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Those stinking platelets

Oh, those stinking platelets.

My last post told you about the battle to increase my platelet count.

Not a lot of success in that area despite two shots of a drug called N-Plate, which is supposed to stimulate the body’s platelet production. The count, which needs to exceed 75,000 before I can receive my chemo treatment, was at 32,000. After a “booster,” the count was, drum roll please, 31,000.

What!

The lab doesn’t lie—unless you’re a baseball player caught with steroids in your system.

So we’re doing lab work again today (July 10). I have a hunch the number will be up, but not enough for me to get chemo.

Which brings me to another interesting story and one of the millions of reasons why health care costs in this country are spiraling out of control.

If my platelet level returns to a chemo-worthy level, I am supposed to take a drug called Fluorouracil—5FU for short. Plug in your own joke about what the FU for stands for.

5FU is a chemotherapy drug that is given as a treatment for some types of cancer, including bowel, breast, stomach, and esophagus.

One of 5FU’s side effects? It can reduce the production of platelets (which help the blood to clot). Just great!

Anyhow, here’s the deal with the 5FU. Instead of the pharmacists at Mercy Hospital being responsible for the drug’s distribution, the drug comes to my house via ground delivery in a box marked "hazardous materials.”

When I’m scheduled for chemo, I bring the drug to the oncology department, where the Mercy chemo nurses put the drug into a portable pump that I carry for 46 hours while the drug trickles into my system at what must be the slowest flow known to mankind.

Here’s the rub.

If my platelet counts aren’t high enough, the drug becomes unusable after about a week and is thrown out. I’m not sure if the drug company or my insurance company has to eat the cost, but if the numbers aren’t good today, this will mark the second time in three attempts that a dose of 5FU has been disposed without reaching its intended destination—my veins.

By the way, I mentioned steroids earlier. You should see what the steroid prednisone has done to my skin. I’m certain virtually everybody reading this blog knows somebody who has taken this drug.

It made comedian Jerry Lewis’ head blow up about as big as a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade float. It’s impact on me has been just as visible.

My arms look like rotten bananas. It’s a condition you see with a lot of senior citizens. I’m covered with splotches of unwanted purple. I also have, literally, hundreds of petechia all over my torso. Petichiae are red or purple spots on the body, caused by a minor hemorrhage—usually broken capillary blood vessels.

Petechiae are completely harmless and usually disappear within a few days.

They may, however, be a sign of thrombocytopenia—low platelet counts. Each time I accidentally bump into something I create more splotches or I start bleeding like a stuck pig.

In fact, I bleed more than boxer Chuck Wepner, who inspired Sylvester Stallone to write “Rocky” and whose nickname was “The Bayonne Bleeder.”

I haven’t tried to hide my arms, which probably explains why small kids go running away in fear when they see me.

Those same arms caused a funny moment Wednesday at the movie theater in Dubuque when I took my Dad to see “Public Enemies.” (I give it three stars out of four).

I went to purchase the tickets and the seller asked if I needed two senior citizen tickets. Dad is 74 and I’m the opposite, 47. I paid for an adult ticket and a senior ticket, and then asked the teller why he thought he had two seniors buying tickets? He said he only looked at my arms and thought I was an old person.

Finally, a few post back, I wrote about National Nurses’ Day. I gave a shout out to a few nurses, but overlooked two of my first cousins, so a belated happy Nurses’ Day goes out to Cathy P. and Brenda E. Keep up the good work.

Everybody keep fighting.

We’ll see you real soon.