Snapshots

Jenny here.  There are moments in our lives, yet very rare, when we know at that very moment our life is changed forever.  Sure, we often look back and can pinpoint a life transforming shift--in hindsight.  But to know ahead of time, to feel the full throttle lead up to an event that will alter the rest of your life?  I feel that there are truly very few of those experiences.  College, marriage, becoming a parent...the major milestones are expected upheavels.  I'm not saying these are more influential to our growth or easier or harder.  They are just...different...the expected unknown, if you will.  Like when someone you love dies--it is hard, regardless, but it is unique depending on factors such as if they person was ill or was in an accident.  In our journey, Wil's diagnosis was mostly unexpected and we had to just jump right in, feet first at onset.  Today was a moment in the making for quite some time.

As most of you know, today was day 0 for Wil--stem cell transplant day.  Our expected unknown.

The rush of emotions, the build-up of feelings, the count down for the past weeks...it made today this expected, surreal climax.  Today, 3 small bags of ghostly white liquid, pulled down into Wil's chest catheter by gravity, equalled a moment of immune system rebirth--in a matter of a few hours.  Prior to transplant, as we said the cell blessing with the chaplain, wishing them a speedy travel to their new marrow homes, we felt gratitude and fear all at once.  For Wil, the knowing his body will be fatigued for the foreseable future as the life withint him fights to grow.  For me, not exactly knowing how I will do all the rest while he recovers.  For both of us, I can only think it was a cumulative landslide of emotions from the past year, flashes of seeing Wil immoblizied by his first month of treatment, glimpses, snapshots of the traumatic experiences (I don't often touch on the word trauma in regardless to our experience because generally we are OK most days.  Of course Wil has these moments with all his body and mind have been through.  But as a caregiver, there are moments I lose air and melt on the inside when memories are triggered as well, and I am not sure we recognize enough how traumatizing illness can be to the one closest to the patient).  

So today, day 0, knowing life will never be the same, but not sure how that will pan out...it was emotional, tense, raw, real, bizarre, and anxiety producing, yet, mixed with something we haven't felt in quite some time--a real, alive, and breathing hope.  

In the weeks leading up to transplant we have had time to laugh, relax, and do something we have gotten out of the habit of--talk about a future that doesn't *just* involve clinic appointments and the what-ifs should he die.  No, we have had moments of wishing, beyond what's just up close and in our face every day.  When you hope, however, you give space and air to an array of other feelings...all of which came flooding forward in the minutes leading up to transplant.

As we sat on his bed this morning, watching the Carter Blood lab tech who would be with us the entire time to prep the donated cells, we held each other and wept and agreed it was something we couldn't quite explain.  Wil's body shook.  The tech said this is what she enjoys most about the job--getting out of the lab and putting a face with the case name she has been working on for weeks, hearing the stories, and seeing the real reactions to a life altering event.  She said sees these complex feelings each time.  

His oncology team was excited.  They worried we were crying.  Medically, the process for stem cell transplant is something Wil was able to sleep through, a basic infusion experience.   But I told them, these were not JUST an infusion, not JUST cellls.  These cells had already changed relaionships, some for the better and some for the worst.  These cells were our new hope--real, living, breathing hope that was months in the making, the result of Wil's hard chemo days to prepare his body, of the universe aligning on our behalf to have the perfect clinical trial just waiting for him, because of an extraordinary treatment team, and because someone Wil loves said "yes."  Even though we had major and minor set backs along the way that made us doubt day 0 would ever arrive, Wil had his day.  Our life together had it's day 0.  And I just don't know how to describe that adequately.  Perhaps as time moves along I will have something more profound and eloquent in my heart to describe the forever change that happened in room 813, in the midst of staff, beeping machines, multiple checkoffs, and the smell of cream corn.  But not today.

Side note:  The preservation material used when cells are frozen, once entering the recipient metabolize in the lungs and when the patient breaths, coughs, or talks, all you smell is cream corn...for several days.  The housekeeping staff entered the room this afternoon and said "Somebody's been eating good.  Smells like corn!"  I then got to educate them on this "fun" transplant fact :)  

Days 1-100+ are somewhat unknown...but because of day 0, we have a chance to live them.  Below are snapshots of our day.  We are wishing you all well, grateful for our family--whether by blood or choice.  We are only here today because of each one that has played a role of support.  In the coming weeks I will try to put out a blog on Wednesdays, as a celebration for each week of this new life, so stay tuned.  

Happy "Birthday" Wil.  And many more...

Snapshots of Transplant:  Day 0

It's your birthday Wil!

We started out the morning reading a blog post from Dr. Rick Hanson, a neuropsychologist/therapist, entitled "Trust in Love."  I had brought a card (picture below) not knowing it would fall in line with the the his blog post dated for today.  The Universe conspired with him to give us words we needed.  My favorite quote:  "Love is woven into your day because it's woven into your DNA."  You can sign up for his blogs at www.rickhnson.net (and we recommend you do!  We read them to each other on our way to clinic appointments).

We had a Blessing for the cells with the Chaplain

A Carter Blood Care lab staffer came with the frozen donation cells and a water bath to thaw them.  She is the same person who has been working with the cells to prep them for transplant.  And so began the multiple checks and balances.

The oncology team came through to say Happy Birthday

Then the thawing process of the cells began

Transplant time...Wil was medicated with a total of 100mg IV Benadryl so, by the time it was over, he slept the rest of the day

We are hoping for many more memories in the years to come...for now, he has some rough recovery days ahead, but a few photos on his windowsill to look at while he's still admitted...