March 3, 2006
March 1, Ash Wednesday, marked the 75th day anniversary of sitting at the table and feeling the great unease and depression as I was sending out Christmas cards. It was the beginning of my new life. This is both a long time and a short one, depending on the measure. . . not quite the “90 days in jail” which used to be the norm for punishing all kinds of misadventures in the days of my youth in Iowa, but far too long for a visit by even the most beloved relative.
The blood draw yesterday again indicated that the disease remains active. It has taken a while for me not to regard this weekly check as sort of a test, where surely, improvement would be shown. It is the teacher brain, I think. . . try hard, do your best, and you will do better next time. Harder even than the reality of no immune system is the life of the low hemoglobin count, where the absence of red blood cells to haul oxygen around means that one is always, always weary.
Yesterday an appointment was set up at the Med Center in Omaha where an acknowledged leader in MDS treatment practices. It is quite fine to be so near such a center, and we will begin next week on this part of the adventure. The nurse calling me asked me if I had any siblings should the possibility of a bone marrow transplant arise, and I said yes, two, one has disabling rheumatoid arthritis, and the other appears to enjoy good health. She said, “How old is the healthy one?” “He is seventy” I replied, and mentally added “happily living his life and minding his own business unaware of the future’s possibilities.”
Early this week when I took the morning’s first look in the mirror I determined to get a hair cut no matter what the consequences. The hair had long since grown past its original design and started each day dispirited and dreary, flopping about without knowing quite where to lay. I had tried parting it, wetting it down and putting gel in it. The end result would be that the next time I saw it, it would have gotten into the most astonishing configurations, none of which left a positive impression. Some time before, I had called the woman who cuts my hair and explained that I would like to come into the shop before the regular day in order to avoid possible sneezes and such, and she promptly came down with the flu, canceling the possibility. This time all went well, and the improvement to my appearance is positively uplifting. Charles, who routinely has his head very nearly snipped clean of all hair said, tongue in cheek, “Now you know how I feel when I get my hair cut”. Hah. It is amazing how the taken-for-granted parts of one’s former life can become so grand!