As the apocalyptics say: “The end is near.”  It’s getting close. Tomorrow will be eighty days since my second transplant! We will soon go home. Bonnie is feeling like a prisoner. She gets to visit her friends every two weeks or so. When that happens, I get a visit from Sam, who cooks up something good and we get a little time to talk/watch sports.

I haven’t felt much like writing since I got the news that I no longer was 100% engrafted. I’ve been there before and the end-game is no fun. I am doing everything they tell me to do — especially downing three liters (more or less) of liquids every day.  Every other day, I get to see new blood counts. I hang on the results. Right now things seem to be holding but I am looking for improvement, so I’m not getting what I want and growing a bit whiny.

In any event we will get to go home in about three weeks and I am looking forward to  better dining options and getting to see more people — maybe even the opportunity to tickle a grandchild.

About two weeks ago we saw the couple whom I described in So, You Think You’ve Got Problems in the ITA. She was in a wheelchair. We haven’t seen them again and can’t ask anyone because of medical privacy issues. We hope they are okay. Knowing they were able to keep her alive was an up.

As you can see, I’m not in a humorous mood. I have a bone marrow biopsy in 11 days and I always get nervous before that happens — as well as afterward, while I wait for results. That’s one of the things about cancer. There’s always a test or results around the corner and you just know that it’s a game of Russian Roulette. One day the bullet will be lined up with the barrel and boom, you’re terminal. Meanwhile you bide your time waiting for a miracle cure and dealing with stress and anxiety. A prognosis from hell. A war that never ends, kind of like Afghanistan.