The occasional blog is back!

I was going to write last night, but Brett and Jo made me watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall instead.

We moved into the new apartment and it. is. awesome.  It's big, bright, and has views of downtown and the Seattle Center (where the Space Needle is) and a great wrap-around balcony.  There is also this amazing rooftop tranquility garden, where you can go sit in the rain and wind and freeze to death.  No, seriously, it has been sunny and gorgeous almost all the time since we've been here.  In fact, since I am not as sun-hearty as I once was, what with being on antibiotics and skin sensitivity from the chemo, I'm grateful for the occasional cloudy day when I don't have to wear my hat and slather on sunscreen.  And we've been out and about quite a bit, especially when Rosa was visiting and filling us full of tamales at Jen and Mike's place (or nearly asphyxiating us all with the tamale preparation).

We're slowly circling in on a transplant date; but I know the minute I declare it, they'll change it.  So let's just say it's soonish.  In the meanwhile, I've managed to become the pariah of the Hutchinson Center in 2 ways.  First, my bacterial cultures indicate that I have somehow managed to get myself colonized with Vancomycin-resistant enterococci (VRE), which is basically a bacteria that is resistant to the most-used antibiotic in transplants.  Enterococci are one of the usual hangers-on in one's bowels, however they can cause infection if they start to wander beyond the bowel to surgical sites, wounds, urinary tracts or the bloodstream.  There are other antibiotics to use for them if they infect me during transplant, and we have that red flag, if you will.  But although I am not sick from VRE, I can in the meanwhile still potentially spread it to another immunosuppressed patient at the Hutch via one of the 200 doctors that prod at me every day.  To prevent this, all my doctors have to get into gowns, gloves and masks when they examine me.  It's awkward for everyone involved, as the situation has this faint leprosy-esque ring to it.

The second thing is, I've contracted Luna's lousy virus.  It's not the most miserable cold I've had, but it's still bad enough that my doctors are like, "You're gross.  Put a mask on."  So until they determine what type of virus I have, I am officially referred to as an Isolation Patient.  Meaning I have to wear a mask in the clinic (while I'm in the coughing and sneezing phase, which I am--despite my lung-exploding efforts to hold them in) and I have to sit in this little glassed-in area with a sign that says "Isolation Patients" that all the waiting rooms have when I'm waiting for an appointment.  No recliners and Lake Union views for Typhoid Mary.  My doctors were not as annoyed with me as I thought they'd be, as I will probably get over it before the transplant chemo begins.  "Otherwise," they remind me sternly, "it can lead to pneumonia!"  It's always something with them.  Anyway, the only high point of that day was my physical therapist telling me that I officially have the most flexible shoulders of all her patients.  Of course, she had to say it through a mask and face shield.

Today, I got my PICC line pulled (that would be my peripherally-inserted central catheter for you jargon-y types).  I've had this thing installed in my arm since late April.  I'll have to get a new line for transplant (into my chest), so my nurse asked if I'd like a cyborg-free couple of weeks and I said HECK YES.  When I went in to have it pulled today, I was a little tense.  What if my vein had completely attached to it and came out when they pulled on the line, possibly pulling all the tributary veins with it and maybe even my heart which might wind up in my shoulder or something?  My hypothesized scenario was reinforced when the nurse doing the removal settled down, tugged on the PICC a couple of times, and met resistance.  She told me to quit watching what she was doing and I might relax more.  So I looked at Brett and we started talking about Puerto Rico and darned if the whole thing didn't slide right out.  Now I just have a small bandage over the hole in my arm, and tomorrow I'll be free of that too.  But I was pretty impressed to see my vasoconstriction in action, further illustrating the physical effects of anxiety.  Also further illustrating the necessity of my Ativan prescription.

Hope all is well in your world.  I'll include some pictures of this merry-go-round we have going on up here in the next blog, probably.

Love, jess