I went in for another blood count today -- still too low for chemo. The doctor said I need to take a few weeks off to give my body a chance to fight the chest infection first. Then I went to see a "cough and chest" specialist. He said I should go back on antibiotics, and if there's no improvement after a week, we'll do a lung biopsy to see if the infection is actually cancer. So I just need to rest for a week or so.
The insides of my mouth and throat are covered in ulcers now, in addition to the red, raw swelling. This is a side-effect of the chemo, which I escaped before, but now that my immune system is down so much, I'm getting all these side-effects. I feel like someone's punched me in the upper lip, and I can't eat or drink without dribbling. It hurts when I talk, eat, or swallow. Hence, limited phone calls.
I guess I haven't been taking this chemo-induced low immune system seriously enough. I thought it was no big deal if I got a little cold or an infection, so I didn't stay away from crowds or avoid kissing and hugging people, especially little kids. So now I'm paying for it. This chest infection is putting my chemo on hold, and that's giving the cancer cells time to run amok. Far more serious than just catching a cold, after all.
So now that I'm pretty much home-bound for a week or so, I think I'll do something I've been avoiding. I think I'll ask for help.
Many of you have offered all sorts of help. Some of you have said you feel helpless because you want to do something for me but you don't know what. I didn't want to ask for help because I didn't want to put anyone out. You're all busy and I wouldn't want you to upset your routine or especially your children's routine so you can drive me to my chemo. So instead of asking any of you for specific things, I thought I'd list a number of jobs I need done and anyone who's able to do these things for me can volunteer. That way, nobody feels obligated and I don't feel like I'm putting anybody on the spot.
This might be a bit presumptuous, but if I were in your shoes, I'd want to do something too. So here are the jobs I need done:
- DBS Bank. I need you to pick up a few cheques from my house and put them in the bank's Quick Check Deposit slot at the bank.
- Post office. I need you to buy some U.S./Australia stamps.
- Fresh wheatgrass. Someone, I can't remember who, has told me she knows where to get fresh wheatgrass for juicing, cheap. I haven't been able to find it at any of the organic shops for several weeks now.
- Soup (no meat, dairy, egg, sugar), preferably pureed or with small, soft chunks. I can't eat solid food at the moment, so I'll need to subsist on soup until these mouth and throat ulcers go away.
- Organic supermarket. I need organic, hormone and antibiotic-free eggs and organic tamari sauce. Brown Rice Paradise in Tanglin Mall is having a 15% off everything sale this Saturday, before they close down for renovations. I'll also need some fruit and veggies, but don't know exactly what yet.
- Someone to drive my mother-in-law around next week to do some shopping for Josie's princess birthday party. She can drive, but she's not used to driving on the left side of the road and she doesn't know her way around town. So if any of you are going to IKEA, Spotlight, or Art Friends anyway, maybe you could take Carol with you?
Thanks!
Friday, February 15, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
Chemo Update
This hasn't been a very good week, chemo-wise. I went to the doctor's on Monday for my blood work and my white blood cell count was too low for chemo -- the lowest it's ever been in the past two years. So I was given two G-CSF shots to boost my white blood cells and sent home. My coughing hasn't improved so my doctor wanted me to have another chest X-Ray, but my blood count was so low, she didn't want me in the hospital around so many sick people. So she said we'd try the next day.
On Tuesday, I went in again for a blood count -- again, too low. Those G-CSF shots that usually do the trick don't seem to be working very well anymore. But I had two more of those shots, plus a chest X-Ray. My doctor looked at the X-Ray and said my lungs have not gotten WORSE, although they haven't gotten any better. She wants me to see a lung specialist, but not while my blood count's so low, so she sent me home to rest for a day before trying again.
So that's where I am now. At home, in bed, mentally cheering on my bone marrow to make more white blood cells. The G-CSF shots have made my legs feel like jelly, so I'm not very steady on my feet. But at least I can still MOVE my legs. I have to stay away from people while my blood count is so low, lest I pick up viruses or bacteria that people with normal immune systems would have no trouble fighting off. So I feel like I'm playing hooky from school. I have errands to run -- the bank, the post office, the immigration office for Josie's new passport, etc. But I'll have to put all that on hold since I'm just supposed to sit and rest.
I also seem to have lost a layer of skin in my mouth -- it's red, raw, and swollen. Not mouth ulcers, which is a common side effect of chemo, but just missing an outer layer of skin. Has this ever happened to any of you?
On Tuesday, I went in again for a blood count -- again, too low. Those G-CSF shots that usually do the trick don't seem to be working very well anymore. But I had two more of those shots, plus a chest X-Ray. My doctor looked at the X-Ray and said my lungs have not gotten WORSE, although they haven't gotten any better. She wants me to see a lung specialist, but not while my blood count's so low, so she sent me home to rest for a day before trying again.
So that's where I am now. At home, in bed, mentally cheering on my bone marrow to make more white blood cells. The G-CSF shots have made my legs feel like jelly, so I'm not very steady on my feet. But at least I can still MOVE my legs. I have to stay away from people while my blood count is so low, lest I pick up viruses or bacteria that people with normal immune systems would have no trouble fighting off. So I feel like I'm playing hooky from school. I have errands to run -- the bank, the post office, the immigration office for Josie's new passport, etc. But I'll have to put all that on hold since I'm just supposed to sit and rest.
I also seem to have lost a layer of skin in my mouth -- it's red, raw, and swollen. Not mouth ulcers, which is a common side effect of chemo, but just missing an outer layer of skin. Has this ever happened to any of you?
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Why I Am Not a Christian
I have a number of Christian friends who are praying for me and wishing for me to find God before my time runs out. I'd like to write this Blog entry for them and for those of you who, like me, may not be religious.
I have been surrounded by religion all of my life. I was baptized. I grew up in a religious household. My father, my brother, my sister-in-law are all ordained Presbyterian ministers. I've had no shortage of exposure to Christianity in my lifetime.
So why am I not a Christian?
I believe in a God that is better than the Christian God. My God does not work on a quid pro quo basis. He loves us unconditionally, without asking for anything in return, not even belief in him.
I never believed in unconditional love until I had kids. I used to think that love had to be earned and deserved. But I love my children without any strings attached. I believe that, as parents, we owe our children everything. After all, we brought them into this world. But our children, in return, owe us absolutely nothing. They didn't ask to be born. If they give us love and respect, it's a sign that we've done something right as parents. But it's not our due. I think this is a common mistake that parents make -- they believe all their sacrifices and heartache should be rewarded with obedient children who will treat them with respect and care for them in their old age.
I love my kids unconditionally and don't feel they owe me a thing. And I'm a mere flawed mortal. I believe God is better than we are. I believe he loves us unconditionally and asks nothing from us. Nothing.
As for the rewards of a Christian life -- eternal life basking in the glory and love of God... I don't want this. This is asking too much. I think I've already been blessed with the life I've been given on this Earth. That's more than enough for me. I don't want or ask for anything more beyond that.
I think religion has limited our knowledge of God and our access to God. I think Christians have assigned human traits to God -- jealousy, wrath, need for recognition. I believe God is beyond these and beyond anything we can understand. But what we CAN understand is that the world is full of evidence that there is some powerful force of good that is beyond any human attempts to destroy it.
I don't mean to insult my Christian friends and family. They have nothing but good intentions and my interests at heart. But I need to let them know that I believe God is watching over me and will look after the people I love after I'm gone, regardless of whether or not I give him due recognition.
I have been surrounded by religion all of my life. I was baptized. I grew up in a religious household. My father, my brother, my sister-in-law are all ordained Presbyterian ministers. I've had no shortage of exposure to Christianity in my lifetime.
So why am I not a Christian?
I believe in a God that is better than the Christian God. My God does not work on a quid pro quo basis. He loves us unconditionally, without asking for anything in return, not even belief in him.
I never believed in unconditional love until I had kids. I used to think that love had to be earned and deserved. But I love my children without any strings attached. I believe that, as parents, we owe our children everything. After all, we brought them into this world. But our children, in return, owe us absolutely nothing. They didn't ask to be born. If they give us love and respect, it's a sign that we've done something right as parents. But it's not our due. I think this is a common mistake that parents make -- they believe all their sacrifices and heartache should be rewarded with obedient children who will treat them with respect and care for them in their old age.
I love my kids unconditionally and don't feel they owe me a thing. And I'm a mere flawed mortal. I believe God is better than we are. I believe he loves us unconditionally and asks nothing from us. Nothing.
As for the rewards of a Christian life -- eternal life basking in the glory and love of God... I don't want this. This is asking too much. I think I've already been blessed with the life I've been given on this Earth. That's more than enough for me. I don't want or ask for anything more beyond that.
I think religion has limited our knowledge of God and our access to God. I think Christians have assigned human traits to God -- jealousy, wrath, need for recognition. I believe God is beyond these and beyond anything we can understand. But what we CAN understand is that the world is full of evidence that there is some powerful force of good that is beyond any human attempts to destroy it.
I don't mean to insult my Christian friends and family. They have nothing but good intentions and my interests at heart. But I need to let them know that I believe God is watching over me and will look after the people I love after I'm gone, regardless of whether or not I give him due recognition.
A Delicious Life
I saw the movie, "The Diving-Bell and the Butterfly", a few days ago. It's based on the autobiography of the Elle magazine editor who suffered a stroke and was paralyzed completely, except for one eye. He used this one eye to blink "yes" or "no", and in this way, wrote his book.
This man in the movie was suffering my ultimate nightmare -- being trapped inside my body, unable to move, feel, or speak. It seems horrifyingly like being entombed alive.
A friend who recommended the movie to me said it was sad and I might shed some tears. But I didn't find it sad at all. I didn't feel sorry for the guy. He seemed more alive than many people I know who AREN'T paralyzed.
He said there were two things other than his eye that were not paralyzed: his memory and his imagination.
In one scene, as he's being fed through his IV drip, he imagines being in a restaurant with a beautiful woman. They're sucking oysters from the shell, picking up food with their hands, letting the juices drip down their chins. That's one of the most memorable scenes from any movie I've ever seen. It felt deliciously sensual and alive.
In another scene, the guy is in a wheelchair at the beach, watching his children run around on the sand. It looked like late summer, with a slight chill in the wind and bright sunlight bathing the whole scene. The wind kept blowing hair in their eyes as they romped around the beach. You could see the white-light reflection of the sun off their skin. You could almost feel and breathe the salt air.
These two scenes made the movie for me. And they gave me new appreciation for everything I still have. Just being able to taste and feel food in my mouth or being able to touch and hug my kids seem like delicious delights.
I came out of this movie feeling very alive and incredibly lucky. I could walk. I could talk. I could swallow my own saliva. I didn't have to be wheeled around, fed through an IV drip, moved around like a rag doll.
I won't become paralyzed like this man, but I realize there may come a time when I won't be able to taste food, move without pain, or walk. But that day isn't now. Right now, I've got oysters to savor, faces to kiss, and so many things to touch, smell and taste.
After the movie, I went off my diet for a few days and ate some naughty treats. I tasted every molecule of every bite, I think. I know these foods aren't good for me, but I thought I'd enjoy some of these tastes while I still can. Besides, I'll go back on my diet tomorrow and have the memory of the tastes I had to keep me going for some time.
I think some of the pleasures in life, especially food and drink, are meant to move us closer to death. Maybe we weren't meant to live to be a hundred and we're just getting greedy. Maybe we're meant to pack 100 years of life into just half that time so that we can enjoy what we have even more.
This man in the movie was suffering my ultimate nightmare -- being trapped inside my body, unable to move, feel, or speak. It seems horrifyingly like being entombed alive.
A friend who recommended the movie to me said it was sad and I might shed some tears. But I didn't find it sad at all. I didn't feel sorry for the guy. He seemed more alive than many people I know who AREN'T paralyzed.
He said there were two things other than his eye that were not paralyzed: his memory and his imagination.
In one scene, as he's being fed through his IV drip, he imagines being in a restaurant with a beautiful woman. They're sucking oysters from the shell, picking up food with their hands, letting the juices drip down their chins. That's one of the most memorable scenes from any movie I've ever seen. It felt deliciously sensual and alive.
In another scene, the guy is in a wheelchair at the beach, watching his children run around on the sand. It looked like late summer, with a slight chill in the wind and bright sunlight bathing the whole scene. The wind kept blowing hair in their eyes as they romped around the beach. You could see the white-light reflection of the sun off their skin. You could almost feel and breathe the salt air.
These two scenes made the movie for me. And they gave me new appreciation for everything I still have. Just being able to taste and feel food in my mouth or being able to touch and hug my kids seem like delicious delights.
I came out of this movie feeling very alive and incredibly lucky. I could walk. I could talk. I could swallow my own saliva. I didn't have to be wheeled around, fed through an IV drip, moved around like a rag doll.
I won't become paralyzed like this man, but I realize there may come a time when I won't be able to taste food, move without pain, or walk. But that day isn't now. Right now, I've got oysters to savor, faces to kiss, and so many things to touch, smell and taste.
After the movie, I went off my diet for a few days and ate some naughty treats. I tasted every molecule of every bite, I think. I know these foods aren't good for me, but I thought I'd enjoy some of these tastes while I still can. Besides, I'll go back on my diet tomorrow and have the memory of the tastes I had to keep me going for some time.
I think some of the pleasures in life, especially food and drink, are meant to move us closer to death. Maybe we weren't meant to live to be a hundred and we're just getting greedy. Maybe we're meant to pack 100 years of life into just half that time so that we can enjoy what we have even more.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Apologies and Thanks
I think the most precious thing when you have cancer is time. The average life expectancy for women in the developed world is about eighty years. When you have cancer, that shrinks dramatically. In my case, average life expectancy is less than one year. That means I need to fit forty years of life into just months.
This ticking time clock is my biggest source of stress these days. It's 5:00 a.m. and I can't sleep. I've been lying awake for the past three hours, thinking of all the things I need to do:
- Write letters to friends and family so I don't die with things left unsaid.
- Answer phone calls, especially those from friends far away, whom I haven't spoke to in months.
- Respond to the 275 unanswered e-mails in my Inbox, some from as far back as a year or two. I've set some of these aside for a quiet moment when I can reflect and write a thoughtful, rather than a cursory, hurried response, but I just haven't found enough of those quiet moments.
- Go through piles of insurance documents to try to claim some money for my treatment from 2006. I've had to put this at the bottom of my priority list because time is far more precious than money right now.
- Update Josie's and Toby's baby books so they can see how they grew up and what they were like as babies.
- Write letters to Josie and Toby, telling them all the things I won't be around to tell them as they grow up.
- Post the many Blogs and thoughts I've written in my head, but not yet had the time to write down.
- Make lists of my wishes about what I'd like to happen after I die: funeral and burial requests, what to do with all the paperwork I'm leaving behind, what to do with my possessions I want to leave to family and friends.
- Buy presents for Josie and Toby for the big events in their lives: their sixteenth birthday, their move to college, their wedding, their first experience as parents. I'd like these to be kept for them and given to them after I'm gone.
- Do special things with Josie and Toby to create memories they can keep after I'm gone.
- Write a cancer information Blog site and a presentation for the Breast Cancer Foundation, which I've promised to do.
- Spend time with fellow cancer patients and survivors, to provide the support and encouragement I wish I'd had when I was first diagnosed and undergoing treatment.
And many, many mundane things like paying bills and planning healthy meals for the kids. Or the many things that a considerate, courteous person should do. I have Christmas presents, birthday presents and thank-you notes I still haven't sent out. I have telephone messages from a week ago I haven't responded to. I have promised dates with friends I haven't been able to keep yet.
I'm feeling quite overwhelmed. I'm constantly worried that my friends and family will never know how much their friendship, support, and encouragement have meant to me simply because I can't find the time to sit down to tell them. I'm constantly feeling the stress of having to spend time doing the things I need to do, knowing that I'm taking precious time away from my children.
I know that many of you feel the same time pressures that I do. I know many of you are juggling jobs, kids, spouses, family and friends and go for weeks and even months without having spent a single hour all to yourself. And despite that, you're offering to spend time with me and do things for me. I want you to know how much I appreciate all the offers of help I've had. I'm really impressed and touched that I have such incredibly thoughtful and caring friends and family.
You've all helped to renew my faith in people and dissolve my cynicism by showing me that there is true goodness in the human heart and in the world around us. You've given me hope for my children. Maybe because they're surrounded by all of our wonderful friends, they won't grow up with the cynicism that I did. They will grow up believing that human nature is inherently good and there is still hope in this world, despite what they hear about suicide bombings, child molesters, wars and murderers in the news.
As I lay in bed tonight, unable to sleep and feeling tense with all the things I want and need to say and do, I thought I should at least send out a general apology.
I'm sorry I haven't been able to keep up my end of correspondences and communications. I have written many letters in my head, asking how you're doing, how your children and spouses are doing, whether you're happy and healthy. I'm sorry I haven't been able to ask you in person or even in a phone call or e-mail.
I'm sorry I can't spend the time with you that I'd like to. Know that I'm thinking of you and hoping to one day tell you how much your friendship and support have meant to me, especially since my cancer diagnosis. You've all helped me and given me hope, each in your own special way. I hope to someday be able to tell you about it. I'm sorry I can't do all this now.
And I'm especially sorry I have to resort to a general letter like this, which I know is quite tacky. Miss Manners would be appalled. But she doesn't have less than a year to live so what does she know?
By the way, I'm not convinced I have just months to live, just because the statistics and medical evidence say so. I still believe in miracles. But I also believe in being responsible to the people who care about me, so I'm making preparations.
Okay, now that I've gotten all that off my chest, maybe I can go back to bed and try to sleep for an hour before the kids get up.
This ticking time clock is my biggest source of stress these days. It's 5:00 a.m. and I can't sleep. I've been lying awake for the past three hours, thinking of all the things I need to do:
- Write letters to friends and family so I don't die with things left unsaid.
- Answer phone calls, especially those from friends far away, whom I haven't spoke to in months.
- Respond to the 275 unanswered e-mails in my Inbox, some from as far back as a year or two. I've set some of these aside for a quiet moment when I can reflect and write a thoughtful, rather than a cursory, hurried response, but I just haven't found enough of those quiet moments.
- Go through piles of insurance documents to try to claim some money for my treatment from 2006. I've had to put this at the bottom of my priority list because time is far more precious than money right now.
- Update Josie's and Toby's baby books so they can see how they grew up and what they were like as babies.
- Write letters to Josie and Toby, telling them all the things I won't be around to tell them as they grow up.
- Post the many Blogs and thoughts I've written in my head, but not yet had the time to write down.
- Make lists of my wishes about what I'd like to happen after I die: funeral and burial requests, what to do with all the paperwork I'm leaving behind, what to do with my possessions I want to leave to family and friends.
- Buy presents for Josie and Toby for the big events in their lives: their sixteenth birthday, their move to college, their wedding, their first experience as parents. I'd like these to be kept for them and given to them after I'm gone.
- Do special things with Josie and Toby to create memories they can keep after I'm gone.
- Write a cancer information Blog site and a presentation for the Breast Cancer Foundation, which I've promised to do.
- Spend time with fellow cancer patients and survivors, to provide the support and encouragement I wish I'd had when I was first diagnosed and undergoing treatment.
And many, many mundane things like paying bills and planning healthy meals for the kids. Or the many things that a considerate, courteous person should do. I have Christmas presents, birthday presents and thank-you notes I still haven't sent out. I have telephone messages from a week ago I haven't responded to. I have promised dates with friends I haven't been able to keep yet.
I'm feeling quite overwhelmed. I'm constantly worried that my friends and family will never know how much their friendship, support, and encouragement have meant to me simply because I can't find the time to sit down to tell them. I'm constantly feeling the stress of having to spend time doing the things I need to do, knowing that I'm taking precious time away from my children.
I know that many of you feel the same time pressures that I do. I know many of you are juggling jobs, kids, spouses, family and friends and go for weeks and even months without having spent a single hour all to yourself. And despite that, you're offering to spend time with me and do things for me. I want you to know how much I appreciate all the offers of help I've had. I'm really impressed and touched that I have such incredibly thoughtful and caring friends and family.
You've all helped to renew my faith in people and dissolve my cynicism by showing me that there is true goodness in the human heart and in the world around us. You've given me hope for my children. Maybe because they're surrounded by all of our wonderful friends, they won't grow up with the cynicism that I did. They will grow up believing that human nature is inherently good and there is still hope in this world, despite what they hear about suicide bombings, child molesters, wars and murderers in the news.
As I lay in bed tonight, unable to sleep and feeling tense with all the things I want and need to say and do, I thought I should at least send out a general apology.
I'm sorry I haven't been able to keep up my end of correspondences and communications. I have written many letters in my head, asking how you're doing, how your children and spouses are doing, whether you're happy and healthy. I'm sorry I haven't been able to ask you in person or even in a phone call or e-mail.
I'm sorry I can't spend the time with you that I'd like to. Know that I'm thinking of you and hoping to one day tell you how much your friendship and support have meant to me, especially since my cancer diagnosis. You've all helped me and given me hope, each in your own special way. I hope to someday be able to tell you about it. I'm sorry I can't do all this now.
And I'm especially sorry I have to resort to a general letter like this, which I know is quite tacky. Miss Manners would be appalled. But she doesn't have less than a year to live so what does she know?
By the way, I'm not convinced I have just months to live, just because the statistics and medical evidence say so. I still believe in miracles. But I also believe in being responsible to the people who care about me, so I'm making preparations.
Okay, now that I've gotten all that off my chest, maybe I can go back to bed and try to sleep for an hour before the kids get up.
Chemo Update
The white blood cell booster shot I got yesterday did the trick and my counts were high enough for me to get chemo today. Hooray.
On the downside: the new antibiotic doesn't seem to be working very well. My cough still hasn't improved. I sure hope this doesn't turn into something serious and I die of pneumonia or something like that when I've got cancer looming over me.
Today was my third dose of the new chemo regimen. I'm supposed to have eight and then a PET/CT scan to see if the chemo's working. But I'll have a liver ultrasound after my next dose to see if we can see anything on the liver. It's not a very accurate test, but it's better than waiting for another month to find out whether the cancer is spreading or not.
On the downside: the new antibiotic doesn't seem to be working very well. My cough still hasn't improved. I sure hope this doesn't turn into something serious and I die of pneumonia or something like that when I've got cancer looming over me.
Today was my third dose of the new chemo regimen. I'm supposed to have eight and then a PET/CT scan to see if the chemo's working. But I'll have a liver ultrasound after my next dose to see if we can see anything on the liver. It's not a very accurate test, but it's better than waiting for another month to find out whether the cancer is spreading or not.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Back Home and Bald
I cut short my trip to Lanta Island and came home three days ago. I missed the kids more than I expected I would, which I blame partly on the fact that this island was crawling with families with young kids. And I thought about my kids every minute I was there because I was writing to them in their journals almost every waking minute. So, thinking about my kids, surrounded by other people's kids... not a good combo.
During my last night on the island, my hair started falling out in the shower. I knew it would fall out with this new chemo I'm getting, but I was still a bit startled by it. There I was standing in the shower, holding huge clumps of my hair in my hands and watching piles of it land on the floor. I decided I wanted to be back home with my family and got on a flight the very next day. Maybe it was a moment of weakness, but I didn't want to have cancer by myself in a hotel room far away from home.
I hadn't expected to find enlightenment of any sort on this solo trip, but while walking on the beach at sunset and looking out to sea, I felt like I should at least TRY to think big, deep thoughts. The best I could do was ponder the looming threat of death and why I'm so strangely calm about it. If I were religious, people would probably attribute my courage and calm to my faith. But since I don't have religion, I can only attribute my attitude toward cancer and death to my faith in myself and the people around me. That works pretty well for me.
Chemo update: I went in for my weekly chemo today but my blood counts were too low, so I was given a G-CSF shot to boost my white blood cell count and sent home. I'll go back tomorrow to try again. I've also started on a new antibiotic for my chest infection because my cough isn't getting any better. So, I'm in holding pattern until tomorrow.
During my last night on the island, my hair started falling out in the shower. I knew it would fall out with this new chemo I'm getting, but I was still a bit startled by it. There I was standing in the shower, holding huge clumps of my hair in my hands and watching piles of it land on the floor. I decided I wanted to be back home with my family and got on a flight the very next day. Maybe it was a moment of weakness, but I didn't want to have cancer by myself in a hotel room far away from home.
I hadn't expected to find enlightenment of any sort on this solo trip, but while walking on the beach at sunset and looking out to sea, I felt like I should at least TRY to think big, deep thoughts. The best I could do was ponder the looming threat of death and why I'm so strangely calm about it. If I were religious, people would probably attribute my courage and calm to my faith. But since I don't have religion, I can only attribute my attitude toward cancer and death to my faith in myself and the people around me. That works pretty well for me.
Chemo update: I went in for my weekly chemo today but my blood counts were too low, so I was given a G-CSF shot to boost my white blood cell count and sent home. I'll go back tomorrow to try again. I've also started on a new antibiotic for my chest infection because my cough isn't getting any better. So, I'm in holding pattern until tomorrow.
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