“I knew that this
suffering…this desperate uncertainty were the unmistakable signs of the
blessing of being alive. The
‘other world’ had shown me that there was a spiritual payment for the privilege
to suffer. Suffering was not the
price of living, but a part of the gift of being alive. Not a big deal, but a part of the deal. I could see how the breath of life did
not come from people, but came into people from another place far away from
human knowledge, thus bestowing life as a gift, not as an inalienable
prerogative. This deliciousness,
this pain, the befuddlement, the mystery, and wonder, are generously handed to
us by a hungry Deity force who wants our full, uninsulated participation in
life as a down payment, beginning a lifelong series of ritual feeding into its
starved belly. Instinctively I
knew I’d been recruited to serve what had served me, and they would hold it over
my head until I came through for them as a reciprocation from me for my
improbable return to life.”
-from yesterday’s
reading in Secrets
of the Talking Jaguar by MartÃn
Prechtel
Dumbfounded perhaps is the best word I can use to describe
my feeling towards recent events.
How does a physical body function and survive when 95% of its blood is
populated with malignant, supposedly improperly functioning cells? Yes, for at least three days blood
tests showed a 95% blast count in my periphery blood. In addition, the overall cells in my bloodstream were 14
times higher than the maximum range for the amount of healthy circulating white
blood cells. This coagulation or
roadblock of cells had doctors worried about clotting and the potential for
stroke. My CBCs showed “critical”
numbers for my WBC, my absolute neutrophils, my hemoglobin and my platelet
counts. All of this was following
nearly a week at Angeles Hospital dealing with a heart rate between 90 and 110,
fevers and chills, and my body’s reaction to the port they placed for systemic
cancer treatments. A localized
infection developed, which they quickly got under control, which depleted me of
strength and again opened the doors for a leukemia outbreak. Under the suspicion of a developing
pneumonia in my lungs we opted to be transferred to San Diego for care. Two ambulance rides later I arrived at
the Scripps Chula Vista emergency room.
The scene late Saturday in the ER was both shocking and
terrifying. From the placid halls
of Angeles I had arrived on the set of a Zombie terror movie, except it was
real. I shit you not! On my elevated gurney I assessed the
sights and sounds as I attempted to curl deeper and deeper into the invisible
shell of my protective egg.
Folding chairs placed in the walkways awkwardly propped suffering
patients. It looked as if the
adhesive holding them up was giving way on a hot day. Every curtained off bed held a medicated vacant looking
specimen. Dreading an ongoing
wait, I was miraculously wheeled through the mess into a quarantined room. My ambulance medics had relayed the
circumstances of my compromised immunity and even they were surprised at how
rapidly I was moved. Hearing now
only the muffled hollering of a delusional and uncooperative man-ghost I was
quickly distracted by a young doctor and two nurses. I relayed the first of many tellings of my health history,
leukemia diagnosis and current circumstances, specifically the weakness,
light-headedness and shortness of breath.
Multiple labs and cultures were taken and I was left to wait attached to
the most precious of resources, oxygen.
Multiple medications, two units of blood and one allergic reaction later
I was transferred to the ICU. It was
2:30 in the morning.
For the next four days I was attached to a jumble of wires
and tubes transferring my vitals to screens and monitors. In return I received oxygen and an
array of IV juices, minus the antibiotic Cefepime, the apparent culprit of my
momentary ER panic resolved by Benadryl.
The oral contingency of meds included Hydroxyrea, a low dose
chemotherapy pill. My stay in the
ICU managed to somewhat balance out my critical blood values (other than my
neutrophil count), restore my lung capacity and oxygen intake, and calm my
marathon paced heart rate. My care
there was wonderful, especially by my main day and night nurses, both of which
shared tears with me and were apparently inspired by my story. My last day at Scripps was spent on the
oncology ward, a return to nightmarish hospital conditions. An all day wait for a unit of platelets
to send me home was a tedious end to the ordeal. Throughout, my radiant mother held me up with love and
support and an extra ray of light was shared by my past roomie and friend
Steven. He and his lovely
girlfriend Carrie visited, sanitized my room (both of them nurses), and brought
me scrumptious African food from Ocean Beach’s market and street fair. What a blessing.
Mom and I had booked plane tickets for the following
day. However, a consult with Dr.
Perez that afternoon swayed our decision.
I had $10,000 worth of cell therapy waiting in the freezer at Angeles
and circumstances were right to deliver them. After a night’s retreat with relatives Conrad and Judy (who
so graciously took care of mom while I was at Scripps) a shuttle carried us
back across the border. I was
reluctant to leave the most glorious morning I’d experienced in months and
disappointed not to be returning to the comforts of home. It was crystal clear though the options
in front of me… I now sit, three
Dendritic cell treatment later, awaiting the fourth, feeling as good as I have
in some time. Miraculously, my
blood work from Friday looks amazing.
Especially the crucial cells in my immune system, those little
neutrophils I’ve been studying for the past year. They measured in at 32% of my WBC, a percentage I haven’t
seen since before I needed all these damn blood tests. My head spins at this turn around. I have learned not to put too much
stock in the values from one CBC, but I’ll take it. And I will gratefully take in the fact that mom and I will
be home tomorrow. This return, so
long awaited and uncertain at times this past few weeks.
I certainly can’t say I’m coming home in better shape than I
left. My bowels are irritated and
inflamed, likely from the Hydroxyrea I continue to take in low doses. My right shoulder feels crippled from
muscle tension and possible nerve damage, another symptom from the port
fiasco. Muscle relaxants are the
only thing allowing me to sleep, put on and take off shirts, and eat with my
right hand. The evident bones and
veins protruding from my hands and feet illustrate the need for 30 or so pounds
of weight gain, as do my sunken eyes.
And I still can’t help but being perplexed. With so many opportunities to depart this body and drift to
the Great Beyond how do I continue to manage to return? As my dad said, I am one tough
(something-er-other). I know the
Walker genetics are a force to be reckoned with. My grandpa is 98 and sharp as a tack and my dad is strong as
an ox after plenty of adversity of his own. But in my mystical ways I wonder, I can’t help but
wonder. Am I here for a fully
“uninsulated participation in life…recruited to serve what has served me…a
reciprocation from me for my improbable return to life.”
