All Systems Go

Michael was released from Princess Margaret Hospital Saturday morning with no sign of a fever or infection. We were told it would be up to the transplant team at Queen Mary Hospital whether or not they would go ahead as scheduled. We decided to simply move forward as if everything was going to happen as planned with his admission on Monday until we heard otherwise.

Sunday afternoon we got a call from Queen Mary Hospital and had a moment of sudden panic that it was being called off. But they simply asked Michael to do a Covid test, take a photo of the test results, and wait for them to call back in a hour. With confirmation of his negative test, they said great, see you in the morning.

We left quite early Monday morning with everything they’d asked us to prepare for his stay. As we arrived on the eighth floor of Block K, bags and paperwork in hand, I wanted to take a moment before entering the ward. As we entered this unknown territory for the first time, it felt worthy of a deep breath, a recognition of crossing a new threshold, and a small prayer for courage and strength before pressing the intercom to gain access to the tightly controlled Hematopoietic Stem Cell Transplantation Ward. After all, Michael won’t walk out of there on his own two feet for the next 6-8 weeks. But before we could even pause, the door swung open and the staff beckoned us in, clearly expecting our arrival. We ultimately walked right in to this next chapter of treatment without ceremony, as ready as we could ever hope to be.

The intensity of the transplant ward is a dramatic step up from the hematology ward over at Princess Margaret.

In Block K there are just twelve isolation rooms, each with a single patient. There is a negative pressure vestibule outside each room where everything must be sanitized before it can be brought into contact with the patient. Everyone who enters must don a gown and scrub their hands at a sink to protect the vulnerable transplant recipients. Visitors for each patient are capped at three people total, placed on a list in advance, and our personal items must be left outside the room to reduce risk of introducing any little dangerous pathogen hitchhikers.

Once again there is a steep learning curve to this new environment, where Michael must remain for the next two months. The last couple of days were solely about acclimating to this unfamiliar system rather than any actual treatments. This somewhat frustrated Michael, as he would much prefer to be home in his own bed with my home cooked meals and our sweet Lucy Rocket poodle to snuggle. But Tuesday evening when I was grumpy and exhausted from a commute more than twice as long as the one to Princess Margaret, without straightforward, easy route to get there, it became clear that part of the “acclimating to this new system” was actually for my benefit. I needed a couple days to figure this out before Michael begins the six days of incredibly intense treatments with a multitude of awful side effects leading up to the day of the transplant. Getting used to the complicated, time consuming new routine, while simultaneously supporting Michael through what we’ve been told is the strongest, most brutal chemo yet, might actually have been too much to handle all at once. So I’m grateful for the gentle acceleration to full speed, even if Michael is less enthusiastic about it!

I’m writing this after midnight on Thursday, June 19, and later this morning Michael will begin a day of medication in preparation for tomorrow, Friday June 20, where he’ll begin three days of chemo then three days of full body radiation, followed by the transplant, which will likely take two days. On Tuesday Benjamin picked up the medications he’ll be taking to prepare his body for the stem cell harvesting, and he’ll begin his twice-daily injections early Sunday morning. Day Zero, the day of the transplant, is still a go for Wednesday June 25th, six months and one day after our world was turn upside down. Merry Half-Christmas.

Please continue to hold our family closely in your thoughts and prayers as we hold onto hope, believing in the absolute best possible outcome for Michael. Thank you!