Down in It

Pretty much that.

It's day nine in the hospital, day +1 from my transplant, and I feel mealy prickles all over. In my mouth, in my stomach, I hear them in my ears, I taste them on my tongue, they spread through my feet and hands and over my skin.

Nothing is appetizing. Nothing sounds good. I want to sleep but am afraid to nap for fear of being up all night. I want to watch something, listen to something, read something, but I don't have the energy or focus for it. Even writing this post is taking what feels like superhuman effort. I want to hear from people, but I don't want to talk back. I want someone to make me feel better, but that's a fairy tale. Well, mostly. My wife and daughter are on their way up right now, and I know that will help.

I want to be brave and strong. I'm not. I'm weak and shivering and frightened.

Something like that.

My counts are dropping, which is normal. The feelings I'm experiencing are all within the range of what's to be expected when you nuke a body with high levels of chemotherapy and then try to resuscitate it. I know that. It doesn't make it any better.

I'm the A+ patient, y'all. I'm doing all the things I'm supposed to be doing. I'm exercising, showering, forcing myself to eat. I'm polite and even kind (I hope) to the myriad incredible healthcare professionals orbiting my room, satellites to my dying planet.

Seriously, I better.

As always, it's the specificity of the thing that's the most trying. I knew it was going to suck going into this. I made the choice to do this. I did. No one else. I just didn't know exactly how it was going to suck. Now I'm starting to get an idea.

I was texting a dear friend about this earlier. In many ways, this process feels passive. They come in and give me poison, and then drugs to alleviate some of the worst parts of the poison, and then my stem cells to start to regrow my bone marrow. They bring me my towels and antibacterials wipes and food and water and they come and take my vitals and listen to my lungs and look in my mouth and check my bowel movements and urine output and calorie intake and stick syringes into my belly and

It's a lot.

It's all for my good. I know it is. And to say that it's passive is to refuse to recognize that I got up today and exercised even though I really didn't want to. That I showered. That I ate. That I brushed my teeth and rinsed out my mouth with saline and didn't just lie down in despair.

I really wanted to.

Oblivion called to me. Blissful sleep. Unknowing slumber.

Instead I stayed awake.

That's not passive.

Right?

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Up next, we explore the fascinating and frenetic biome that we call the hospital.

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