Monday is the day of tests in which we determine that I am healthy of heart and lung.
Monday is the day when we discuss and schedule the biopsy with the chest surgeon.
Tuesday is the day we meet the transplant specialist and discuss the Bone Marrow Transplant, which is not really a bone marrow transplant. It is also sometimes called a Stem Cell Transplant. The official name is Peripheral Blood Stem Cell Transplant (PBSCT). It used to be a Bone Marrow Transplant where they took the patient's bone marrow, treated them, and then replaced the bone marrow. It was, in those days, a harrowing series of procedures and often fatal on its own. Now they skim my stem cells out of my own blood and keep them while I am treated and then re-infuse me. It is not, to quote Jeanette, my favorite oncology nurse, a walk in the park. But to quote Dr. Schnur, mortality is no longer a major issue.
I suspect this will happen in April. But we'll know more Wednesday.
It all sounds incredibly interesting, I have to admit. I'm kind of hoping that at some point I'll have an MRI. I've had CT Scans, PET Scans, chest X-rays, echocardiograms, pulmonary tests and lots and lots of blood tests, but I've never had an MRI. On television, MRIs are as common as dirt. I love looking at CT Scans and PET Scans--maybe for my next author photo I could use a CT Scan? Even X-rays are cool.
I'll be treated downtown at the Cleveland Clinic. The Cleveland Clinic is about the size of the town I live in. A medical city, gleaming twenty blocks in the middle of what is otherwise a less than savory part of town, and not far from Case Western Reserve and the Art Museum. I'll spend three weeks there for the transplant. Poor Bob, who already has a fifty mile a day commute will be traveling 100 miles a day if he comes to see me after work. But the alternative, if there was one, would be a hospital with less resources than the Cleveland Clinic.
It is all very important and very life or death and it simplifies things incredibly. Sort of like entering a religious order for a few months. 'I hand myself over to you, oh medical profession, to be purified in your chemical and radioactive baths.' How can a science fiction writer not be at least somewhat intrigued?