen cells in a warm water bath – pampering the little fellas; hanging the bag of thawed cells to drip through the IV tubing – “line up you guys”, “let’s go, let’s go”; then into the catheter in my chest and on to their ultimate destination – my bone marrow.
Now we wait to see if this crowd of stem cells can negotiate their way back to my bone marrow. Being stem cells of the male persuasion I hope they ask for directions if they are having trouble finding the destination.
If you were visiting me today, you may wonder from the smell,”Who’s cooking up creamed corn in the hospital?” Yep, creamed corn. That is the odor of the preservative used with the frozen stem cells. It is released from my skin and on my breath.
That's the medical explanation. Or maybe, those stem cell characters like packing creamed corn on these trips. I know I loved to take creamed corn in my camping knapsack when I ventured into the woods with the Boy Scouts. Nothing like creamed corn over an open fire!
I am feeling good -- strong and rested following my two hour nap and a warm shower.
Julie and I tour the hospital hallways each evening when the chance of encountering germ ridden folks is minimized. It is actually quite pleasant to walk the hallways with the evening lighting and the stillness that settles into a busy place at the beginning of the night. It's a reflective time of the day and time just for the two of us.
Julie and I are so grateful for all the warm wishes, prayers and encouragement we have received from everyone. Thank you.
Julie tells me it’s time to go for a walk. Good night for now.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Now we wait to see if this crowd of stem cells can negotiate their way back to my bone marrow. Being stem cells of the male persuasion I hope they ask for directions if they are having trouble finding the destination.
If you were visiting me today, you may wonder from the smell,”Who’s cooking up creamed corn in the hospital?” Yep, creamed corn. That is the odor of the preservative used with the frozen stem cells. It is released from my skin and on my breath.
That's the medical explanation. Or maybe, those stem cell characters like packing creamed corn on these trips. I know I loved to take creamed corn in my camping knapsack when I ventured into the woods with the Boy Scouts. Nothing like creamed corn over an open fire!
I am feeling good -- strong and rested following my two hour nap and a warm shower.
Julie and I tour the hospital hallways each evening when the chance of encountering germ ridden folks is minimized. It is actually quite pleasant to walk the hallways with the evening lighting and the stillness that settles into a busy place at the beginning of the night. It's a reflective time of the day and time just for the two of us.
Julie and I are so grateful for all the warm wishes, prayers and encouragement we have received from everyone. Thank you.
Julie tells me it’s time to go for a walk. Good night for now.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Last Chemo Treatment – we hope!
It is 8:30 a.m. and Tim is chewing on crushed ice for 30 minutes before his last chemo treatment. He will continue this throughout the infusion and 30 minutes after. They say that it has been shown that if the mouth is kept very cold, the mouth sores produced as a result of this chemo are reduced by 50%. That sounds like an easy solution.
He also gets popsicles so I ordered up a root beer one for me. Figured it could be a good photo moment. Stay tuned !
This infusion is only about 30 minutes long and then he is done for the day. Tomorrow is the big day. The transplant should start at around 9:30 a.m. He has 4 bags and each should take about 15 minutes. It is hard to believe that all these months and treatments culminate in a 1 hour procedure.
They call transplant day, “day zero.” They refer to each day after as day 1, day 2, etc. They tell us that on day 5 he gets antibiotics, day 9-15 the bone marrow starts to regenerate new cells and so on. But every milestone is followed with the words, “but everyone is different.”
So far the only side effect he has had while the chemo has been given has been a big cramping in his right hand. Goofy!
They are giving him a muscle relaxant. He will be tired and sleepy in no time. Good deal, then I will have control of the TV remote and he won't even care.
Tim has done very well so far with no nausea to speak of yet. We have been able to go for long walks around the med center at least twice a day. He has been strong and in good spirits. We know that the later part of this week and next week may be more challenging.
We miss all of you and appreciate your thoughts and prayers. Share this with others.
Love,
Julie and Tim
He also gets popsicles so I ordered up a root beer one for me. Figured it could be a good photo moment. Stay tuned !
This infusion is only about 30 minutes long and then he is done for the day. Tomorrow is the big day. The transplant should start at around 9:30 a.m. He has 4 bags and each should take about 15 minutes. It is hard to believe that all these months and treatments culminate in a 1 hour procedure.
They call transplant day, “day zero.” They refer to each day after as day 1, day 2, etc. They tell us that on day 5 he gets antibiotics, day 9-15 the bone marrow starts to regenerate new cells and so on. But every milestone is followed with the words, “but everyone is different.”
So far the only side effect he has had while the chemo has been given has been a big cramping in his right hand. Goofy!
They are giving him a muscle relaxant. He will be tired and sleepy in no time. Good deal, then I will have control of the TV remote and he won't even care.
Tim has done very well so far with no nausea to speak of yet. We have been able to go for long walks around the med center at least twice a day. He has been strong and in good spirits. We know that the later part of this week and next week may be more challenging.
We miss all of you and appreciate your thoughts and prayers. Share this with others.
Love,
Julie and Tim
Saturday, February 6, 2010
It takes village
I am sitting here in the University of Nebraska Medical Center watching the snow float down onto the “Healing Garden”. It is quite pretty but not a place I would go to sit at this time of year.
Julie and I have also checked out the chapel and a small meditation room that sit among the many rooms, hallways and massive doors within this medical complex. These intentional quiet spaces offer opportunity for reflection and the centering of oneself in silent meditation. I was pleased to see places for the spiritual. These are gifts for those seeking healing and their healers alike.
My chemotherapy started up Thursday evening and I am now on a routine getting two drugs twice a day – 4 and 5 AM then 4 and 5 PM – through Monday with the last treatment on Tuesday.
These are long days with small spurts of activity and then lots of time on my hands. Julie is staying in the hotel that is attached to the hospital. She comes to visit and spends a good portion of her day with me. We take a walk twice a day that is very helpful.
The nurses have cautioned us about visitors – no coughs or sniffles allowed and if you have not yet had your flu shot at least two weeks ago – call me. The good news – Julie is still receiving visitors so call her and she would love to meet face to face – just not in my hospital room.
These precautions are for me. They are based on the expectations that my blood counts are going to drop compromising my immune system once again. Most importantly, I am so close to day “zero” – that will be TRANSPLANT DAY the day I get my stem cells back. We don’t want to unnecessarily risk not moving forward with the transplant / re-introduction of my stem cells.
Of course Transplant Day would not be possible without the prayers and encouragement from all of our family, friends and co-workers.
In addition, we are especially grateful for all the excellent medical care, compassion and laughter received from the staff at Nebraska Hematology – Oncology, the staff on the fifth floor at BryanLGH East, the staff in the BryanLGH Specialty Clinic, as well as the staff at the University Hospital. Sandra Sasse, our Lymphoma Case Manager at UNMC has been an invaluable source of knowledge, understanding and compassion throughout this entire journey.
This shout out has to include the ancillary services in radiology, nuclear medicine, the laboratory (dare not forget the laboratory), emergency room, and the UNMC geriatric clinic. Why was I at the geriatric clinic? I’m not sure but it must be where they send all the bald old men with a limp for their Neupogen shots and blood draws. Of course, I cannot forget the good natured and talented Red Cross nurses in the stem cell collection room at UNMC.
Finally, I am grateful for the talented doctors who have guided and accompanied both Julie and me through this journey: Dr. Hutchins, Dr. Vose, Dr. Moravec, Dr. Morin, and Dr. Stadler. There were also many other doctors and physician assistants at the various hospitals whom we have encountered and who attended to my health care needs.
For all of these various supporters and health care providers we are grateful.
As you can see – it takes a village – not just health care providers, but a true community of various skills, strengths, and sensibilities. Each group adds value to the process of healing. From my perspective, no one group is more valued than another in contributing to my healing, wholeness and harmony. I praise God for the creation of such a community.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Julie and I have also checked out the chapel and a small meditation room that sit among the many rooms, hallways and massive doors within this medical complex. These intentional quiet spaces offer opportunity for reflection and the centering of oneself in silent meditation. I was pleased to see places for the spiritual. These are gifts for those seeking healing and their healers alike.
My chemotherapy started up Thursday evening and I am now on a routine getting two drugs twice a day – 4 and 5 AM then 4 and 5 PM – through Monday with the last treatment on Tuesday.
These are long days with small spurts of activity and then lots of time on my hands. Julie is staying in the hotel that is attached to the hospital. She comes to visit and spends a good portion of her day with me. We take a walk twice a day that is very helpful.
The nurses have cautioned us about visitors – no coughs or sniffles allowed and if you have not yet had your flu shot at least two weeks ago – call me. The good news – Julie is still receiving visitors so call her and she would love to meet face to face – just not in my hospital room.
These precautions are for me. They are based on the expectations that my blood counts are going to drop compromising my immune system once again. Most importantly, I am so close to day “zero” – that will be TRANSPLANT DAY the day I get my stem cells back. We don’t want to unnecessarily risk not moving forward with the transplant / re-introduction of my stem cells.
Of course Transplant Day would not be possible without the prayers and encouragement from all of our family, friends and co-workers.
In addition, we are especially grateful for all the excellent medical care, compassion and laughter received from the staff at Nebraska Hematology – Oncology, the staff on the fifth floor at BryanLGH East, the staff in the BryanLGH Specialty Clinic, as well as the staff at the University Hospital. Sandra Sasse, our Lymphoma Case Manager at UNMC has been an invaluable source of knowledge, understanding and compassion throughout this entire journey.
This shout out has to include the ancillary services in radiology, nuclear medicine, the laboratory (dare not forget the laboratory), emergency room, and the UNMC geriatric clinic. Why was I at the geriatric clinic? I’m not sure but it must be where they send all the bald old men with a limp for their Neupogen shots and blood draws. Of course, I cannot forget the good natured and talented Red Cross nurses in the stem cell collection room at UNMC.
Finally, I am grateful for the talented doctors who have guided and accompanied both Julie and me through this journey: Dr. Hutchins, Dr. Vose, Dr. Moravec, Dr. Morin, and Dr. Stadler. There were also many other doctors and physician assistants at the various hospitals whom we have encountered and who attended to my health care needs.
For all of these various supporters and health care providers we are grateful.
As you can see – it takes a village – not just health care providers, but a true community of various skills, strengths, and sensibilities. Each group adds value to the process of healing. From my perspective, no one group is more valued than another in contributing to my healing, wholeness and harmony. I praise God for the creation of such a community.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Tim's First Day
This blog is brought to you by Julie.
Tim did well with his first chemo last night and this morning. His counts are still fine today and they will be monitoring them daily. We are really glad to be inside here and not have to venture out into the snow. My car is safe and sound in a covered garage.
I walked on the treadmill 2 miles this morning before breakfast and am planning on going to the chapel later for some quiet meditation time. I am trying to get some routine into my day hoping that it will help me pass this time in a productive way.
We are both in good spirits and we are grateful for our family, coworkers and friends who sustain us daily with their thoughts and prayers.
Love, Julie
Tim did well with his first chemo last night and this morning. His counts are still fine today and they will be monitoring them daily. We are really glad to be inside here and not have to venture out into the snow. My car is safe and sound in a covered garage.
I walked on the treadmill 2 miles this morning before breakfast and am planning on going to the chapel later for some quiet meditation time. I am trying to get some routine into my day hoping that it will help me pass this time in a productive way.
We are both in good spirits and we are grateful for our family, coworkers and friends who sustain us daily with their thoughts and prayers.
Love, Julie
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Good News!
Julie and I met with my oncologist in Omaha today. Good news -- the cancer is in remission! This does not mean that I have been cured but as of now there is an absence of disease activity in my body. I can now proceed with the process of re-introducing my harvested stem cells. Yeah!
The beginning step in the process is to complete a week of chemotherapy starting tomorrow.
I hope to complete this final phase of my treatment with the chemotherapy and re-introduction of my stem cells in the next three weeks. Following my hospitalization, the doctor recommends a recovery period of about thirty days. After that I plan to be back in my office at work.
On the MRI front, the test showed that my brain is fine – nothing unusual. Whew!
I am grateful for the good news of the day and especially for all of the support, prayers and encouragement from everyone. Thank you.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
The beginning step in the process is to complete a week of chemotherapy starting tomorrow.
I hope to complete this final phase of my treatment with the chemotherapy and re-introduction of my stem cells in the next three weeks. Following my hospitalization, the doctor recommends a recovery period of about thirty days. After that I plan to be back in my office at work.
On the MRI front, the test showed that my brain is fine – nothing unusual. Whew!
I am grateful for the good news of the day and especially for all of the support, prayers and encouragement from everyone. Thank you.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
One more test
Nothing about medical care runs on a well defined schedule. I was only to have a few tests last week and then, if all was good, proceed with the process of re-introducing my stem cells back to me. Apparently, one of those tests showed some odd activity in my brain, the left cerebellum to be exact.
Now, my sisters and a few close friends would not be surprised by the odd activity – it is probably just activity in the area of my brain from which my odd sense of humor emanates. Nonetheless, the doctor wanted me to have an MRI of my brain.
I went to the hospital here in Lincoln for the MRI. They took me into a cold room. What’s with these cold hospital rooms? They laid me down on a narrow, cold slide and gave me ear plugs. As one technician put a pillow under my knees and asked if I wanted a blanket, the other had me lay my head in a narrow cradle, stuffed towels on each side, strapped my head down and slid a cage type device over my head. Talk about confining and all of this is before they put me in the “tube”.
“Are you relaxed?” Oh sure. I closed my eyes and as the slide lifted me up and began to move me into the tube the technician held my arms to my side so I would fit inside. Once inside the tube she told me I could move my arms to a comfortable position. “Where exactly is that comfortable position?” I wondered. My shoulders are pressed against the sides of the tube. I don’t dare open my eyes because I am certain my nose is almost touching the top of the tube and I’d go cross-eyed. So I ever so gently folded my hands together just below my waist and waited.
Then it began. The whirling and clanging of the magnets or whatever is inside those MRI machines started up. I kept my eyes closed, tried to meditate. Once in awhile I got into the rhythm of the clanging – maybe the musical group “Stomp” could explore those rhythms?
Thirty minutes later the technician ejected me from the MRI machine and, you guessed it, injected a contrast dye into my veins. “Remember to drink lots of water when you get home,” he advised. I am still floating from the last series of tests! Then back into the tube for another eight minutes.
I don’t have the results of the brain scan. Hopefully, no news is good news at this point. I am visiting with my doctor in Omaha on Wednesday so I will find out the “skinny” on all the tests at that meeting.
Onward we go one step closer towards meeting my harvested stem cells. “Onward!” I say, “Onward!”
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Now, my sisters and a few close friends would not be surprised by the odd activity – it is probably just activity in the area of my brain from which my odd sense of humor emanates. Nonetheless, the doctor wanted me to have an MRI of my brain.
I went to the hospital here in Lincoln for the MRI. They took me into a cold room. What’s with these cold hospital rooms? They laid me down on a narrow, cold slide and gave me ear plugs. As one technician put a pillow under my knees and asked if I wanted a blanket, the other had me lay my head in a narrow cradle, stuffed towels on each side, strapped my head down and slid a cage type device over my head. Talk about confining and all of this is before they put me in the “tube”.
“Are you relaxed?” Oh sure. I closed my eyes and as the slide lifted me up and began to move me into the tube the technician held my arms to my side so I would fit inside. Once inside the tube she told me I could move my arms to a comfortable position. “Where exactly is that comfortable position?” I wondered. My shoulders are pressed against the sides of the tube. I don’t dare open my eyes because I am certain my nose is almost touching the top of the tube and I’d go cross-eyed. So I ever so gently folded my hands together just below my waist and waited.
Then it began. The whirling and clanging of the magnets or whatever is inside those MRI machines started up. I kept my eyes closed, tried to meditate. Once in awhile I got into the rhythm of the clanging – maybe the musical group “Stomp” could explore those rhythms?
Thirty minutes later the technician ejected me from the MRI machine and, you guessed it, injected a contrast dye into my veins. “Remember to drink lots of water when you get home,” he advised. I am still floating from the last series of tests! Then back into the tube for another eight minutes.
I don’t have the results of the brain scan. Hopefully, no news is good news at this point. I am visiting with my doctor in Omaha on Wednesday so I will find out the “skinny” on all the tests at that meeting.
Onward we go one step closer towards meeting my harvested stem cells. “Onward!” I say, “Onward!”
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
A few more tests and then….
It’s been a while since my last posting. I’ve been busy. Oh, you don’t believe a patient can be busy? Well, there are these tests that the medical types foist upon us patients and those tests take up a patient’s time. I am still doing a bit of work from home and let me say that tires me out too. Those afternoon naps are a precious piece of time!
I returned to the Medical Center last week for “re-staging.” I was revisiting the same tests that initially determined that my lymphoma was an aggressive cancer – stage 4. Hopefully, this time the results will show the cancer to be in remission.
Julie and I had a full day at the Medical Center starting at 7:00 a.m. and finishing up at 4:45 p.m. The tests included some of my favorite and some of the least desired diagnostics. I started with the ever popular PET scan. I was back in the room with the lead door. The technician brought in a lead box containing a syringe encapsulated in a lead casing. The syringe was filled with radioactive isotopes. When everyone else is wearing a lead apron and running from the room, maybe it’s time to ask, “What am I doing here laying on this cold metal surface?” “Courage patient, courage.”
From nuclear medicine it was on to radiology for a CT scan. There I was given two 12 ounce cups of bitter sweet Hawaiian Punch Cool-Aid. My drink was obviously, laced with something that only the powerful sweetness of Hawaiian Punch Cool-Aid could attempt to hide. If that drink wasn’t enough, the nurse shot me with a contrast solution in the middle of the CT scan with the comment, “This should make you feel warm all over. Oh, and it can be harmful to your kidneys so drink a lot of water today.”
Again, laying on a cold hard surface, the “warm all over” suggestion was quite welcome. However, the warning about kidney damage was another reason we patients have to have lots of courage to undergo these tests.
We hopped over to the Storz Pavilion – no they don’t serve Storz beer in this pavilion – for a quick sandwich. Then it was off to the heart clinic for an echocardiogram. It was there that I met the cutest patient of all. Her name was Madeline. She was seven months old and sported a hair style not unlike my own. What an engaging smile! Every waiting room needs a bright eyed infant to bring cheer to the day.
During my heart exam, I was slathered in KY gel with a small handheld device that I swore the technician was trying to embed in my chest wall. Of course, towards the end of the procedure, in comes a nurse with contrast solution and the fabled warning about my kidneys. Oh, gracious, enough already.
Once they got the goop off my torso we trotted off to the Patient Care Center for the awesome bone marrow biopsy. I had a very skilled team of physician assistants, a student PA and a technician from the lab. It was to my advantage to have such a team because one PA bore into my hip bone with a device that I swear was from the Spanish Inquisition while the other rubbed my shoulder and gave me reassurance that even if I whimpered what happened in that room would stay in that room. The student offered words of encouragement and the lab tech chuckled at a few of my lame jokes. They were all quite impressed with the amount of bone extracted from my backside and felt the pathologist would be very pleased. I just whimpered quietly.
With a bandage in place and an ice bag in tow, I staggered to the scheduled chest x-ray. Seriously, do all of these devices have to be so damn cold? I took off my shirt and pressed my bare chest up against the coldest metal box in Omaha. Then I had to turn, raise my arms and press my left side against the damn box again. Please!
I was a bit shell shocked but still standing when the day of tests came to an end. Julie took me to the Upstream Restaurant for some Gouda cheese soup – all was well.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
P.S. I drank lots of water all through dinner and the next three days. Is everybody happy now?
I returned to the Medical Center last week for “re-staging.” I was revisiting the same tests that initially determined that my lymphoma was an aggressive cancer – stage 4. Hopefully, this time the results will show the cancer to be in remission.
Julie and I had a full day at the Medical Center starting at 7:00 a.m. and finishing up at 4:45 p.m. The tests included some of my favorite and some of the least desired diagnostics. I started with the ever popular PET scan. I was back in the room with the lead door. The technician brought in a lead box containing a syringe encapsulated in a lead casing. The syringe was filled with radioactive isotopes. When everyone else is wearing a lead apron and running from the room, maybe it’s time to ask, “What am I doing here laying on this cold metal surface?” “Courage patient, courage.”
From nuclear medicine it was on to radiology for a CT scan. There I was given two 12 ounce cups of bitter sweet Hawaiian Punch Cool-Aid. My drink was obviously, laced with something that only the powerful sweetness of Hawaiian Punch Cool-Aid could attempt to hide. If that drink wasn’t enough, the nurse shot me with a contrast solution in the middle of the CT scan with the comment, “This should make you feel warm all over. Oh, and it can be harmful to your kidneys so drink a lot of water today.”
Again, laying on a cold hard surface, the “warm all over” suggestion was quite welcome. However, the warning about kidney damage was another reason we patients have to have lots of courage to undergo these tests.
We hopped over to the Storz Pavilion – no they don’t serve Storz beer in this pavilion – for a quick sandwich. Then it was off to the heart clinic for an echocardiogram. It was there that I met the cutest patient of all. Her name was Madeline. She was seven months old and sported a hair style not unlike my own. What an engaging smile! Every waiting room needs a bright eyed infant to bring cheer to the day.
During my heart exam, I was slathered in KY gel with a small handheld device that I swore the technician was trying to embed in my chest wall. Of course, towards the end of the procedure, in comes a nurse with contrast solution and the fabled warning about my kidneys. Oh, gracious, enough already.
Once they got the goop off my torso we trotted off to the Patient Care Center for the awesome bone marrow biopsy. I had a very skilled team of physician assistants, a student PA and a technician from the lab. It was to my advantage to have such a team because one PA bore into my hip bone with a device that I swear was from the Spanish Inquisition while the other rubbed my shoulder and gave me reassurance that even if I whimpered what happened in that room would stay in that room. The student offered words of encouragement and the lab tech chuckled at a few of my lame jokes. They were all quite impressed with the amount of bone extracted from my backside and felt the pathologist would be very pleased. I just whimpered quietly.
With a bandage in place and an ice bag in tow, I staggered to the scheduled chest x-ray. Seriously, do all of these devices have to be so damn cold? I took off my shirt and pressed my bare chest up against the coldest metal box in Omaha. Then I had to turn, raise my arms and press my left side against the damn box again. Please!
I was a bit shell shocked but still standing when the day of tests came to an end. Julie took me to the Upstream Restaurant for some Gouda cheese soup – all was well.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
P.S. I drank lots of water all through dinner and the next three days. Is everybody happy now?
Monday, January 18, 2010
The platelet factory is back in business
I was released from the hospital yesterday! Oral antibiotics for ten more days to treat the blood infection; I should be good.
My body struggled last week to produce a white blood cell or platelet. Unit after unit of platelets but my counts only budged a point or two. My white blood count was essentially zero. With no defense against infections, some bacteria had a party and sent me reeling last Wednesday.
Excellent, steady and persistent care from the nurses and doctors as well as more antibiotics, platelets and double the dose of drugs to stimulate the production of white blood cells finally charged up the bone marrow. I will also credit the chocolate cake I had for lunch on Friday with helping to boost me along.
Today’s blood counts were uber great! My white blood count is way over the top of the normal range. The platelets doubled on their own without even one unit from a donor.
My body struggled last week to produce a white blood cell or platelet. Unit after unit of platelets but my counts only budged a point or two. My white blood count was essentially zero. With no defense against infections, some bacteria had a party and sent me reeling last Wednesday.
Excellent, steady and persistent care from the nurses and doctors as well as more antibiotics, platelets and double the dose of drugs to stimulate the production of white blood cells finally charged up the bone marrow. I will also credit the chocolate cake I had for lunch on Friday with helping to boost me along.
Today’s blood counts were uber great! My white blood count is way over the top of the normal range. The platelets doubled on their own without even one unit from a donor.
Yeah, the platelet factory is back in business!!
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Thursday, January 14, 2010
Darn it!
I am back in the hospital. Darn it! I have a blood infection. The doctor has ordered IV antibiotics for the next ten days but I may not need to be in the hospital that long. As with every step of this journey, I will take each day as it comes and be grateful for all the gifts that have come my way.
Yesterday's gifts were in the form of brightly colored smocks as the nursing staff responded quickly and professionally to get me assessed. The doctor's response was equal to the task as he ordered the medications that helped my body respond to the infection
Of course, the time I spent with a rising temperature and chills was not pleasant. My temperature reached 105 degrees. Finally, the antibiotics and other medications kicked in and my fever decreased. I was shaking so much at one point I began to wonder if the hospital staff had intentionally lowered the room temperature and packed me in ice just to see if my teeth would come loose.
Julie spent the night and was a source of support and comfort to me. Or maybe she was planning to pick up the teeth as they fell out. Either way, not exactly a fun sleep-over. Julie is another gift for which I am thankful.
The fever came down; I received the needed platelets; and, my teeth are still in place.
Today, I am feeling fine, a bit wobbly, but OK. I plan to just lay back and let the medications wash over me cleansing the bacteria from my blood. Maybe I will have a cookie, too.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
Yesterday's gifts were in the form of brightly colored smocks as the nursing staff responded quickly and professionally to get me assessed. The doctor's response was equal to the task as he ordered the medications that helped my body respond to the infection
Of course, the time I spent with a rising temperature and chills was not pleasant. My temperature reached 105 degrees. Finally, the antibiotics and other medications kicked in and my fever decreased. I was shaking so much at one point I began to wonder if the hospital staff had intentionally lowered the room temperature and packed me in ice just to see if my teeth would come loose.
Julie spent the night and was a source of support and comfort to me. Or maybe she was planning to pick up the teeth as they fell out. Either way, not exactly a fun sleep-over. Julie is another gift for which I am thankful.
The fever came down; I received the needed platelets; and, my teeth are still in place.
Today, I am feeling fine, a bit wobbly, but OK. I plan to just lay back and let the medications wash over me cleansing the bacteria from my blood. Maybe I will have a cookie, too.
Grace and peace,
Tim.
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