My Day As A Lab Rat

I’m sitting in the hospital cafeteria eating an egg salad sandwich with dubious origins. It’s not that bad for hospital food. I shouldn’t complain. I haven’t eaten since six o’clock last night, and it’s almost noon. At this point, any food is good food, and my tummy is thanking me.

Ah, nutrients…Sigh, I should’ve gone with a pastry. Oh well, there’s always next time.

This was a long morning of needles, wires, and waiting rooms. Most of the tests required fasting, so no food for me. Then they had me running between Vancouver General Hospital and one of the nearby offices. A marathon on an empty stomach because, yeah, that’s what days like this are: a marathon.

Damn, now I’m really regretting not getting the pastry. Hm, do I go back, stand in line, and…Nah, the lunch rush is hitting, and I hate waiting. I’ve done enough of that today. The egg salad on multigrain is nutritious, and who cares about expiry dates anyway.

I was up before the sun and got on the road before my body could object too much. I am not a morning person. I’ll never understand those rare gems that can get out of bed with a giggle and a grin. It must be a disorder of some kind, right? It’s just not natural.

Good morning, good morning…Oh, shut up you…Grr, no, be nice.

On days like this, it’s best if I jump the gun. Get my body up and out the door before my brain can register the injustice, the cruelty, and wail, “Oh, what have you done to me?” If I move fast, I send it into a state of shock, and it won’t complain too much.

I won this round, body! HA! I outsmarted myself.

I live a ways out of the city, so I left plenty of time to hit morning traffic. It usually takes an hour and a half or two hours. That’s a lot of time to sit and contemplate what’s about to take place. Dread, anxiety, and the inevitable resignation to fate toy with each other. My hands grip the steering wheel tighter and tighter.

A distraction would be good. How about a mantra to cheer myself up? It’s going to be a…day. Hm, I need to workshop that one a bit more.

Today, for a few hours, I cease to be a person and become a patient. A name on a chart. A list of symptoms. A page full of numbers. A meat sack, if you will, that exists for the purpose of experimentation. I am a lab rat shaped like a human being.

Was that a bit too much? The meat sack thing grossed me out. I should delete that. Nah, let it ride. It is, after all, an accurate description of how this morning has felt.

I should say that the people I’ve met have been kind, funny, and all-round wonderful human beings doing an incredibly difficult job. They try very hard to make this experience as painless as possible. Ultimately, however, it’s hard to get through it without feeling a bit of your humanity stripped away.

Pain is inevitable. The invasiveness of these tests can’t be helped. In the grand scheme, they’re necessary, and I’ve consented. I understand the need. It has to be done, so I square my jaw, clench my fists, and go to a happier place in my mind.

If life wasn’t what it is right now, I’d love to get on a plane and fly to the other side of the world. New Zealand (Aotearoa) is at the top of my list. I’d love to get a camper van and spend weeks exploring the islands. I’ve been watching a lot of videos, and those images make me smile. So, as another needle pierces my skin, I mentally travel to this far-off land.

One day, with monumental luck, I might make it there for real. How lucky do I feel, though? No! We’re not going there. This is a happy place, remember. There’s no cynicism, skepticism, or grumpy pants in this space.

Oo, look at that, they’ve almost gotten all the blood they need. How many tubes? 15? 16…I ask if they’re going to save me some. I’ve been assured that there will be a few drops left inside of me. Ha, good joke. I like a lab tech with a sense of humour.

One more test done, and a few more to go.

Next, they check my heart to make sure it’s holding up to the strain of the last few months. The drugs they’ve given me have gnarly side effects and can cause some unwanted problems. I lay there as they attach wires to my chest and push some buttons. This one isn’t so bad. There’s nothing painful about it, and I could take a nap. 

What? It’s done? Already? So much for a quick snooze, eh. 

Oh well, I’m one step closer to freedom, so let’s go to the next stop. My lungs are scanned, more numbers are checked, and I’m off to see the doctor. Fingers crossed. I’m scared to ask what the test showed. If I ask they will answer. I’ll know, and I’m not sure if knowing is a good thing or not.

Ignorance is, as they say, bliss. But that only lasts so long, and then that nagging voice shatters the illusion. A hint of doubt sparks the anxiety, and questions like, “What if…” pop off. Once that gets started, the false sense of euphoria wears off, and the chilly hand of reality slaps you across the face.

I suppose I should go to that appointment and not run away. Or, in my case, limp off with vigour. No, I can do this. I can face what’s to come. Probably. Maybe. Damn, why do they make us sit in these waiting rooms for so long? I’m surprised more people don’t do a runner.

And then they call my name. Okay, let’s do this. Let’s get it over with. Stiff upper lip, set jaw, smile politely, and walk into that room.

I’ll spare you the next twenty minutes of Doctor Speak. It’s good news, though. My numbers are holding steady. While some damage was done to my transplanted kidney, it seems to be holding its own for the time being. When this whole rejection episode began back in January, they discovered I’d developed antibodies to the kidney. It’s called B-cell rejection or chronic rejection.

It’s common in long-term transplants like myself. I’ve had mine for 17 years, and it’s only a matter of time before the immune system creates the antibodies and causes trouble. It’s not something we can fix or get rid of. Once the antibodies are there, we can do our best to control them and hope it doesn’t cause trouble. 

Right now, it looks like my immune system is being controlled by the anti-rejection medication. My levels have stabilized, and I’m feeling pretty good. I’m almost back to my old self, yay. Also, people can live with B-cell rejection for years and have no problems. It’s not great to have, but in this minute, it’s not killing me.

Phew? Yeah, that should end with an exclamation mark, but I’ve been through a lot this year, and I’m still adjusting to this new addition to my life. Give me some time, and that punctuation will change.

So, here I sit, in the cafeteria, typing these words and eating my dubious sandwich. My day as a lab rat is coming to an end. I won’t have to repeat it for a couple months, so that’s good news. The more often they want to see you, the sicker you are. When they start spreading out appointments, you’re doing good, kid.

As a reward, I’m meeting a friend for lunch. She works at the hospital and is taking her break with me. It’s nice to have some company on days like this. We’ll talk about silly things and maybe some serious stuff as well. We’ll laugh and make plans for a future adventure.

She’ll remind me that I am, in fact, a person and not a meat suit there for the poking. On days like this, that’s what’s needed more than anything else. A helpful transition from patient back to human being.