Day 169, Sunday, July 14th, 2013
Same old, same old. This is, of course, continued excellence in news form. I've had a couple of days where I was more or less asleep from the time that my morning meds kicked in until about suppertime, but in the interests of full and complete disclosure, so does every other cancer patient, and I've partaken in far less than what might be considered the typical share of such things (though, as it stands, about two hours after I take my tacrolimus, my hands start to get shaky enough that if any of you are interested in Jell-o pudding, have your people call Bill Cosby's people to set something up, and I'll start casually oscillating containers while I watch TV).
This business with the orally induced Parkinson's is cutting into my daily mobility somewhat (okay, actually somelot) but I'll still gladly take my miniscule side-effect profile and come out smiling; others don't have it so lightly.
I've been getting a lot of questions about when exactly I'm coming home, and when I'll be allowed to go be my normal, sociable, self, so, to that end: Day 100, post-transplant, which is the end of my observation period, is August 17th. On or about that day, I'll get my Hickman line taken out, which is a five minute procedure, followed by half an hour with a sandbag on my chest to accelerate clotting and healing-type things. I'll get discharged from the SCCA around then, and then I pack up my accoutrements, and off we go. Ash'll have gone home a little earlier for work reasons, so Mom and Dad are driving down. We're going to carpool back to Canada, which means that I can bring an assortment of local ciders and wines back with me, and then not drink them until November.
Why November? Well, that's when I should finally be done with the immune-suppressants, after a prolonged period in which the dose is slowly tapered. It's bad to go cold-turkey on these things. The immune system tends to treat that as a violation of its sovereignty and responds with bigotry and xenophobia against the body. Bigots aren't smart.
I've actually been advised that I could probably handle a glass of wine with supper without compromising my position, and maybe I will, if I'm sitting down to a particularly succulent cross-section of bovine muscle tissue, but it makes a lot more sense to play by the rules for a few more months; it certainly won't be the first time I've been medically unable to drink, though, hopefully, it's the last long term indictment of my vices by the establishment for the forseeable future.
I'll be coming out and seeing people as soon as I get back, but I'll be avoiding crowded establishments, which means no pubs during peak hours, no live musical events, etc., though I will be able to come to outdoor events, using my best judgment, of course. In what will complicate social activity massively, I'm not allowed to interact with pets until I get vaccinated next May. This means that I can't come over to pet-houses unless the pets are sequestered and things are vacuumed, so we're either going to neutral territory, or I am the excuse you need to clean up the cat hair, whichever you'd prefer.
This business with the orally induced Parkinson's is cutting into my daily mobility somewhat (okay, actually somelot) but I'll still gladly take my miniscule side-effect profile and come out smiling; others don't have it so lightly.
I've been getting a lot of questions about when exactly I'm coming home, and when I'll be allowed to go be my normal, sociable, self, so, to that end: Day 100, post-transplant, which is the end of my observation period, is August 17th. On or about that day, I'll get my Hickman line taken out, which is a five minute procedure, followed by half an hour with a sandbag on my chest to accelerate clotting and healing-type things. I'll get discharged from the SCCA around then, and then I pack up my accoutrements, and off we go. Ash'll have gone home a little earlier for work reasons, so Mom and Dad are driving down. We're going to carpool back to Canada, which means that I can bring an assortment of local ciders and wines back with me, and then not drink them until November.
Why November? Well, that's when I should finally be done with the immune-suppressants, after a prolonged period in which the dose is slowly tapered. It's bad to go cold-turkey on these things. The immune system tends to treat that as a violation of its sovereignty and responds with bigotry and xenophobia against the body. Bigots aren't smart.
I've actually been advised that I could probably handle a glass of wine with supper without compromising my position, and maybe I will, if I'm sitting down to a particularly succulent cross-section of bovine muscle tissue, but it makes a lot more sense to play by the rules for a few more months; it certainly won't be the first time I've been medically unable to drink, though, hopefully, it's the last long term indictment of my vices by the establishment for the forseeable future.
I'll be coming out and seeing people as soon as I get back, but I'll be avoiding crowded establishments, which means no pubs during peak hours, no live musical events, etc., though I will be able to come to outdoor events, using my best judgment, of course. In what will complicate social activity massively, I'm not allowed to interact with pets until I get vaccinated next May. This means that I can't come over to pet-houses unless the pets are sequestered and things are vacuumed, so we're either going to neutral territory, or I am the excuse you need to clean up the cat hair, whichever you'd prefer.
I'm looking forward to smallish gatherings, off-busy meals, and activities. I'm starting climbing again, going biking like mad, and loads and loads of Wushu, just as soon as Wushu won't kill me with calisthenics. I think I need to get in shape before I can go back to Wushu to get in to shape. Maybe I'll start off with a little yoga.
A man is standing on a street corner, waiting for the light to change, when a blind man with a service dog walks up beside him, stops, takes firm hold of the dog's collar, and begins swinging the dog around his head. Understandably caught off guard, the fellow yells at the blind man, "What the hell do you think you're doing!?"
Calmly, the blind man replies, "Oh, just looking around."
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