We've had an awful day--a "Do Over!" kind of day. And a not-so-happy birthday for me.
Lauren had a very serious reaction to blood products this afternoon that scared us all. Her blood levels are tanked from the chemotherapy. The idea is to nuke the body enough to kill off the cancer cells without killing the patient in the process. So after labs at 10am this morning, she received a transfusion of both platelets and red blood cells. Lauren was going to receive two units of blood after platelets, but got hot and then broke out in hives about an hour into the first unit of red.
Suddenly our small, windowless, closed-door exam room (isolation from our chickenpox exposure) was filled to capacity: nurses, doctors, and family members (for our part, we were trying desperately not to look alarmed). Quite literally, there were too many butts in the room; we were bumping into one another left and right, front and back. They stopped the transfusion and administered benedryl to stop what they hoped was an allergic reaction. Then the white coats continued to monitor Lauren to see if something stronger would be needed. Because her reaction and resulting intervention pushed us past closing at HemOnc (hematology/oncology clinic), we went to the ER to finish her transfusion. After checking in, wading through more nurses, doctors, and hospital administrators ("Sign here, please. And here. Initial here. Sign here."), and waiting two more hours, we were told to return in the morning. Apparently, the blood bank needs to get new blood from a different donor and will pretreat Lauren with medicine before she gets blood tomorrow. All future blood or platelet transfusions will be pretreated.
It's odd: Lauren is too sick to get the blood she needs. She is pale (almost paper white) and weak. I have to bite the inside of my cheek not to cry, especially when she looks up at me with tears in her eyes. I try to reassure her, tell her everything will be okay, that we'll get through this struggle together. I joke that perhaps the blood that she received came from a person who was wearing itchy clothing at the time of donation. Wet wool, perhaps? She gives me the look, and sickly as she is I know she's not in the mood for my goofy humor. So I stroke her hand, hug her tight. I whisper love and encouragement. I wipe her tears. I lay my cheek against the scalding skin of her beautiful bald head. And I hope that when I look at her again, my face will tell a good story with the conviction I'm busy trying to sell myself: We will through this.
So we were sent away with instructions to return tomorrow "after a restful night's sleep." Hahaha! Really? Presently Lauren's temperature hovers in what we call the yellow or "cozy" zone. The cozy zone is a low grade fever from 99.5' to 100.9. This means I must check her temperature hourly until it dips below 99.5 (and I can finally get some sleep) or bumps to 101 (when we pack up our ready "Go Bag" and head to the ER). It is now 2:34am. I will post this, then to nap for a little less than half an hour. The alarm will wake me with the chirping of crickets, a preferred sound setting on my smarter-than-me-phone that is not annoying but still wakes me from sleep. I will grumble, rouse myself, take my daughter's temperature, and hopefully go back to sleep.
I dislike the yellow. In this temperature timehold, Lauren isn't fever-free green, nor is she fever-hot red. For now she is just yellow, cozy, that frustrating in between place. And no one truly rests in the cozy.
