Snow Day This Year, Appendicitis Back Then

April Fools' Day

                                           My lovely purple hyacinth three days later.

5 Apr 2016
The light snow of Sunday is followed by a stormy Monday. It snows all day and the distinctive sound of a pickup truck with a snowplow blade on front rolls up our driveway twice. I take a snow day and postpone my piano lesson. It's peaceful to stay home all day while the snow falls.

2 Apr 2014
One week at Walter Reed Military Medical Center (I hold a contest to find a good nickname for WRMMC; humor helps in dark circumstances. Matt wins with a bona fide word: Wrenmimic, a small decoy shaped like a small bird.) David remains in good spirits. He walks laps around the ward halls, pushing the ubiquitous IV stand. I have times of sadness and tears, but mostly I remain calm and serene. I sleep well, literally essential to my sanity since I have bipolar disorder.

3 Apr 2014
David is tolerating the chemo very well. His white blood count is down, as hoped. His beard is getting downright bushy. On Tuesday he wrote:
We have won. Prior to today I was growing the beard betting that nobody was going to call me out on it [he’s an active-duty soldier, remember], and I was correct. But as of today, I am officially forbidden from shaving. ha. Also I'm more than halfway through the first round of chemo and the beard is showing its true mettle.
7 Apr 2014
We learn more from the bone marrow biopsy: David’s AML sub-type is FLT3-ITD. His chromosomes are normal, but there is a gene mutation that is driving the leukemia process. The five year survival rate is 5%. Basically, his bone marrow is producing too many immature white blood cells, which are crowding out his healthy blood cells, both white and red.
David is officially neutropenic: because of the chemotherapy he has too few white blood cells to protect against infection. He wears a yellow mask whenever he leaves the room.
8 Apr 2014
Late last night David developed appendicitis and had emergency surgery. When I arrive at Wrenmimic I ask the oncologist, “Any news?”
“He no longer has an appendix.”
I planned to take a train back to Boston this morning. Since I don't yet have internet access at the hospital, my sister-in-law, Maria, cancels the Amtrak tickets for me. Instead of travelling home I walk six miles.