Flashing back to February 2025, when my body turned anemic from a disease that had been percolating in my system for 23 years, I didn't think I'd be soon hospitalized in California, looking back at a version of me who couldn't fathom the black diamond mountain bike downhill ride ahead of me. Has it been scary? Yes. Has it been unusual? Of course. Did it feel like something that was always meant to happen. Yeah.
Present day let's just say that time travel is possible, but you need good pharmacology and illness to achieve what scientists say is impossible.
Still in the hospital. Needed a platelet transfusion. I thought it would be easy. Far from it! Sometime after the infusions of the day, I got up to shower and suddenly the room spun around me. I was in a vortex, my face burning. My eyes lost focus. I was going to drop. Instead, I grasped my bed rails and held tight.
A friend with MS suggested I map out points between my favorite seating area to the bathroom or my bed to the bathroom, which I could lean against should I get dizzy. That bed rail saved my ass from hitting the deck involuntarily.
I rounded the bed and sat, letting the spots in my eyes disappear. They did. I tried again and it hit me again. Vertigo. WTF?! The few feet to the bathroom door could have been a mile. Is this what Pedro Linares Lopez experienced in fevered dreams when he saw alebrijes for the first time? I'd be so lucky! But I did see them once a long time ago. But that's another story.
Eventually the spots disappeared. I showered, sitting on a stool, too afraid that I might fall and crack my head or hip. Neither happened. I made it back to bed and proceeded in having three straight days of chills and fevers. Joy!
What caused this sudden turn? Platelets. My body can handle someone else's blood but give me their platelets and my legs turn to noodles.
That's when the trouble started. Later that night, I slept shivering under two blankets. I should have been warm. I wasn't. Stupid me, the nurses told me time and again to call with any complaints. I didn't. Shivering isn't something I complain about. It just comes with the territory of living outdoors at the base of a rock wall, waiting for my climbing lead to call down that they've reached the first belay station. Not in this case.
The fever came a day later and didn't stop. My RN scolded me for not reporting the chill I picked up the night before and kept reminding me to use the call button on that ridiculously designed wand that let me control the TV, games, and so on. It's also a phone with a direct line to the triage.
Night came and with more shivers. I called the nurse. They took my temperature. 102.6°! Next came questions. How did I feel? Dizziness? Yes. Nausea? Yes. Pain. No. I got a dose of Tylenol with a side of an antibiotic I-V. This pattern repeated itself for the next eight or so hours. Chills. Dizziness. Fever. Repeat like a scratched vinyl record caught in that one part of a good song that went off the rails. Like when Paul hits the wrong piano key in the middle of 'Hey Jude'.
That fever stayed for three days. Outlasted it unwanted visit by two days. I got enough Tylenol and other drugs to open a pharmacy. And the diarrhea was more than I expected. Bowel movements every fifteen minutes.
In my past life, a walk to the bathroom was as easy as jumping out of bed. It wasn't due to the I-V tower tethered to me and an electric socket behind my bed. So up I go. Almost exploding in bed and all over myself as I made it to the toilet. This was my first night. The next two quickly went down-hill to the point that I didn't get out of bed, eat or even drink water. I'd lost all sense of function.
Night two started and ended with more chills. The fever rose to 102.9°. This was pushing on the edge of crazy. Pedro Linares Lopez, the artist credited with creating those colorful Mexican carved creatures with wild geometric patterns on their bodies, was rumored to have been inspired to create them from what he saw in a fever dream. He used wood from the Copal tree to recreate his visions. Many Mexicans can claim that they too saw the alebrijes in their fevered dreams. I dreamed of pizzas. I'll settle on buying my alebrijes.
Day three, I couldn't get out of bed. Too weak, I had no appetite. Too pushed to the edge, the nurses surrounded my bed. A rash had formed on my back. It spread to my ass and down my legs. It went as high as my neck and face. Was I rejecting my new bone marrow?
No, this was a common reaction to early engraftment. The process had begun without my body telling me, hey I might give these new cells a try. What do you think? Yeah, okay. Maybe send some alebrijes my way to let me know something's happening?
I ended the day thinking of Day 0 and wondering, how did I get this far and what was next for me? Boy was I going to be surprised.
We’re thinking of you, hang in there Gio! Following your brave journey from Austin.
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