March 4, 2002|


Latest news: If all goes to plan, I will be released on Saturday! 26 days! Wow! Anyway, please pray that no freak fevers, rashes, colds, flus, and infections pop up over the next 48 hours. Art’s back on the town. Watch out! Thanks!

You Look Like…

Finally it hit like the proverbial poop in the fan. Billy’s cells have started their work. After initially whining for three days (I know, I heard them inside of me), they started to redecorate the insides of my body. Needless to write, my cells retaliated in big brother fashion, only to be put down in weak fashion. “The Fuzz Daddy” (Billy’s self-given nickname- he thinks a.) he has the softest hair in the U.S. and that therefore makes him b.) the sexiest man alive) has taken over.

Naturally, then, I have felt like poop. Three people today have even said I look like poop, in so many words. My usual peppy and energetic self has been drained the last few days. It’s not all Billy’s fault. Most of it actually lies in my lack of sleep. I just have a lot of liquids going in me…and therefore going out of me. True to my oft-mentioned mission statement, “Art: a 64 year old trapped in a 24 year olds’ body with a 4 year olds’ bladder” I have been going every 45 minutes between the hours of 10pm to 9am. No lie or exaggeration. Ask any one of my night nurses. It’s like my body thinks I am on family vacation, barreling down the Pennsylvania Turnpike. “I gotta go! I gotta go! There’s a rest stop! There’s a rest stop!” (I don’t mean to be graphic or anything. This web site receives hundreds of hits a month from transplant patients. I don’t want to sugarcoat what has been my fiercest nemesis.) It’s just the root cause of my general drowsiness and discomfort and why I don’t answer my phone or e-mails nowadays. I am just too tired. And maybe that whole transplant thing had something to do with it too.

I am happy to report that my sore throat is on the mend, as is my queasy stomach. My blood counts have also shot up in the past three days, which is a great thing. Unfortunately, as with any new immune system, new allergies arise. I have a nice red prickly point rash growing on my hands, wrists and feet. Thank you Mr. Antibiotic. Chics dig gashes, not rashes. D’oh! 🙂

My hands are still chilly. New Nike batting gloves did arrive from Eastbay last week, which have made my hands feel quite toasty. I do get queer looks, though. (“Who’s the old guy on Peds playing with a toy truck wearing gloves?”)

Truck Report: No Fatalities, One Freaked Out Three Year Old

Latest news on my radio controlled monster truck while we are on the subject: Nick is a three-year-old down the hall who gets daily visits from my dad. Saturday, my dad suggested that as Nick takes his walk in the hallway (his first in two weeks), I drive the truck out and see if Nick wants to play with it. I must say I was a tad apprehensive. Regardless, like the good son I am, I obeyed my father’s orders and drove the truck out to the hallway, turning right towards Nick. “BAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!” was all I heard. I didn’t even have to see Nick to know it was his piercing shriek and crying. I didn’t hit him, but I must have been close. The truck had frightened him senseless. Nick’s walk came to a close shortly after that. Let’s recap so far; one doctor hit and one toddler freaked out. This truck is turning out to be more fun than I thought. 🙂

Stir-Crazy? No, That’s Just My Normal Self

The looming question on everyone’s mind is if I am going stir-crazy after three weeks confined to one room. Well, not yet. The symptoms may be appearing though, according to some. Today I spent thirty minutes in a trance composing a song on my guitar about my favorite sleep-inducing medicine (“Ativan, Ativan, oh, you are my best friend. Oh yes, for us weary non-sleepers, you help to close our peepers”). I also started working on a song about my favorite night nurse’s aide, but then she walked in, embarrassingly leaving me a in a heap of gibberish (“Kate, oh Kate, my temperature you do regulate. And every time you take my pulse, it shoots up, which isn’t falseÖnrrmshigmrashenterni”) I haven’t gone crazy, yet. I have so much to keep my mind occupied- books, videos, computer, visitors- that I don’t have time to get stir-crazy. Plus, on the physical side, I am getting massage/reflexology every other day in order to keep my blood flowing and my limbs limber. It’s not a hard massage like I need, but it’ll do for now. What I really need is a BIG blond Swedish woman named Olga or Helga to come and pound me to smithereens with her manly bare-handed grip. I don’t see that being permitted in the hospital. Oh, I can’t wait till I get out. Oh, uh, pardon me now, though, it looks like I’ve reached a rest stop again. My 45 are up. D’oh!

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