D+10 -- Generally Great, with a Side of Kvetching

A good night of sleep, perhaps helped by the new pillow Jan and Paul brought me yesterday, definitely helped by Ambien and Atavan. The hospital pillows are on the insubstantial side, which is actually OK with me. However, they are encased in plastic, for sanitary reasons, which means you always wake up with a clammy pillow under your head, even with a pillowcase between your face and the plastic. There have been nights that I assumed I had a high fever because my pillow was so damp, an assumption dispelled by the every-four-hours vitals check.

Breakfast was partially from my pantry (Kashi Honey Puffs, dried cherries, walnuts, golden raisins) and partially from the food service (pepper, mushroom, onion, and cheese omelette).

Some work in the morning. The fellow comes by, with nothing much to say except that the WBC (white blood cell count) is 700. (200, 300, 700... I like the looks of that.) Above 4000 and you can defend yourself (and leave the hospital).

I shave. I have some scattered whiskers below my nose, and some more on my chin. What they lack in numbers they have started to make up in length, and they're annoying. (On the plus side, maybe this means I'm through with the hair loss side effect of chemo.) I have to use an electric razor, for safety reasons. With such low platelets, a nick could bleed profusely. Also, with my white blood cell count so low, a nick is an infection risk I need to avoid. Knowing this would be the case, Jan had picked up an electric razor way back in January.

Twenty minutes into shaving a very small area of my face, I have made little progress. The razor buzzes convincingly as it passes over the whiskers, as if it were doing something, but the whiskers remain. Their numbers are slightly diminished, and some of the others are shorter than before, but I have essentially the same scraggly excuse for a mustache and soul patch that I started with. For all I know, the few whiskers that show up in the sink left my face on their own, to get away the constant buzzing. Maybe Jan picked up a toy electric razor -- "Shave like your dad! (Safe for kids 2 and up.)" Or maybe this is really a facial massage device, shaped like a razor to protect the fragile male ego -- "Give yourself a facial massage, while looking like a man." But it's clearly not an effective razor. It wouldn't hurt a whisker.

Lunch from the pantry -- lentil soup, marionberry jam on ak-mak crackers, seltzer, mango. More work in the afternoon. A nap.

The larger posse comes by in the afternoon, confirms the counts. I learn the following:

• WBC over 4000 is one threshold for leaving the hospital.
• Sufficient platelet creation that I do not need daily transfusions is another threshold. Every two or three days is OK (though inconvenient). I might be there already.
• Red blood cell and hemoglobin counts are rarely an issue. If the other numbers are sufficient, these almost always are, too.

Also, upon leaving the hospital:

• Avoid houseplants. I can look at them from across a room, but I cannot be near them or care for them in any way. Soil contains fungi and bacteria, and I have already learned how much fun fungi can be.
• No gardening or yardwork, at least through this summer, maybe into the fall. (Same issue as with houseplants, only worse.)
• Minimal sun exposure. Run early in the morning or late in the day, with a hat, with either full-length sun-blocking fabric or a high SPF sunblock.

There are many more restrictions, all contained in the Black Book, which Jan took home with her so she can begin preparing our house to not kill me. Thorough housecleaning, carpets cleaned (some replaced), drapes cleaned (or removed), plants removed... Lots to do, with, unfortunately -- but also fortunately! -- not much time to do it.

I provided a stool sample a couple of days ago, so I ask if the results are in. The doctors weren't aware of any results, and didn't even seem to be aware that the test had been run. Either there are no results to report, or whatever test was run came back negative and therefore didn't show up in red on my daily chart.

I did conduct my own ALOA (Arm's Length Olfactory Analysis) of the stool sample at the time of its creation, and I got the results immediately. Despite all the praise I have received for how I'm handling my condition and treatment -- the grace, the courage, the wit -- I can confirm that my shit does, in fact, still stink. A lot.

More work, 30 minutes on a bike, time to order dinner. My appetite is a little weak, so I think carefully about what appeals to me. The roast pork with gravy is pretty good, as is the bread dressing. Add some broccoli and corn, plus desserts from my pantry, and it should be a good dinner. I call Food Service. "Food Service. How can I help you?"

I'm not sure why so many of the call takers start the interaction this way. The only reason I would be calling is to order food, the only way you can help me is to take my order, and the only way you are going to allow me to order food is to ask for my name so you can verify who is calling from the room and determine my dietary restrictions, so really it would be better if you just asked for my name right up front.

For a while, I would answer the "How can I help you?" question with "I would like to order breakfast(/lunch/dinner/some food)." And they would inevitably ask, "First and last name, please." Now, I don't bother to answer the question and just tell them my name.

I start my order. Pork, dressing with gravy, broccoli... "I'm sorry. Broccoli is not allowed on an oncology diet." It is the case the people in my condition are not supposed to eat raw berries and raw broccoli. However, neither of those items are on the menu. It is not possible to order raw broccoli or raw berries, yet somehow the system is programmed to prevent oncology patients from ordering cooked broccoli.

Many, many weeks ago, when my neutrophil counts first took their dive into oblivion, this same restriction had been imposed. When I asked the doctors about it, they said it made no sense and appended a note to my dietary plan saying that broccoli was OK. So I have happily been ordering broccoli every few days, both because I like broccoli and because it is the only member of the very nutritious cabbage family available, unless you count the 5 shreds of red cabbage in the tossed salad. (I don't.) I asked the call taker to check the notes. "I don't see any note about broccoli. Oh, and you can't have the bread dressing, either. I think it might have broccoli in it."

I am feeling stubborn, even angry, in the face of this capricious reimposition of an irrational restriction. "I'll call you back."

I press the big red Nurse button. "Is there a doctor available to clear up my dietary restrictions?" I feel guilty immediately. This is not exactly an emergency, and I could stomach mashed potatoes and green beans for tonight and address the problem tomorrow when the doctors come by on their regularly scheduled rounds. And I only have 15 minutes to get a reply, because the Food Service phone shuts down at 8:00.

At 7:55, with no doctorly intervention forthcoming, I call back to Food Service. "Thank you for calling Food Service. May have your first and last name?" I inefficiently take a moment to thank her for the efficient way she answers calls, and then restart my order. I mention that I wanted to have broccoli but was for some reason being prevented. After some discussion, she agrees that a ban on raw broccoli should not block me from ordering cooked broccoli, and she provisionally allows me to order the bread dressing. She will find out why the dressing is blocked, and then send me either that or my backup of mashed potatoes.

When dinner arrives, it has beautiful, bright green broccoli. Also, the least appetizing glop of bread dressing I have ever seen -- it looks like the fake food you sometimes see on display plates at lesser restaurants. It has a glossy sheen, and when I lift a forkful, the rest of it tries to come along for the ride. You win some, you lose some.

I see that I delivered several sides of kvetching, not just one. But it was still a great day. 700!