Chapter 14 - The Isolation Inn

After transplant, I moved to what I called the Isolation Inn.

It was actually a pleasant Hamilton hotel, but my name felt more accurate.

I needed to remain close to Juravinski while avoiding germs and viruses. My immune system had been intentionally suppressed and was only beginning the slow process of rebuilding.

An infection that would inconvenience a healthy person could become dangerous to me.

Isolation was not an overreaction.

It was part of treatment.

Protected and Separated

The precautions protected my body.

They also separated me from people.

I had spent the earlier stages of leukemia learning that healing comes in community. Now healing required physical distance from much of that community.

The community adapted.

People called, sent messages, and prayed. My adult children took time from their lives to share caretaker duties because I required someone with me around the clock.

Physical separation did not mean relational abandonment.

Love crossed distances that infection protocols could not.

Extreme Fatigue

This phase came with extreme fatigue.

Fortunately, fatigue gave me something to do while I waited.

I slept.

Then I slept after sleeping.

Then I rested because the sleeping had apparently been exhausting.

The body was doing difficult work beneath the surface. Conditioning had taken a toll. Donor cells were trying to establish themselves. Medication was managing the immune response.

Rest was not inactivity.

Rest was where much of the work occurred.

Fever and Readmission

Then I developed a fever.

The instructions were clear: call the cancer team.

With almost no functioning immune system, fever could not be treated casually.

I was readmitted and filled with antibiotics while cultures “baked” in the background. The team eventually identified low-level viral pneumonia.

The complication was unwelcome, but protocols existed.

The same system that had made transplant possible was prepared when recovery became complicated.

To keep things interesting, my big toe became painfully inflamed. I was prescribed hydromorphone.

If there were spelling mistakes in anything I wrote during that period, I had a valid reason.

Hair Loss, Again

My hair had started returning before transplant.

Then it fell out again.

I sent pictures of Gollum and a Chinese crested hairless dog to the men who had walked with me as my Mountain Crew.

“Now that my hair is falling out again,” I wrote, “I could join this club.”

One friend sent back an altered image in which I wore Aragorn’s clothes and had long, flowing hair.

It was meant to portray me as a warrior.

It was funny.

The likelihood of my defeating Aragorn in combat remained slim to none.

I only wished he had included a sword.

Day Twenty-One

By day twenty-one, the donor cells had grafted and were producing blood.

The new blood factory was working.

The cells had not merely entered my body.

They had taken root.

This did not mean the danger had passed. My immune system remained immature, and complications could still occur.

But engraftment was a major milestone.

At this stage, I needed tenacity more than inspiration.

Take the medication.

Check the temperature.

Attend the appointment.

Report the symptom.

Rest.

Eat.

Wait.

Repeat.

Tenacity did not require me to feel heroic.

It required me to remain engaged with the process.