Yesterday was the one year anniversary of my admission to the hospital and the last day I had a real cigarette (I use e-cigs now). I had been sick and failing all year with extreme fatigue and an itch so severe and persistent that I had bleeding sores all over. The dermatologist that I was referred to prescribed ointment and UV light treatments 3 times a week. She told me to stop scratching (hahahaha, but not joking when you have a serious itch all over). She never did a biopsy, a fact that the doctors who took care of me in the hospital couldn’t understand.
On the 14th of December last year I had completed a light box treatment and was getting dressed when I slid off the chair and couldn’t get myself up. I yelled for help and when the nurses arrived, the look of horror on their faces was profound. It was the first time they had really SEEN me and recognized that I was really sick.
They phoned my primary doctor and insisted I be seen the next day at the latest. He, too, had that look on his face as I was brought in by wheelchair. He ordered some labs drawn and that night called me to tell me I was being admitted to the hospital.
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I remember arriving at the hospital, being placed into a wheelchair and being conveyed to an inpatient unit. I remember seeing a bunch of doctors in front of a door and thinking that the person inside that room must be really sick for such a collection to be gathered at night. I was wheeled into that room. I was undressed and put into a hospital gown within seconds. All I remember for the next week of stupor were the hands of people examining me, doing things, giving me meds, drawing labs, and taking me from place to place for tests.
Then a face inches from mine. “Dr. Pierce — Oncology. We know what’s wrong with you. You have Hodgkins Lymphoma and I’ve just given you your first chemotherapy”.
Over the next week, I slowly came out of my stupor to discover that I had an enormous calcium level, kidney failure, heart failure and lab tests that were above the level that machines read. I was also severely anemic despite several transfusions and my allergic asthma needed nebulizer treatments. This, at least, improved when I told them to stop using bleach around me. Numerous specialists came every day.
After more than 2 weeks in the hospital, I was allowed to go home — they couldn’t stand me begging to go home anymore. I’d have a visiting nurse to check on me a care for my PICC (IV) lines 3 times a week.
My convalescence continues. Chemo for 6 months, visits and tests with Oncology and for my continuing heart failure which was made worse by the chemo (it’s toxic to heart muscle), and physical therapy which continues today to get me back on my feet. It’s been slow.
I grumble about how long it’s taking, my difficulties with physical tasks, my rapid exhaustion, my inability to contribute anything other than phone calls and emails to the resistance efforts, and recognizing that I may never get to 100%.
But yesterday, I remembered that it’s been a year. Compared to a year ago, I’m doing great. I remembered how sick I was in 2016 and getting worse every day. Despite the fact that I’m in remission, I wasn’t seeing the progress I expected. I see it now, but want more.
Maybe that’s why we celebrate anniversaries. They remind us good or bad of where we were and where we are now.
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TOP COMMENTS from December 16, 2017
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This diary-worthy comment from maninthemiddle from WaPo’s Scott gets it Wrong re: Evangelicals by Mark A C.
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TOP MOJO from December 15, 2017
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TOP PHOTOS from December 15, 2017
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