This morning's Remicade excursion began like any other, with a cold, dark and barely-awake drive to visit my second home. Michelle and Wish, my regular infusion center nurses, perked me up with chatter of new serum biomarkers, holidays and my veins. Feeling extraordinarily adventurous today, I opted to give my poor inner elbows a breather in favor of a more fancy-pants IV site: the wrist. Though I have what is probably an unhealthy comfort with needles, IVs in the back of the hand and wrist have always weirded me out. It was, to my great amusement, very classy. Michelle even put a bit of gauze between the needle and the tape so as not to rip out the tube too harshly and invite the typical mess due to the allergic reaction I have to the tape itself.
Wish inevitably asked about my ear, and I refrained from extrapolating my theory of an organism from an alternate universe in favor of the more benign, "this is seemingly a consequence of a suppressed (oppressed?) immune system." Though it has been a noble fighter in the past, my line of defense is whithering to a sad benched quality -- thank you, Dear Remicade. In no uncertain terms, this drug has saved me from regular excruciating pain and replaced it with an irritating inability to fight off much of anything that assaults me. The Colony has by now expanded into my hairline, around the lobe of my ear and is creeping down my neck and onto my face in an inglorious manifest destiny. (Because I have been bragging about this for three months now, I feel that I owe you:)
Gnarly, eh? Conscious of keeping this blog PG-13 rated,
I sopped up the leaking blood and serum for you.
If it gets to the point where my eyesight is threatened or I fear it will otherwise interfere with graduate school interviews (one acquired, four to go), I may invoke a short-term Prednisone stint in effort to fight the inflammation that not antibiotics, hydrocortizone, athlete's foot cream nor hydrogen peroxide have been able to defeat. The Derm appointment is only ten days away (my birthday present to myself!), and I count the days (sometimes broken into 8 hour segments... no joke). We shall see if he supports my Steroid Hypothesis.
Meanwhile; bladder is fully functional, intestines are in agreement with the current diet (even with a few holiday indulgences), night sweats are somewhat controllable or at least don't wake me up as often, and the nasal exoskeleton with its tremendous stores of green mucous continues to subside with the help of Nasal Crom. Progress, though painstakingly slow, is finally observable.