Day of the Triff. . . Transfusion

Since we had done all the shopping the previous day, Nick stayed home to work and I took the taxi to the hospital. The nurses were laughing that the driver called me Margot, as opposed to Mme. Bentley. "I've know him since he was eleven," I said.

The 11-year-old is now an ambulance driver, on the town council, head of the Youth Committee and various other things. Good thing I know longer mind being old. But I digress. . .

Another digression: the Bentley is because when we were issued with new health cards, mine was 6 or 8 months in arriving. When it had Nick's name on it, I was afraid to send it back for fear it would never show up, again. So I'm Bentley to the health system and my newer doctors.

Anyway, Stephane picked me up at 6:45. The boulangerie wasn't open, yet, and I had a yen for a croissant all the way to the hospital. The instant I entered the building, my stomach turned. Nevertheless, when the dietician came around to see what I wanted for lunch (whee! You get a choice if you arrive at 8), I gave her the order. At lunch time, I could barely look at the tray. I said I'd try the dessert because sometimes sweet things go down better. It did, but she'd left the tray and I could smell the food. So I reparied to the bathroom to decide if I was going to throw up or not. Not; I controlled myself.

This food thing is just so ridiculous. I know it's psychological and still I can't eat. I could barely eat when I came home. Except sweet things, so it's not even as if it's doing my weight any good. Maybe if I knew what it psychological about.

I came out of the bathroom, saw the dietician in the hall and she took the tray away. I opened the window for a little air. Then I scratched an itch on my right arm. Mosquito bite. During the day? Tough mosquito. Then I found another bite on the left side of my waist. Then one on my stomach. Then my back itched.

The light dawned and I called the nurse. Apparently, although I didn't have one last time, allergic reactions to transfusions are not uncommon. Whatever they gave me gave instant relief and also put me to sleep, again. I'd slept all morning, waiting for the platelets to arrive. I am not a natural early riser.

I saw Dr. Séreiné and discussed my other doctor visits with her. Funny, she also had that same odd look on her face as Dr. Leriche when I said I'd been canoeing.

Finally, Stephane came to get me and I came home and slept for another four hours.

When I was leaving and reaching for my purse and medical records on the floor next to the bed, I hit my head on the table. But I have platelets now, so I didn't die.

Medical Expert

As the nurse was hooking me up yesterday, I asked her what happens if the perfusion runs too fast. She seemed to have difficulty choosing between answers, so I asked if it would cause nausea. Could, she said. Then I asked the doctor. "We'll make sure it runs slowly," he said. (Dr. Litor wasn't there.)

Then, for the first time since I started chemo, they attached an electronic monitor and the nurse checked it with her watch.

Woohoo! No nausea today or, at least, nothing terrible.

Blood Results: In the week between the two blood panels, while I was wondering how my neutophiles were going to get from 868 to the required 1500, and if I was going to need another transfusion because the platelets didn't look too great, either, both counts returned to normal. And the CA-125 is down to 61. Another woohoo.

* * *

Domestic front: When I pick herbs from the garden and have leftovers, I keep them in bowls on the counter. Recently, I've been drying summer savory, thyme and mint.

When I collect enough leaves or run out of room, I throw them all together and have a taste surprise the next time I need a mixture.

As many of you know, when they were babies Miosa and her brothers were fed on the countertop (dishwasher, really), so that FloJo was handicapped in her effort to kill them.

Mio still gets on the countertops toward mealtimes or when she's feeling a little hunger pang, but it doesn't much matter because she won't touch anything except for meat and crab sticks. And I figure her behaviour is my fault, anyway.

So the other night, I emptied all the differnt herbs into a soup plate, turned my back for a minute, turned again, and Mio was on the counter.

You know what's coming, don't you?

Gee, a one-cat, grass-lined, urinal. I was laughing too hard to get the camera, but she didn't spill a drop.

The Fall

After the two days of terminal nausea, I've just been tired. Flattened. Steam-rollered. Crevée. (Means flattened in French and, for some reason that I cannot fathom, is a Bad Word.) Mostly, after I've managed to get dressed, I lie on the sofa and read. And sleep.

Two days ago, I wondered why I've been using Fungizone as a mouthwash every night (and then, according to instructions, swallowing it), so I stopped. Yesterday, mouth ulcers returned.

I'm getting something for my white blood cells, maybe next month I should ask for something for my red cells.

And I asked about jogging! Ha ha ha!

At least if I'm telling you I feel rotten, you should believe me when I tell you I don't.

Apologies to all I owe e-mails.