The 12 O'clock Appointment

Hello, I’m day minus four, and your name is?

Yesterday, during rounds, as I spoke to the physician and the rest of the team visiting my room, I informed them that today I am getting the Rabbit ATG infusion. “Oh yes,” he rapidly answered. “You are at day minus five.”

I’m not sure why I felt the need to inform my own physician’s team what drug was in the IV infusing through my port, like they didn’t know, but when he asked me how I was doing, that’s how I answered. I said I was fine. Just sitting in this bed, receiving this lovely chemo drug that has something to do with a rabbit.

Day minus five. Those few words told me they knew me well. They knew what would happen to me on each day during my stay at this University of Alabama hospital in Birmingham. This is all building up to my Day zero. That’s the big day. That’s my new birthday. Welcome to stem cell talk.

My new birthday means they have given me enough chemo and radiation in the previous (minus) days to take out my own stem cells, and a whole bunch of my bone marrow that, on one day of my life, started multiplying with more bad cells than good ones.

When my body has nothing left to fight off any infection, the hospital team will introduce a whole new team of fighter stem cells that came from a total stranger. Some dear person has donated their stem cells for me! On my Day Zero, that person, who I am not allowed to know for at least 2 years, and only if they agree to tell me after that time, will learn who benefited from their stem cell donation.

After my birthday, in the stem cell world, I will have a new name every day. I will be known as “day +(plus) 1”, then “day + 2” and so on until about “day + 17”. If all is going well by then, and there is no rejection, they will begin talking about discharge.

So today, I sit in this hospital bed listening to the clicks of my infusion pumps and meeting the many people who come in to visit for a variety of reasons, and I look out the window at my view of Birmingham. These are the “boring days before transplant”, the staff says. The preparation days. These are the last days I will see my own hair.

At day + 5, which is a Monday, I will begin losing my hair, so by Friday, day + 9, I should be bald and will get to wear some of the lovely hats my dear friends made for me. What a different day that will be.

But for now, my charting notes between you and I are up to date, so I sign off humbly and gratefully.

Day minus 4.