Paroled

I'm writing this at home, at my desk, having spent three weeks and a day at Mount Auburn Hospital. When I checked in, it was early spring, still raw and blustery most days. I've checked out into a world of warm sunlight and summery green, with rich floral breezes filling my scent-starved lungs.

The irony is that one of the reasons I'm so enjoying the smells of the outside world right now is probably that three weeks of HEPA-filtered air was damn good for my sinuses. In another couple days, my sense of smell may be far weaker than it is now.

So on Monday, my neutrophil count was a little over 300. On Tuesday, it had passed 400. This meant that, barring incident, I was gonna get sprung the next day. Wednesday morning, the count had leapt over 600. (a normal person has a neutrophil count of at least 1500). This meant that I was out of the hospital and off a neutropenic diet.

I never wrote about the neutropenic diet, did I? The essence of it is no fresh fruit or vegetables. They may carry fungi or bacteria that my depressed immune system couldn't handle. For my time in the hospital, everything had to be thoroughly cooked. The first time Room Service brought me a cheeseburger with lettuce and tomato on it, my mother sprang onto the tray and dashed out of the room with it to protect me from its malign influence, resembling Sarge throwing himself on a grenade to shield his men. It wasn't the last time Room Service messed up in that particular fashion, either. By the end of my stay, the order slips had started reading "PLEASE CHECK TRAY CAREFULLY!!! NO GARNISH ON FOOD!!!" after four or five lettuce-and-tomato accidents. Apparently, they're not used to dealing with sick people there or something

But I digress. The only little obstacle to my prompt exit from the hospital was two units of red cells they wanted to put into me, since my count was slightly down. Reader, I will not subject you to the crushing tedium of the bureaucratic and logistical delays that moved my exit time from one to five to eight to ten as Charlotte came and went, twitching with nervous energy and disappointment as the moment was endlessly drawn away like Zeno's tortoise from Achilles. "I'm so disappointed," she said miserably. "I wanted to be able to celebrate your homecoming. Have a nice dinner, make it something special."

"You don't have to make it something special," I said. "I'm gonna be coming home. That's inherently special. It's an occasion all by itself."

Finally, at ten, after a final flush of my PICC line and a smattering of paperwork, I climbed into my street clothes, piled my stuff onto a borrowed wheelchair, pulled on a surgical mask (hospitals are full of sick people--fancy that!), and Charlotte and I headed for the elevator. My patient and beautiful Kenyan nurse, Elisabeth, waved goodbye as we shuffled down the corridor, weighed down with three weeks accumulated kipple. "I remember you!" the desk nurse laughed as we went by. "You were just gonna be here a week!"

"It didn't quite work out that way," I admitted ruefully.

The outside air was cool and fresh. Charlotte was bubbling with excitement; the car had been scrupulously cleaned to shield me from the danger of touching dirt.

Home felt good. It looked pretty, it smelled sweet, ti felt like home. I took off my clothes and curled up in my own bed. I wouldn't have to go back to the hospital until...10 a.m. the next day.

No biggie, though. I had to go in and get a Neupogen shot to stimulate white cell production, and get my PICC line flushed with saline to keep it from clogging up. Fifteen minutes and I was out of there.

[/diaries/diary/life/hcl/] 1 comment