"Funny Blood"
53 images Created 18 Aug 2009
I had been with Karin for eight weeks when she came down with a sinus infection. Though we both assumed it was nothing, Karin--a medical assistant at the time--had her blood drawn and sent to the lab as a precaution. The results that sat in the fax machine the next morning were ominous:
Elevated WBC with 92 percent blasts consistent with Acute Leukemia.
Three days later, her parents were there on either side of her bed, unmoving, as the diagnosis was confirmed. Her father, sitting alone in the corner, suddenly began to sob uncontrollably.
Karin seemed so alone among the crispy white sheets of her bed. Finally, her mother began encouraging her that we would fight this "thing."
The first night in the hospital, I lay awake beside Karin in a reclining pseudo-leather chair. "Chris, I have to pee. Can you unplug Burt?" "Burt" was the name we had given her rolling IV, which was plugged in at night to charge; she was to remain attached to her rolling IV. I unplugged Burt, then watched her topple everything in her path as she dragged the rolling metal poll (this man of steel) to the bathroom. She came back crying. It had hit her in the ill green glow, in the fluorescent sterility of the hospital bathroom--the realization of disease, of possible death.
We sat in the dark contemplating existence, evolution--relying upon each other for satisfying answers to unanswerable questions. "There is no reason why you are sick," I said finally. "You may dwell on death or you may confront it...I believe we should focus on the productive. Sadness doesn't cure cancer." It hit us both then--the realization that she could live...or die.
Just before she was allowed to go home, when her immune system had sufficiently recuperated, we were allowed to roam the hospital. After a 10-minute walk through the deserted halls, Karin was left breathless and tired, but extremely excited--like a kid sneaking around a place she knew she shouldn't be.
Elevated WBC with 92 percent blasts consistent with Acute Leukemia.
Three days later, her parents were there on either side of her bed, unmoving, as the diagnosis was confirmed. Her father, sitting alone in the corner, suddenly began to sob uncontrollably.
Karin seemed so alone among the crispy white sheets of her bed. Finally, her mother began encouraging her that we would fight this "thing."
The first night in the hospital, I lay awake beside Karin in a reclining pseudo-leather chair. "Chris, I have to pee. Can you unplug Burt?" "Burt" was the name we had given her rolling IV, which was plugged in at night to charge; she was to remain attached to her rolling IV. I unplugged Burt, then watched her topple everything in her path as she dragged the rolling metal poll (this man of steel) to the bathroom. She came back crying. It had hit her in the ill green glow, in the fluorescent sterility of the hospital bathroom--the realization of disease, of possible death.
We sat in the dark contemplating existence, evolution--relying upon each other for satisfying answers to unanswerable questions. "There is no reason why you are sick," I said finally. "You may dwell on death or you may confront it...I believe we should focus on the productive. Sadness doesn't cure cancer." It hit us both then--the realization that she could live...or die.
Just before she was allowed to go home, when her immune system had sufficiently recuperated, we were allowed to roam the hospital. After a 10-minute walk through the deserted halls, Karin was left breathless and tired, but extremely excited--like a kid sneaking around a place she knew she shouldn't be.
