Kingdom of the Sick 11

In the months before I was admitted to the Weill Cornell Medical
Center for my first stem-cell transplant, I was almost in denial. While I knew that I had a grave form
of lymphoma and that I was scheduled to undergo the transplant in early fall, I behaved as if nothing
were the matter. I attended as many parties and openings as I could, had a number of mad crushes and
engaged in a wildly erotic fling. It was as if I’d convinced myself that I could carry on with my old
frenetic lifestyle until I entered the hospital; and then, once I’d had the transplant and been
released, I would continue my frenzied life without further ado.

 

My last week before entering Weill Cornell was to be a lively one. I was invited to the opening-night
gala at the Metropolitan Opera and to the premiere of John Waters’ new film, and I had events planned
for the other nights. At the same time, I was due to receive a heavy dose of chemotherapy, have my stem
cells collected and have a catheter inserted into my chest. In spite of this daunting schedule,
I was sure that I could do it all.

 

Unfortunately, the chemo brought my white-blood-cell count down to the point where I had few
left, and I had to give myself shots of a medication called neupogen in order to ward off infections.
I was told that if my fever rose higher than 100.5 degrees, it could be life-threatening.

 

On the day that I was supposed to go to the Met, I felt extremely out of sorts. Yet I was determined
not to cancel my night. Late that afternoon, however, I started feeling worse. Apprehensive, I
took my temperature and, to my horror, discovered that it had reached the danger point. Not hesitating
an instant, I called a friend and within an hour we were in the hospital’s emergency room. Instead
of enjoying Verdi’s Othello, I spent most of the night waiting for a room until two in the
morning.

 

I was hospitalized for three days, and though my temperature was back to normal when I was released,
I still didn’t feel like myself. As a result, I had to rest and cancel all of my much-anticipated plans.
I was set to return to the hospital the following week, after only four days at home, and the fact that
my period of infirmity had come early was, to say the least, distressing.

 

To make matters worse, I knew that all of this was just the beginning. After all, I had the transplant
and another month in the hospital to look forward to.