Ahem. So, yesterday was the last fludarabine infusion; today, we switched to the more hardcore (which I mistyped as "hardcare," which still works) busulfan. In comparison to the fludarabine's 30-minute infusion, the busulfan takes three hours. Also, it's potentially more damaging to my liver and kidneys, which means I have to take a mess of extra pills on top of my gout-preventing allopurinol to help prevent any damage.
I also have to take in 8 cups of water a day, to help me just pee the damn stuff out. It's all reminiscent of my cyclophoshamide episode, but at least I'm not running to the bathroom three times in ten minutes—my own intake of water, juice, milk and Jell-O is supplemented by the 1.25 liters or so (a little over 5.5 of the 8 cups) of salinated water I get through my IV throughout the day. Oh, I also have to take two Zofran anti-nausea tablets (instead of the fludarabine's one.)
Yesterday I was wiped out from a painkiller I'd taken earlier in the day for my leg, so I'll fill you in now on what's happened since Sunday.
I've met a few more members of the team here. There is, of course, a transplant doctor (not the same hematologist I met with before I was admitted, though he is part of the team) who I've seen just about daily since Tuesday. There's also a social worker here to see to my mental health. (Stop snickering, you people in the back row! And the ones in the front, left and right! And in the balcony!) The pharmacist drops by every day to see how I'm doing.
Yesterday I had my first visit from the dietitian; after an extensive talk about the foods I need in my diet, the possibility of a feeding tube, and foods I'll need to eat more of or avoid when I'm out, we went over my menu choices, including other options on a blue-green sheet of paper she pulled out of nowhere, which includes Jell-O with every meal and tasty high-protein shakes they whip up here. (As a side note, I ate my spare orange Jell-O as I was writing that last sentence. I am telling you, this mini-fridge is awesome.)
The last new person I met was the physiotherapist, who is going to give me exercises to work my arms and legs daily so I at least don't lose any more muscle tone. Until she did her tests I didn't realize how much power I'd lost in my shoulders and biceps. They're like, well, Jell-O. My triceps and wrists are great, but jeez! I'm looking forward to her return on Monday.
The food here is still roughly tied with the stuff I was eating before. The egg rolls I had at lunch were so-so, as was the mushroom cream soup. But man, I demolished the plate of beef & mac, scalloped potatoes and wax beans at dinner, leaving behind a tiny piece of potato I didn't want to bother chasing before I went to town on the carrot and pineapple cake. After those and everything else I didn't even have room for the two digestive cookies I'd saved after lunch.
Prepped for a shower and showed Katie, today's day nurse, how we do it back home. We skipped the Saran-Wrap and I asked her for a blood sample bag, tucked the lines into the exterior pouch (exterior to the bag, that is—it's placed directly on my chest) and taped the whole thing up. After she left I turned on the Red Hot Chili Peppers, left the bathroom door open so I could hear them, and got myself clean. (Leaving the door open is also incentive to dry off pretty quickly and thoroughly.)
Incidentally, while I like all the nurses here so far, Katie is my favourite nurse for the simple reason that she always calls me "kiddo." It's like being in the comics I read and the movies I watched growing up.