One Red Blood Cell at a Time….

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As those of you who follow me on Facebook already know, one of my boys has not been feeling well. We brought Wallace to the veterinarian’s office on Tuesday, February 13th. He had some bloodwork done at that time, but the vet asked to keep him for two nights for observation. Wally had, after all, lost 5 pounds since his last visit. More concerning, however was the fact that he was anemic.

Those of you who are fur mamas can probably imagine how poorly I took this news. My thoughts leapt to the absolute darkest outcomes. If it weren’t for Seth, I wouldn’t have been able to rein my anxiety in.

He advised, “Hope for the best, but expect the worst”.

I know. Such a mantra isn’t exactly a hopeful, sunshiny, double-rainbow motto, but it was calming. It was logical. It was exactly what I needed to hear. I think—and I can’t say this with any degree of certainty—that this is the mantra that he used repeatedly throughout my cancer treatment and bone marrow transplant.

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Fast forward to Thursday, February 15th. The vet called asking permission to run some x-rays. Specifically, he was looking for masses (yes, cancer masses). He also wanted to run a thyroid test.

On Friday, February16th, we were told that there were no masses found and that Wallace’s thyroid test came back normal. But, Wallace’s stay at the veterinarian’s office wasn’t—and isn’t–quite over. He apparently has an autoimmune disease that is destroying his red blood cells. It’s most likely based in his bone marrow. Usually, cats who develop this disease, recover quickly once steroids and antibiotics are introduced to their systems. This is not the case with Wallace. He is eating better, he is interactive, bright-eyed, but his red blood cell counts continue to decline.

I feel that there is some irony in the fact that my fur baby has some sort of autoimmune disease that affects his blood. So much of his illness reminds me of my own cancer experience…with the exception that I could have blood transfusions when my red cell counts were low.

Thankfully, my veterinarian is invested in Wallace’s well-being. He wants to do everything he can to give Wallace a chance to respond to the treatment. There is still a chance that if the vet can reverse the loss of red blood cells within the next few days, Wallace will be okay.

It’s only a chance, but it’s something. I keep repeating to myself, “Hope for the best, but expect the worst”. I know he’s a mortal creature, and has to die at some point, but my heart is going to completely shatter if I lose this cat anytime soon.

Please, please keep Wallace in your thoughts.

I go to Burlington, VT on February 22 and 23 for some precautionary MRI’s. I’ll also be having some bloodwork done. It’s really just a standard checkup, but as most survivors will tell you, even simple checkups can ignite all-too familiar fears. The usual nightmares preceding visits like these have already begun.

Please, Dear Readers, continue to send light and love our way. You give us hope to persevere. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

 

With Love,

Laura

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Mile Marker 44.8

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I have forgotten names, events, the order of things. I don’t believe, however, that I will ever forget this number: 44.8.

It started on Sunday morning, around 10:30am, when Seth woke up. He admitted to having left-sided chest pain. He admitted to having had it for three days. I’m not sure how I did it (because as much as I love him, he is a stubborn, stubborn man), but I made him go the Emergency Room to be checked out. He didn’t want me to go with him, because of my lack of an immune system, so I called his best friend. Thankfully, he was able to accompany Seth to the hospital.

Seth returned home by three. The ER doctors had checked his heart and he appeared to be okay. They gave him their blessing to drive me to Boston for a transplant check-up. The appointment was scheduled for Monday afternoon, but we had booked a hotel in case the weather proved to be cruddy.

We made it to the rest stop in Williston, Vermont. Seth was tired and wanted to take a quick 10-minute nap. He fell asleep immediately.

We crossed the state line into New Hampshire, and stopped once again at a rest stop. This time, Seth needed to walk around.

I noticed that he kept checking his pulse.

We pulled out of the rest stop. Within minutes, Seth began to panic. He pulled the car over, gasping, and saying that he couldn’t breathe, that he felt like he was going to pass out. He told me to call 9-1-1. So, I did.

The dispatcher was calm and reassuring. He asked me where we were; I told him we were parked next to mile marker 44.8 on US-89 South.

The fire department and the EMTs that came to rescue us were wonderful. They took Seth in an ambulance to Dartmouth-Hitchcock Medical Center (DHMC). Due to my seizure history, I am not allowed to drive. One of the EMTs was kind enough to drive me, in our car, to the hospital.

“It’s the hospital in the woods,” he said, turning down one of Dartmouth-Hitchcock’s tree-lined driveways.

Seth was admitted overnight so that his breathing and heart could be monitored. He told me to find a hotel, because, once again, someone with zero immunity should probably not spend the night in an ER waiting room. I found a hotel (that thankfully had a free shuttle service since I couldn’t find a taxi or an Uber). The shuttle took me to the hotel, where I was given the medical rate and a king-sized bed. I promptly piled the extra pillows on my right-hand side, where Seth would usually have slept.

I, a cancer survivor, have never been so scared in my life.

What if it really was his heart? What if he didn’t make it? These were the questions that haunted me. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, to be filling the chair beside the bed, instead of the bed itself. I am so accustomed to being the patient, the sick one, that I didn’t know what to do. I also realized that, as close as Seth and I are, I know very little about his family’s medical history or even his own. I also couldn’t name a single medication that he was on, other than Protonix. What kind of fiancée was I?

The next morning, the shuttle brought me back to the hospital. I found Seth in a small unit connected to the ER. To pass the time until his scheduled stress test, we watched television in his room. Seth was taken away for the stress test at 8:30am.

He aced it.

Seth’s heart, fortunately, is just fine. Neither of us could drive, though, so my father and brother came to pick us up. My brother drove us and our car home. We somehow managed to pass our father twice on the highway, even though he had left the hospital first. We flashed a notebook at him, with the word, “Ferry” scribbled in it. Our father doesn’t have a cellphone—and someone needed to drive my brother home after he delivered Seth and I to our front door—so this was the best mode of communication we had:

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Our father received the message, boarding the ferry soon after us.

Although Seth’s heart is in working order, he is being treated for pneumonia. How does living with a sick person work when you’re immunosuppressed? You wear a mask and wash your hands like it’s your job. Lysol wipes and spray are useful, too. I am dying to hug Seth, but it’ll have to wait until he’s healthy again.

I am going to marry this man, after he provides me with a detailed med list.

Thank you, Dear Readers, for your prayers. I hope you know that your kindness, love, and positive thoughts helped us through this harrowing experience.

 

With Love,

Laura