APML
The following section was originally posted in March 2009. I though I should blog about my experience with leukaemia, I might be able to get 2000-3000 words out of the blog entry, maybe make it into a three part series.
Instead it turned into over 12,000 words, and eight sections.
So I decided to clean it up, and put it all into one section here. At the end of the post I’ve included all the comments from the different sections. You can still read the original posts, just look though the previous posts section.
Acute promyelocytic leukaemia
This March, it is two years since I was diagnosed with leukaemia.
I don’t remember the actual date, I have it on my old blog, but I’m not going to dig it up to find out the details. When I did find out, it was a whirlwind affair. One day I’m fine, the next fighting for my life. The doctor who informed me of the diagnosis was pretty blunt. “If it’s not leukaemia, I’ll buy you a lotto ticket, I’ve booked you a biopsy, it happens upstairs, so we can find out what kind it is. Now which hospital do you want to go to?”
But before that, a bit on the events leading up to that announcement.
I had been a blood donor for a long time. I think I was 17 when I first donated. It wasn’t out of want to donate, but out of a hope of getting over my fear of needles. I still don’t like needles, but now I really miss donating blood. I guess I am one of those people who feels guilty when I don’t donate. While going through treatment I cried when I was given O negative blood, because they were out of O positive stock. I felt ashamed that I couldn’t be donating, and instead were using up their supplies.
On the day I went in to donate for the 178th time, I was asked to donate platelets instead of plasma. It didn’t bother me at all, same needle, same time, but a four week wait before I could donate again, instead of two weeks. But the blood bank doesn’t ask for what they don’t need, so of course I agreed. Now when you donate platelets, they do a full blood count, so they know how much they can take out. About 10 minutes into the donation the doctor comes in and asks me if I am feeling fine, any bruises, trouble breathing, tiredness, trouble sleeping, nausea, diarrhea? I answered no to all of them, although I was feeling a bit tired, but at the time I was shooting the pilot of a new television show (the show ended up on Channel 31, it’s called Planet Nerd if you want to YouTube it), and working my daily job, so I was pulling very long hours. Understandably I was a bit tired, but the doctor was still worried, but trying not to show it.
“Obviously you have found an issue, so just let me know what it is.” I said to the doctor. He was still umming and non-committal, something they don’t do at the blood bank unless there is an issue. They don’t like to scare people who donate in case they don’t come back, but having donated for 15 years, there is little chance of me not coming back.
Finally the doctor said something, “Well, your white cell count has dropped from 13.2 (middle of the range normal) down to 0.4 in the last two weeks, so you are anemic.”
I wasn’t worried, these things happen. It’s not like the Blood Bank are to blame for it happening. The doctor and staff were a little bit surprised about how relaxed I was about the whole thing. They arranged for a taxi to take me to my personal doctor for some follow up tests, and off I went.
When I got to my doctor, he took some blood, asked how things were going, did a few checks, and sent me on my way. I still wasn’t worried, after all, I felt fine, and these kind of blips happen. The results took a couple of days to come back, and my doctor told me my white cells had now dropped to 0.3. He arranged for me to have an appointment at the local hospital to see a specialist, which would happen in 2 months.
The next day at work, I felt like shit. It was the first time I really felt bad, not just bad, but more like I had just ran a marathon, while suffering a fever. I called my doctor back, who arranged for me to see another specialist, at my own expense, in a couple of days. I arranged to have a few days off work, and went home to bed.
Over the next few days, I seemed to get a bit better. After all, I was resting, and basically sleeping the entire time. In a way it was good to have some time off. Then came the day of the appointment with the specialist.
The specialist was a bit eclectic, but a nice guy. He was a straight shooter, but a collector of kitsch. He pointed me to his room, and asked if I could wait there for a few minutes. About 15 minutes later he walked in, and basically didn’t take a breath from the moment he walked into the room.
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