Blood transfusion
Another 2 a.m. foray last night (Sunday, May 8, 2011) to rescue my wife from Thompson Hospital’s Emergency-Room for discharge.
My wife has cancer, but supposedly it’s not fatal.
It’s treatable.
Actually, she has two cancers: -a) Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, and -b) metastatic breast-cancer.
The Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma appeared about three years ago as a hard tumor in her abdomen.
That was poofed with chemotherapy.
The metastatic breast-cancer did not have a primary site; it never appeared in her breasts.
It was first noticed in her bones, where breast-cancer metastasizes.
We knocked that back with Femara®, the trade-name for Letrozole.
Femara is an estrogen inhibitor. Her breast-cancer was estrogen-positive.
Her breast-cancer just about disappeared.
What we’re getting now is anemia, low red blood-cell count coupled with complete fag-out.
The counter for that is blood transfusions; she received two units.
Not the first time.
About three weeks ago the same thing happened, and I took her to Thompson’s Emergency-Room.
That was our own doing.
Thompson did a blood-test and gave her two units of blood transfusion.
This time it was our family doctor, who had done a blood-test for infection, and found her red blood-cell count low.
“No wonder I’m draggin’ so much,” she commented.
“Well, for now, at least I’m all right,” I said, as we drove home in the gloom, looking for deer in the high-beams.
It wasn’t that way 17 years ago, after I had my stroke.
When I looked like she does now, like I’d been hit by a Peterbilt.
She hadn’t been discharged yet, so my wife was hooked up to 89 bazilyun beeping monitors, an utterly wasted waif, swollen legs under Auschwitz-survivor torso and arms.
She also lost most of her hair with the last chemo, over a month ago.
Some has grown back; longish peach-fuzz.
We’re not young; we’re both 67.
I look awful, but I work out at the Canandaigua YMCA.
“Keep the old ticker goin’,” I say.
I guess I’m in fairly good shape.
My wife doesn’t work out, and right now she can’t.
“It’s amazing someone so able-bodied could become such a wreck,” she says.
(She almost fell yesterday.)
• “Thompson Hospital” is the hospital in nearby Canandaigua. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 15 miles away. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.)
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about three-four hours per visit.
My wife has cancer, but supposedly it’s not fatal.
It’s treatable.
Actually, she has two cancers: -a) Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma, and -b) metastatic breast-cancer.
The Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma appeared about three years ago as a hard tumor in her abdomen.
That was poofed with chemotherapy.
The metastatic breast-cancer did not have a primary site; it never appeared in her breasts.
It was first noticed in her bones, where breast-cancer metastasizes.
We knocked that back with Femara®, the trade-name for Letrozole.
Femara is an estrogen inhibitor. Her breast-cancer was estrogen-positive.
Her breast-cancer just about disappeared.
What we’re getting now is anemia, low red blood-cell count coupled with complete fag-out.
The counter for that is blood transfusions; she received two units.
Not the first time.
About three weeks ago the same thing happened, and I took her to Thompson’s Emergency-Room.
That was our own doing.
Thompson did a blood-test and gave her two units of blood transfusion.
This time it was our family doctor, who had done a blood-test for infection, and found her red blood-cell count low.
“No wonder I’m draggin’ so much,” she commented.
“Well, for now, at least I’m all right,” I said, as we drove home in the gloom, looking for deer in the high-beams.
It wasn’t that way 17 years ago, after I had my stroke.
When I looked like she does now, like I’d been hit by a Peterbilt.
She hadn’t been discharged yet, so my wife was hooked up to 89 bazilyun beeping monitors, an utterly wasted waif, swollen legs under Auschwitz-survivor torso and arms.
She also lost most of her hair with the last chemo, over a month ago.
Some has grown back; longish peach-fuzz.
We’re not young; we’re both 67.
I look awful, but I work out at the Canandaigua YMCA.
“Keep the old ticker goin’,” I say.
I guess I’m in fairly good shape.
My wife doesn’t work out, and right now she can’t.
“It’s amazing someone so able-bodied could become such a wreck,” she says.
(She almost fell yesterday.)
• “Thompson Hospital” is the hospital in nearby Canandaigua. (“Canandaigua” [“cannan-DAY-gwuh”] is a small city to the east nearby where we live in Western NY. The city is also within a rural town called “Canandaigua.” The name is Indian, and means “Chosen Spot.” It’s about 15 miles away. —We live in the small rural town of West Bloomfield in Western NY, southeast of Rochester.)
• I had a stroke October 26, 1993, from which I pretty much recovered.
• I work out in the Canandaigua YMCA Exercise-Gym, appropriately named the “Wellness-Center,” usually three days per week, about three-four hours per visit.
posted by BobbaLew at 1:14 PM
1 Comments:
She's lucky my father had Non-Hodgkins Lymphoma. When they found it it was stage 4. He had gone to the doctor all the time and they never found it. Sadly it took only 4 months.RIP. Live every day like it's your last.....it just might be.
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