But for now, I feel like speaking to the care-taker of a blood cancer/ bone marrow transplant patient.
Let's climb into the Wayback machine to returning home after the initial diagnosis and two and a half weeks in the hospital, which felt like too long, but would in fact be only a drop in the bucket.
There is this thing called neutropenic which is a state that anyone undergoing a white blood cell killing chemo will be in. It means they have no immune system. It means you dear Caretaker may be out of your mind wishing you could get your hands on a giant bubble like the one John Travolta lived in in the movie Bubble Boy.
It means you will go through all your knives in one day because once the butter knife touches the bread, if you need more butter, you'll have to get a new knife because crumbs can't contaminate the butter because mold may grow? I was out of my mind friends. Now I just let the cats lick the butter knives clean before I go back for more.
I'm not going to say relax Caretaker. But relax. It could be a long road and you'll need to pace yourself and your butter knives.
I bought stacks of towels to pat things dry with and immediately put in the laundry before they become mold infested colonies.
Hey. That's not a bad idea. Have you seen studies on towels? Ew.
You yourself may undergo some bodily changes Caretaker. That's okay. You may be faced with a dilemma of not wanting to eat because you're so upset, but then you almost faint because you're actually quite hungry and once you start eating, you can't stop. That's okay. If your partner finds they can't eat because of chemo or the dramatic changes in their body post transplant, you'll wish you could actually eat for two like a pregnant woman because, well, you are eating for two. That's okay Caretaker.
And while we're on the subject of moms and babies, you're going to be tired. So tired. Like you've never known. Or maybe you have, who am I to say? But take naps if you can. Take naps if you can't. Sleep is a friend like no other.
Speaking of friends, sometimes, you'll feel isolated. It will be lonely. If you, Caretaker, are married to the person you are care-taking, at times, you may feel like you've lost them. What is important is that you do not lose you. They are still there, they just may have to do a caterpillar thing for a while, but they will emerge. You must take care of you. You are emerging into something new too.
You'll feel isolated because it's a tightrope you'll walk between letting people know you have to exercise extreme caution to not get the patient sick, but also that you are dying inside looking at the same four walls and you neeeeeeed a friend to reach out and risk everything just to make you smile. You need someone to sacrifice a little bit to meet you where you are. I'm hanging from that tightrope myself friend, so I'm not sure how to advise you on this. But just know precious Caretaker, that some friends will absolutely amaze you in the way they show up. Focus on that.
You will get a lot of advice Caretaker. A lot of advice. Advice is the currency of help oftentimes. It is almost always well meaning, and so here is how you take it: take it as love in your bank. I urge you Caretaker, to not actually follow all the advice given. Lots of people read lots of information and sometimes the sources are dubious and sometimes anecdotal and sometimes it may sound good to just drink fruit smoothies to fight the cancer instead of undergoing gut wrenching chemo. Don't do that. Chemo is like the tongue. The same tongue that can kill a person can build a person up. Chemo allows your partner to be rebuilt. That's a good thing.
You will feel like you've been placed on a conveyor belt and you can't get off. You can't. You must buck up and try to adapt to the speed of the conveyor. Sometimes, you will feel like Lucy. That's okay. There's nothing wrong with a little chocolate on your face.
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