The Vampire

 Get Goodbye Keanu

On March 28^th I got a call from a transplant nurse. Little did she know she had just interrupted a primal scream which included the words: Why me? She was so nice on the phone I immediately flushed with embarrassment. The result of my bone marrow biopsy was good. My bone marrow had been 90% full of plasma cells in December. It needed to be less than 20% to have the transplant. The chemotherapy had reduced it to 4%. She said she would email me a schedule of pre-transplant hospital visits and tests. I felt as if I was on an express train to the haematology wing. I went on the treadmill to get rid of the excess nerves. As each foot hit the conveyor belt I repeated:

      “You’re going to be alright.”

Meanwhile the butterflies in my stomach felt like they had wings the size of an eagle’s.

      The “peripheral blood stem cell collection schedule” came via email. It was horrendous to look at. First there were blood tests, high dose chemotherapy then a vein assessment at NZ blood service in Epsom. They would determine if the veins in my arms could support the transfer of blood for the stem cell collection or if I would have to have a central line put in my neck. Four days after the assessment I would start GCSF injections…at home.         

      “What?”

No one had mentioned this. Did I have to give myself shots? I couldn’t even look when a fake needle was pressed against an actor’s arm in a TV medical show. How was I supposed to do this?

      Five days after the shots I would go through the stem cell collection. The transplant would be about 6-8 weeks after collection.

      I could not fight the butterflies. So I went back to Dr Internet to look up relaxation therapies. The main one was to talk through your muscle groups and deep breathe. You imagined the heaviness of each part of your body then let it go limp into the bed. Feet, legs, buttocks, hands, arms, you had to imagine each one weighing a ton so you couldn’t lift it. It was helpful but it was impossible to stop my heart beating so fast.

      One night I fell asleep picturing the Auckland doctor. I was angry because she made me feel hopeless. Two things she said ran through my mind. First, that the medical community had been “too positive” with me, and second that “even the allogeneic patients get their disease back”.  I woke with a start, thinking: 

      “You know what bitch? I’m going to prove you wrong. People survive this, maybe not many, but they do, and telling me not to be positive is really shitty.”

      April 24^th was D-day in my mind. It was the first appointment on my peripheral blood stem cell collection schedule. Although it was only a blood test it signified the first stop on the bumpy road that led to the transplant. Usually the bloodletting at the local lab wasn’t too bad. The technician would point you towards one of about five little rooms, each set out the same. There was a plastic chair with sturdy arms and a small desk with a shelf above containing tubes, plasters and cotton pads. A metal cart carried a pillow and a plastic bowl for putting test tubes in. Once you were seated, they put the pillow under your arm, strapped your upper arm tight with a tourniquet and tapped the inside of your elbow to find a good spot to get into the vein. There would be a slight sting when the needle went in, then usually not much pain. In a moment the tubes, sometimes one, sometimes up to four, were filled with my blood. But on this day the vampire who pierced my arm felt like she was out for revenge. When she stabbed me it hurt like hell. I felt like she was piercing my arm with a screwdriver rather than a thin needle. As a result my body defended itself, my vein shrunk away and the blood came out as slow as syrup.

      “You’re running out,” the vampire said with an evil laugh.

I was shocked. Was it possible to actually run out of blood? I returned her evil laugh with a nervous chuckle.

      “Maybe you’re dehydrated. It’s a hot day.”

We both looked toward the open window. It was New Zealand. It never got that hot. I hadn’t broken a sweat all day. Unsatisfied, she took the needle out, put a plaster over the gaping hole on my arm and inspected my left arm. Deciding there were no good veins there either, she turned her attention back to my right arm.

      “Darn.”

      Someone with a needle hovering over you saying anything like “darn” is not a good thing. She decided the first needle was somehow faulty, got a new one and stabbed at my right arm again.  I cowered in pain. I made a mental note to never come to this lab on Thursday afternoons again. You think practice would make perfect. I wanted to suggest she go home and puncture her husband or at least stab an orange with a syringe a few times until she got the hang of it. I ran out of there like a wounded rabbit. I hoped it wasn’t a sign of things to come.