This is pretty much the scene right now at Team Wedding Headquarters, if you lose one backup dancer and replace the other with a terrier.
Really. If you don't believe me, then clearly, you have never seen my alter ego Cat Con take over when the endorphins kick in. She's quite obnoxious. In a cute way.
Why the supershift of my mood swing, you might ask?
Numbers, baby. Numbers that meant nada to me less than a week ago now represent a winning ticket in the CBC lottery. Jamie's complete blood count (CBC) this morning showed:
- Hemoglobin (the little red thingies that carry the oxygen 'round and 'round that just tuckered out last week): up to 10.8 from a pre-transfusion 5, still not-so-hot for a walking-around-guy, but freakin' awesome for a guy just this side of consciousness and organ failure just a few days ago;
- White cells (the little infection-fighting thingies that have been going AWOL): up to 6.2, which is just fine for us walking-around-folks, and just super for a third-round-of-badass-chemo patient with neutropenia;
- Platelets (the little thingies that clot the blood if it tries to escape the body, like in any myriad of possible accidents, or even a simple nosebleed): well, I don't remember that number, but I do know it is good now and it was bad before.
Apparently we hit the powerball, too, which in today's drawing was (drumroll) 97.8°, marking the end of this appearance of our febrile foe. This appearance are the key words in that statement.
I know that. I do.
I know that white cell count is only here until the next date with the drip, when we'll check J's temperature daily no matter how he's feeling (I'll ask. He'll humor me. It'll all be over inside of two minutes, and I will joyfully listen to an "I told you I don't have a fever"). We'll get another injection (Go Neulasta! Go, go Neulasta!), avoid as many germs as possible, and hope for the best.
I also know we'll be scheduling another transfusion when those little Hemoglobin buggers go bust again, and they will. We — and the blood bank — will be ready this time, and we can hang for a few hours in an outpatient clinic rather than overnight on an oncology ward.
I also know we have to be extra careful about bruises, cuts, nosebleeds, and other irritations. Those platelets may be all set to scab up today, but there's no guarantee enough of them will hang around down the road (fortunately, I'm the only major klutz around here).
I know all of this. And I will deal with all of this when it happens. Maybe it will be easier, because it won't be so unexpected. Maybe chemo still has something unexpected to throw at us. Bring it, Samuel L. I handled your Awful Anemia Event and came out on the other side. You can shake me up, but you can't break me. I'll come through whatever you've got, whenever you've got it.
But, if you're bringing it today, know this: Cat Con is in charge. And today? Today, we dance.