The past two weeks have been a blur. I went on a weekend trip with my sister and two childhood friends, played bridge with a new group of people, went to the doctor and got great news, babysat all four of my grandsons, went to dinner with my husband, and worked in my garden.
I wrote every day, but nothing was print-worthy.
Looking back, I have to laugh because my life is becoming more like the dreams I had while lying in my hospital bed.
I live a quiet, undramatic life where things move along. Nothing is urgent. Everything is calm.
Last week was the final day of a workshop I participated in called Writing For Healing. It was led by the author Heather Harpham and was for people who’ve experienced stem cell transplants. She was the perfect leader for this group not only because she teaches writing but also because her child had a transplant several years ago. Heather wrote about the experience in her book Happiness: A Memoir: The Crooked Little Road to the Semi-Ever-After.
Heather offered us prompts and guidance during the six-week class to explore our feelings about the transplant experiences. The following is from a prompt about something that comforted me.
Comfort
The day of my stem cell transplant wasn’t exactly what I anticipated. I took my morning shower and dressed in a clean hospital gown. I rubbed lotion into my dry skin. I drank Ensure Clear because I wasn’t hungry. I called in my lunch order even though I knew I probably wouldn’t eat it.
Except for the cake. Everyone needs cake on their birthday.
On the outside, I appeared calm. My husband arrived with a concerned look on his face. I reassured him everything would be fine as I hugged him and patted his back.
Meanwhile, the turmoil inside of me burned.
Then, my room began to fill with people. The nurse in charge of me that day was Dianne. She told me this was going to be her first transplant, and she was the lead nurse. Her mentor, Virginia, said, “Don’t worry; she’s more than ready, and I’ll be here every step of the way.”
Another three people arrived. One was pushing a dolly with a canister resembling the character R2D2 from Star Wars. The other two were pushing what looked like an incubator. “That’s the cell warming machine,” one of them said.
When the doctor arrived, he brought with him two more people: a physician’s assistant and a student nurse named Chelsea. “This is the first transplant I’ve ever observed,” she told me.
They opened R2D2, and a plume of dry ice vapor was released. They pulled the first bag out. Soon, the machine was whirring as it warmed the cells.
The whole time I watched these activities, I felt like I was in a dream. Everyone clapped when they hooked up the first bag to my IV pump. I said a little prayer for my son’s cells as they entered my bloodstream.
As they hung the second bag of cells, everyone started to scurry around. Someone put the blinds down, another put the safety rails up on both sides of my bed, and others started to clear a path to the door.
“We’ve just had a tornado warning,” the doctor said. “We have to get you ready in case we need to move to the hallway.”
“I can’t go out there,” I said. “I don’t want to endanger the other patients.”
I’d been living in isolation since I arrived at the hospital. Pre-transplant tests showed I was positive for Rhinovirus. I was told to never leave my room.
Now, the turmoil inside of me turned furious. It was like the tornado was in my body.
Yet, on the outside, I still appeared calm and joked with the others in attendance.
“I’m a retired teacher. Tornado drills don’t scare me.”
As quickly as my room had filled up, it emptied. Soon, it was just me, Joe, and Dianne.
“Let’s get you into your chair so I can change the bed,” she said.
As she helped me sit up, I started shaking. It wasn’t just a tremble but a vibration in all my muscles.
“It’s got to be adrenaline,” I said. I’d had responses like this after giving birth to my children and after a car accident.
Dianne took my vitals and my blood pressure was quite high, I don’t remember the numbers. I closed my eyes and tried to take deep breaths. But the shaking was unrelenting.
Dianne made a call. Another nurse arrived at the door and handed her something. She walked over to me and opened a small packet.
“It’s lavender,” she said. “See if this helps.”
I brought the package to my nose and inhaled deeply. The effect was magical.
I felt instantly calm, and my body stopped shaking. I leaned back and closed my eyes. In my mind, I was in my son’s backyard, smelling the lavender in the garden. I could almost hear my grandson laughing as he played.
When I opened my eyes again, Joe and Dianne stared at me. “You okay?” Joe asked as he squeezed my hand.
I nodded and said, “Can I have my cake now?”
A great little essay, Karen. Made me want to dig out my journals from my ovarian cancer days. I’m happy for you!
I need to remember this.