Part Two - Induction and the Long Wait

Chapter 4

Treatment began with activity once I was admitted.

There were tests, medications, explanations, machines, and people moving in and out of the room. Chemotherapy gave the days an obvious purpose. Something was being done to destroy the leukemia.

Then the visible work ended.

The chemotherapy had been delivered, but I could not go home. My blood counts had to fall, the damaged cells had to clear, and my bone marrow had to begin rebuilding. Much of the next stage involved waiting for processes I could neither see nor accelerate.

It was difficult to move from active treatment to active waiting.

When medication is flowing into your body, it feels as though the battle is underway. When the pump stops and the room becomes quiet, it can feel as though nothing is happening.

But healing does not always announce itself.

Sometimes the most important work occurs in silence, one cell at a time.

This little dinosaur somehow snuck into my bag. He got a place of honour on top of the Caboose. Photo Credit: Mine

The Dinosaur and the Caboose

Ever since my youngest left home more than ten years earlier, we had been sneaking a little plastic brontosaurus into each other’s homes, cars, bags, and luggage.

There was no formal ceremony.

No one announced that the dinosaur had moved.

The procedure was simple: conceal it somewhere the other person would eventually find it, leave without saying anything, and wait.

The dinosaur might appear in a cupboard, a suitcase, a vehicle, or a bag. Finding it was proof that someone had successfully infiltrated your space.

It was also an invitation to plan retaliation.

When I unpacked at the hospital, guess what fell out of one of my bags?

The dinosaur had apparently decided to join me.

Under ordinary circumstances, I would have started planning how to return it. This time, I was glad to have it nearby and in no hurry to send it anywhere.

The dinosaur did not change my diagnosis. It did not improve my blood counts, eliminate a side effect, or shorten the treatment. It did something else.

It connected the hospital room to home.

Hospitals are designed to support medical care, not personal identity. The rooms are functional.

The beds adjust in several directions. The equipment beeps. Everything can be cleaned, checked, measured, or replaced.

That is necessary.

But in such a setting, a small familiar object can become important. A photograph, card, cap, book, guitar, or plastic dinosaur can remind a patient that he existed before the diagnosis and may, with grace, continue to exist beyond it.

The dinosaur carried years of family history in a few inches of plastic.

Cancer did not have jurisdiction over every part of the room.

There was still space for silliness.

The Blood Factory

Before leukemia, I had not spent much time thinking about bone marrow. Like many parts of the body, it quietly performed its work without asking for recognition.

Then it stopped working properly.

Suddenly, the blood factory became the centre of nearly every conversation.

Was it producing the right cells?

Were leukemia blasts still present?

Had chemotherapy cleared the diseased cells?

When would healthy production begin again?

Blood was no longer one simple substance. It was a busy transportation, defence, maintenance, and repair system. Red blood cells carried oxygen. Platelets helped control bleeding. White blood cells, including neutrophils, fought infection.

Before treatment, these systems had worked without daily consultation.

Those numbers now determined where I could go, what I could do, how tired I felt, and how seriously the medical team responded to a fever, cut, or nosebleed.

I learned not to interpret the numbers without context.

A falling count could mean chemotherapy was working.

A low count could be expected and still dangerous.

A tiny increase could become excellent news.

I watched the doctors’ faces and listened to their tone. If they were satisfied with the results, I allowed myself to be satisfied too.

The Caboose

In practically every medical setting, there is a device on a pole with wheels on the bottom. Once connected, it goes everywhere with you.

I called mine the caboose.

It had been attached to me full-time since chemotherapy began. I pulled it behind me when I moved around the room or walked through the hallway.

The machine carried medications and fluids. It had tubing, bags, lights, alarms, and a determined preference for travelling wherever I travelled.

I learned how to account for the length of the tubing, how to turn without wrapping myself around it, and how to navigate wheels that did not always understand my preferred direction.

The caboose and I were not always in complete agreement.

On day seven, the continuous chemotherapy ended.

I appreciated what the machine was doing, but I looked forward to relegating it to part-time status. It would still be needed for hydration, medication, and transfusions, but the first phase was complete.

Chemotherapy was a strange ally.

It harmed my body and was intended to save my life.

Both descriptions were true.

The Gift in the Tubing

Blood products began entering my body while my marrow was suppressed.

Before cancer, I knew blood donation was important. I had not understood the direct relationship between a donor’s ordinary decision and a patient’s survival.

Then the gift became personal.

Someone had made an appointment, answered questions, sat in a chair, extended an arm, and given part of what circulated in their body to a person they would probably never meet.

They did not know that I liked birds, photography, guitars, smash burgers, and bad puns.

They did not know Leslie, my children, or the dinosaur.

They gave anyway.

My blood type also appeared to be offering instructions:

B-positive.

It was the sort of medical joke that had been waiting my entire life for the right moment.

I had no intention of wasting it.