76, 50...I say I get 26k for optimism

Plus, I gotta brag on appearances -- my skin, nails, hair have never looked more balanced and luxurious, minus 10 pounds I've been meaning to lose all over anyway, despite steroids. Sparkly eyes with a bright shiny coat. Must be all that ATGam horse serum I got in the hospital.

Ok, so the results are in from today's appointment.

For those playing the pool,
Last stats:
prediction was: "I will walk with no transfusion
to guess a number, 76K"

reality was 50k
and my cyclosporin levels in my body were half than needed to be therapeutic
(cyclosporin being the bone marrow transplant *non-rejection* caplets I take, keeping the oven on for the hopeful platelet-baking. So, I increase my dosage back up to my hospital levels again. Hey, no problem. Twice the Rx price and shaky hands, but hey, not so long ago, aplastic anemia was incurable. So, hug a scientist today.)

BUT to me, this is still win-win situation.
Win one, no transfusion, and all other blood counts and levels were good and strong white and red blood cells. And the doctor will readjust my cyclosporin levels to kick up the heat. Thank you, God, for Better Living Through Chemistry. Win two, I seem to be keeping divinely donated platelets for a little longer intervals -- trying to eat all the folic acid I can, freshest ingredients, resisting processed and choosing whole foods, and treating the donated platelets with care and respect. As far as eating goes, I was like this before, but now, it's sheer appreciation to the donors and also, the labmonkie in me experimenting. The only thing I need to add back in this experiment is naps. For real. I watched it work on my serum sickness. Two hours of deep sleep and my bruising would heal, seriously. Sleep is so restorative.

Wishing sometimes, longing really, for one, delicately-shaped, thin crystal-etched glass of full-bodied Cabernet Sauvignon, don't care which -- a pretty label would do. But we all know it thins the blood, so I will wait until I toast my own home-grown platelets, hopefully with a big slice of red velvet cake with buttercream icing somewhere in March. Or, before. I got The Fight in me. Today I realized, I'm from Mississippi. Still. With fire. It's official. Funny story if ya got the time...

I will write it here when I get back from loading up the birdfeeders. Basically, it involves a bad-looking neighborhood stray cat taunting my mom's cat in the backyard, and me, snapping into Firey Mississippi Girl Mode, automatically grabbing the bb-gun from the umbrella stand (yeah, I know) with my sweetheart PICC Line arm, not even thinking and pumping it up twice to sharp-shoot his unwelcome ass accompanied with a blue-stream of Southernisms which I can only describe as *something that sounded exactly like what my dad woulda hollered at 'im.* Don't worry, I didn't hit him. But son, I coulda put it right in his bb-hole. Hate to brag about my sharp-shooting abilities, but again, Mississippi Girls ain't braggin' when it's the truth. And that's when I came to, and thought, "Oh damn, my PICC line arm...shoo, good, it didn't pop loose and bleed. Girl! Dang you! Get your butt in here and sit down and eat your fried chicken (after giving all the fried parts to my mom and eating only the nutritious, meaty parts) while its hot. You can't build a platelet yet, but you're home from the inside-out, and you @#$%in' will build yer own platelets, girl." And, I love that part of a Missisippi Girl.

Ok, so that was my funny story I was gonna write in there. So, done that. Nevermind. Now, on to that therapeutic nap I told you I was going to add back into the mix -- I call it the "Shooting Aplastic Anemia in the BB-Hole with Nutrition, Meds, Rest, God/Good and His Friends, You" Experiment. My chemist (and sharp-shooting Special Forces) Daddy would be so proud of me.