Sweet relief, part one

The crash cart sits just outside our door.
The one no one spoke of.
The one I did not notice until after Dominic was surrounded by nurses and pharmacists and the doctor and the life giving stem cells had already flowed into his body.

They were coral colored. Such a beautiful shade.

I love our nurse Karen who walked us through this day. I'd asked for her. She's an absolute favorite, and I was so grateful she was the one with us today. Karen knows the way I roll. She knows that somewhere, long ago, we knew the dangers we signed up for having a bone marrow transplant. But, as Dominic lay in the bed, vulnerable, probably a little worried, we did not need to know that in some cases, a crash cart is needed.

I asked her if that cart outside the door was for Dom, hours later, after the ginger beer had been toasted to Dom, and he'd had a refreshing nap. She'd returned to take his vitals, as she had done every 15 minutes. She smiled and told us that indeed, the cart was for Dominic, as a just in case measure. "Do people really need it?" Dominic I guess hadn't really thought that far ahead. He was nervous, naturally. But the impact of the possibilities settled in.

I was worried the day we arrived. (Who wouldn't be?) But, we weren't in a room big enough for a cot  Not only was I overwhelmingly worried about this incredible event coming up, I was worried about the small stuff. My heart sank a little as I wondered if this day I'd been waiting and waiting for would be full of stress and anxiety for me due to the many personalities in the room. I wanted so much for it to be full of all the love and calm possible.

I spoke to the charge nurse on Sunday and mentioned I'd hoped for a bigger room. It's an interesting thing that Dom and I have been here so much that before I asked for a bigger room, I spent about ten minutes just shooting the breeze with her and two others, and we very easily could have been girlfriends out having a laugh rather than in this situation. She looked through the patient log, and apologized that no rooms would be opening. I then asked if she knew who would be working on transplant day. She read the names off to me. I'd honestly hoped she'd be one, I'd hoped for Nico or Aimee who are such familiar and wonderful faces. She read some names that weren't my favorites. Names I knew would make me a little crazy. Did I mention the nurse had to take Dom's vitals every 15 minutes today? So. It was important to me to have a voice here. When she read Karen's name, I brightened up. Karen. Yes Karen! All along, I'd hoped for Karen. (I have a cousin named Karyn, so I'm immediately in favor of Kare/yns.)

Karen was our nurse the day we were prematurely and incorrectly informed Dom's brother was a match. Karen didn't smash our hopes, but she was very level, and encouraged us to hold tight. She never blew any sunshine or shared anything too scary. She's just all the right notes of information. All the time. Whenever she wasn't our nurse, and I'd pass her in the hall, I'd be kind of jealous of her patients. Can you tell I like Karen?

When I heard Karen's name, I threw crossed fingers in the air and said please.

And a half an hour later, the charge nurse found me to let me know a bigger room was suddenly available. 

So here we are. Post transplant. It all happened so fast. Our dear friend came to be with us. She and I sat together as the nurses unpacked a giant box of life. They answered our questions as they spread papers out, put the heart electrodes on Dom's chest, and went through all the steps of preparing to change the course of someone's life! If I understand correctly, the cells are shipped in such a way that they maintain close to body temperature. Too cold, or too hot and they would die! Just a few degrees of leeway there. Our coordinator had told us, when I expressed fears that the cells would not make it to us that no matter what, even if all flights are down, they'll charter a private jet to get those cells to the recipient. It's really awe inspiring, this whole process.

The doctor was called, the white coats assembled, my heart swelled, Barbara and I were invited to be right next to Dominic, I looked for our theme song, I got distracted pressing play and low and behold, the tiniest little bag was hanging there half way drained before I realized what was happening! I'd made a whole playlist, and before the first song was even finished, this long awaited thing. was done.

I squeezed and squeezed and squeezed Dom. Barbara and I hugged teary eyed. The white coats had a cup of ginger beer and everyone shuffled out of the room. Except Karen, who so attentively cared for Dominic.

Here's some technical bits: They only intend to give him stem cells. Centrifugal force separates the stem cells from the blood cells. A trace amount of blood cells can be left behind. Since the donor and Dominic do not share the same blood type, there was a little more cause for concern. There was a possibility of him having a bad reaction that could range from a mild allergic reaction, shortness of breath, or severe enough to bring in the crash cart. (Worst case scenario, actual resuscitation.)

None of that happened.

And soon enough, my love was in a Benadryl induced sleep.

And I was giddy.

Barbara kissed Dominic goodbye and I have gathered my thoughts.

And this is what comes to mind:

All this time, all these months, there's been this thing nagging at me. Dominic's life in some ways was dependent on another person. Without being super literal, it's been like the quest for the Holy Grail. It's this thing we had zero control over. We could make all the chemo appointments,  take the pills, all the pills, pay all the bills, walk, eat right; but until that one special person stood up and said yes to the call, there was this one thing we could not make happen on our own. We were at the mercy of another. And so, we've been refined by that. The waiting. The wondering.

I know we have a long road ahead of us yet. There's still a lot of possible complications. There's still a lot of heavy lifting to be done, and mostly by Dominic.

But I no longer have to lay in bed at night wondering if someone would match, if someone would commit to the time involved, if someone would endure the visits for injections to stimulate marrow production, would agree to a catheter being inserted in their body to collect the marrow, and then sit for hours while it was collected. I no longer have to wonder if they'll stay healthy until they've donated. (And beyond. Boy do we wish this man all the very best.)

I also don't have to wonder if they'd collect enough. They collected more than enough. The remainder of cells are in cold storage, available should Dominic need a little boost along the way. This donor was above and beyond.

I don't have to wonder if something would go terribly, terribly wrong, and they'd rush him to intensive care.

I can check all of this off my list.

The last bag of chemo is done.

The wait is over.

The miracle has happened. 

We've leapt over an invisible fence and made it safely to the other side; the side of regeneration and new life.

We've been given the cup.

Now, we ride.