Between the 24 hours of fluids and the two units of red blood cells I got Friday I feel…well…full. My face is puffy. My feet feel like over-blown balloons. I know you’re thinking, “Gosh, it might be fun to poke her.” Good thing for me, I think I’m finally deflating.
On Friday a check of my blood showed a mixed bag. My white cells had increased (yay! because I somehow caught a cold that needs fighting), but my platelets and hemoglobin were slumping even further. But those snazzy white blood cells – rising all by themselves by a whole point – lend us real hope that this unwelcome drop in my blood counts is really a result of the hemorrhagic cystitis, not a problem with my graft. That’s what we’re banking on, and we have no bone marrow biopsy scheduled.
In the meantime, I’m trying to keep above these de-energizing 7-point-something hemoglobin levels, above-70 dewpoints, and oh-yeah, I’m-tied-to-a-10-pound-sack-of-fluids days.
My main diversion has been my red set of four wheels. It doesn’t judge me for my ability to grow red eyebrows and red leg hair but still-inability to grow red head hair. It shields me from the germy public but cruises me through lots of public places, breezing through the cornfields, past the red barns and stopping at all historical markers. I can roll the windows all the way down with no care of blowing, snarling hair. And I’m learning how to sing at the top of my lungs to the radio again. It’s got to be the right song – Dixie Chicks always works, or a 90s Shania – but I’m finally warming to my old belt-it tendencies. For some reason I’ve chosen the long road, but I’m trying to find the song in it.
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