Reality Check

Perhaps I was due for a reality check. All the running, yoga and weight training I’ve been doing, not to mention regular life chasing around two young kids, had lulled me into the false belief that I am now just a normal person. Good as new. My blood work has been so perfect lately that the doctor said you would never know that I had a transplant. So it wasn’t until my fourth day of vomiting that it even occurred to me to call the BMT clinic.

I left the nurse a message that went something like this: “I’m not sure if I still need to call you about these things, but I’m just letting you know that I’ve had a really bad gastro infection for the last few days.”

She called me back, saying: “Yes, you still need to call us about these things!”

Oh. OK. A normal person I am not.

In fact, they were so concerned about my weight loss and inability to eat that they brought me into the hospital clinic, warning me that I might be admitted if my condition did not improve. Admitted? Were they serious? Who gets hospitalized from a run-of-the-mill gastrointestinal infection?

People with compromised immune systems, that’s who. People like me.

“If your electrolytes aren’t good tomorrow, we’re admitting you,” the nurse told me on the phone. So I had exactly twenty-four hours to whip my depleted electrolytes into shape. I stopped at the store to buy some Gatorade, only to realize that orange juice is a way better source of potassium, and without the artificial colours and processed sugars. So I spent an entire afternoon and evening consuming quantities of orange juice, potatoes and bananas only suitable for an elite marathon runner before the Olympics. It wasn’t until the next morning that a friend pointed out to me that I could have just bought potassium pills. Oh. Well, darn. A week of not eating certainly diminished my thinking capacity.

Thankfully, by the time I saw the doctor my condition had improved and they did not admit me. But the whole episode was an unwelcome reminder that I am not as normal as I’d like to think. It’s pretty safe to say that all of my friends and family have been treating me like a regular person, which is how I like it (I’d rather not be treated like a sick person). And besides, how else do you treat someone who regularly runs fifteen kilometres at a time? I clearly don't need help carrying the groceries. But the truth is, I am only nine months out from my transplant. And I am acutely, painfully aware that only half of all stem cell/bone marrow transplant recipients survive five years past their transplant. Only then will doctors use the word "cured." I’ve got a long way to go.

So I may seem good as new, but I’m really not. My entire immune system died and was replaced by someone else’s. Besides being traumatized by near death and all the invasive tests and treatments, I now have to live with permanent side effects. When I asked my doctor if I needed iron supplements to bring my hemoglobin up, she smiled at me and said: “Those are someone else’s red blood cells trying to live in your body. Nothing but time can bring them up.” I will always be more susceptible to disease and fatigue. I have chronic insomnia. I cannot focus. I am more prone to cavities and bone loss. (In fact, my dentist just told me today that I should use prescription toothpaste. Who knew such a thing even existed?) My ovaries will never work again and, as a result, I have to be on hormone replacement therapy for the rest of my life. This, along with all the chemo and radiation, puts me at greater risk for secondary cancers. In short, I am damaged goods.

But you can’t feel like that on a regular basis because if you do, your body will start to believe it. And if your body believes that it’s damaged, it might just give up on you. There's a Chinese proverb that says: he who imagines bad things happening, experiences them twice. We can't foresee the future, so there is no reason to expect the worst. Now I don't mean I'm going to start spouting Pollyanna platitudes. And I'm still scared of a relapse. But studies show that patients with the most positive expectations have the best health outcomes. So I have to believe that I will heal, that I will make it, that these setbacks are temporary and that one day I will feel like myself again.

Of course, right after I recovered from the gastro nightmare, I woke up with a vicious head cold. On some days I certainly feel more damaged than others. And on those days I make friends with the clerk at our wine store.

Bottoms up.