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We leave for Shands tomorrow morning around 6am. Labs and tests at 8am (blood draw, PFTs – pulmonary function tests – and a 6 minute walk). We’ll meet with the doctors at 10am. I suspect they will either modify my medications again or possibly put me back in the hospital for more ATG or some another treatment. I’ve already talked to Bernie. He’s ready to take over the blog for a while if he’s needed.
P.S Mum’s the word. He thinks I’m on a squirrel hunting trip.
Have I mentioned her? She lives on the Rolling Hills golf course
I’ve never seen the father with them. I guess he got cut out the chick raising fairly early on. Not long after the two mallards got together and he started things…well, you know what I mean.
It got me to thinking. That seems to be the case with us humans too. I know some dads walk away, and others shy away from raising their children. But even those who really want to be involved end up taking the bleacher seats, always watching from a distance.
Do dads do something wrong? Or is it just a mom thing? For whatever it’s worth, it hurts to feel like you’re on the outside, looking in at your family.
Ring, ring! Hello? Hi dad – is mom there?
The new best laid plan is progressing as planned. No side effects from the new med, Zithromax. Or the increase in the Prograf to 1.5 mg and the return to Imuran.The prednisone taper (down to 50mg today) only has me thinking about eating the couch…just thinking. My FEV1 has moved up slightly. And most importantly, Bernie has no idea anything is wrong. We’re still walking about two miles a day. So far on this morning’s walks he’s socialized with three dogs and chased six lizards and one squirrel.
Same old same old. :)
Sometimes they don’t work. Apparently, that’s the case with my rabbit juice treatment. I must have an immune system as stubborn as I am. Since Tuesday of this week my FEV1 (lung function) has been declining which means the T-cells haven’t completely given up the fight, still trying to rid my body of these “evil intruders”. I yelled at my chest a few times this morning trying to explain that they’re attacking me, but I guess I don’t know their language. So I called my transplant coordinator; she talked with Dr. Baz and called me back this afternoon.
The new best laid plan includes a trip back to Shands this coming Wednesday for more tests during “Clinic,” the regular check up time for transplant recipients. In the mean time they’ve made a few changes in my medications. Starting tonight I go back on Imuran, the immunosuppressant I was taken off of before the ATG treatment. I also start a Prednisone taper starting at 60mg and going down 5 mg per day. I’m to increase my Prograf, another immunosuppressant, to 1.5 mg a day. And finally, they’re putting me on Zithromax, a powerful antibiotic that is also sometimes used in immune system suppression regimens.
So, take that you ornery T-cells!
P.S. For anyone interested, I'm not feeling bad, just a little breathy. But Bernie's still getting his walks of two or three miles a day.
Yesterday, on our first walk of the day, Bernie broke with ADT (Ancient Dog Tradition) and reminded me of another truism. As I’ve noted before, I think one of the great things about dogs is that they live in the moment, not worrying about the past or the future. So, imagine my surprise when we got in front of the yellow house down by the lake, and Bernie went straight to where I’d made him drop the baby gator. He sniffed and sniffed all around the spot, then looked up at me and cocked his head. I could almost hear him ask, “Where is it?”
For a second I was stuck. Another dog or raccoon, or something took it? It’s in the garbage? Then it came to me. I shook my head and told him the same thing he hears when he’s begged the last scrap from me at the dinner table. “All gone, Bernie.” Satisfied, he turned and headed off down the road, an eye out from the next lizard.
And, as usual, he left me thinking. That thing about opportunity only knocking once may be a cliché, but in this new life I’ve been lucky enough to gain, I’m going to try to take advantage of every one that comes my way.
I’m feeling better; my lung function blows are back up to 3.33 and Bernie and I are walking a mile and a half to two miles a day. And, as usual, he has me thinking.
This afternoon, we were about half way back from the lake, in front of the yellow house at the corner, when Bernie picked up something from the road. At first, I thought it was a stick because of the long pointy thing protruding from one side of his mouth. I made him stop and sit. But when I got closer, I started commanding, “Drop it! Drop it.” Bernie didn’t like it, but finally complied. What he’d picked up was smushed like it had been run over by a car. However, it was clear that the long pointy thing was a tail, and what Bernie had picked up was a young gator. I told him to leave it and he happily moved on sniffing for his next lizard.
The point is, you never know what the next walk will bring and it’s no good worrying about. Like Bernie, it’s best to live one lizard at a time.
Just a few words to let everyone know that you DO NOT want to have an ATG treatment. That truck full of bunnies that ran over me backed up and is doing it again, and again, and…
