Thinner than Water
I had to have blood drawn this week. In general, I’m a pretty tough chick and a savvy patient. But I have a weak spot (read: irrational fear) for having blood taken. It was the worst part of pregnancy for me—I didn’t mind the bloating and the sleep disturbance nearly as much as the many needles that pierced my delicate vein and stayed there, rigid in the flexing tubes, shunting away circulating red stuff. Yikes—I got clammy just writing that.
I’m not sick, just in need of a check up. I’d put off the lab work for 2 months, and then found myself barred from registering for graduate classes until I proved I’d had my MMR shot. Now I need a titer to be able to attend school, so there was no more delaying.
It’s been years since I braved this, with Brett and Ben at my side. Ben, age 5, even called me a wimp. And he was right. I told Joshua he needed to come with me, but then I felt like a big baby and told him to never mind.
How hard could it be? I’d spent 3 days out of the last month with my dad, as he took in 7 units of blood by transfusion. The first time I went with him, we arrived at the Johns Hopkins Oncology Center and I looked away while they took a sample. No problem. Then we waited for several hours while they “typed and crossed” the blood. Dad dozed in the borrowed, double-wide wheel chair while I joined a conference call and took notes on the back of the patient information sheet. Piece of cake, but being with so many people with cancer gave the call a backdrop of heart wrenching. They were young and old, some bald, some disabled, some looking way too healthy to be there.
Most didn’t use a wheelchair…maybe a cane or a shuffling walker. But dad is the only fat cancer patient in the world. Honestly. Despite barely eating for weeks, he’s only lost muscle mass and has to carry his big, jiggly middle around while barely being able to feel his feet. The persistence of this belly makes me wonder if we’ve unfairly mocked him for not getting rid of it all these years. It resists even cancer.
When they finally called us into the transfusion room, I was ready to just sit on the other side from the IV and ignore the blood dripping into dad’s arm. My plans were shot, though. The “transfusion room” is a big, open space with cots and recliners, and no less that 15 people getting transfused. It’s like a reverse vampire suite. I had to leave for air.
Since then, dad has needed more and more transfusions, and no one can figure out exactly why. The chemo didn’t work so he stopped it weeks ago—that’s not it. He doesn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere significant—that’s not it. He doesn’t have organ failure. He is, however, the sickest person I have ever personally spent time with. And apparently his blood is ever-thinning.
The truth is, he’s not my biological father—he adopted me after my father died of cancer when I was five. He married my mother a few years later, and I became his daughter, though not by blood. My sister says she’s the only one cursed with “the fat gene,” but I’m more worried about the melanoma gene. The doctor tells me I’m clean, that my dark skin was a blessing. And dad’s fair skin, not part of my DNA, turns out to be a curse. But man, those blue eyes…my sister got those, too.
His blood is thin now, and it has never run in my veins. But there was never any doubt that he was mine and I was his. I wish I could give him some of my heartiness, the health I’ve always been blessed with. But I can’t even give him a bag of blood. I went by myself to have that vial of blood drawn, and fainted right into my own lap. Maybe I’m not as tough as I thought. I hope dad is tougher.
Revelations and Rebuilding. By Becca Sokolov (beccalov) 