Backtracking: February 15th
Procrastinators take note: it is never a good idea to fall behind on documenting your own health record.

First, you may notice I've changed my blog around a tad (ok more than a tad) in order to avoid the actual 'work' that needed to be done. I realize Grandparents will be sending me evil e-mails regarding this change so let me try to make this transition easier: 1. To leave a comment you have to click on the post you are reading to see the 'comment' box, and 2. All my tags and blogs I follow, etc. links are grouped at the bottom of the page... I'll try to fix this if I'm feeling ambitious again.

Now onto the fascinating storytelling...

The next clinic on Feb 15, started out semi-promising (so it seemed); my PFTs were back up to 25% and I was feeling ok. But when the new fellow (who I've grown to love) entered the room, all of my inflated sense of health quickly deflated and I was hit with a tsunami of information. First, we agreed that just 'ok' was not good enough and that obviously I had reached my plateau with Cipro and oral antibiotics in general--this point was emphasized by the fact that my WBC (which hadn't been checked the week before) was 17. Yikes. FYI: anything below 10 is normal.

Then and there we quickly decided that I needed IV antibiotics and before you could blink I was down in radiology getting a PICC line inserted. In fact, this happened SO fast that I had to send my mom out to buy me a t-shirt, while my arm was being sliced open, since my long-sleeved shirt was no longer a practical option and hospital gowns are never an option in my opinion.  I opted to subject my right arm to the PICC line fun this time around, since my left arm is a big spaz (veins spasm, that play on words sounded more entertaining in my head) which is not hospitable for the wire rode that wants nothing more but smooth entry into your superior vena cava. As a result of my decision, they got the PICC line in first try, no problems!

As soon as I got back to clinic I learned my drug cocktail (Meropenum and Piptazo) and was delivered a test dose as I was hit with growing waves of information (I won't lie, this post is somewhat laced with Japan-related metaphors). Besides discussing the obvious infection at hand and setting up homecare (getting a hospital bed was not an option with the two week wait), it was decided that I needed to check for diabetes since my weight had been a struggle for the past year and as a result my BMI rested at a pathetic 17. Gross, I know.  This point was a nice segway for the next: This was not the ideal weight for transplant... and if these IVs did not work by the 31st of March (which was my scheduled yearly follow up at the transplant centre) I would have to strongly consider getting listed. The fellow looked me hard in the eye (or so it seemed that way in my dramatic flashback) and said "eating is your new job, I don't even want you working right now," oh, such harsh words for a former go-getter to hear. Adding to insult, upon describing my newfound breathing attacks and coughing up blood adventures she was not impressed, and said that I needed to travel with emergency oxygen while alone (who knew the breathing attacks could be dangerous? Apparently not me and my stubbornness).

So I agreed to talk to the social worker about applying for disability (ODSP) and setting up Trillium (a program that helps cover the expense of your drugs), since after transplant I would be popping some pretty expensive pills. Then I loaded up on test strips for my glucose monitor, lassoed IV supplies, and finally got out of clinic after 7 hours.