Ding-ding-ding! But, closer to my short-term goal...

Ok, ok, so I admit it -- I'm no gambler. This is why I only go to casinos for the steakhouse and the occasional Rick Springfield concert.

It was a fullhouse at the clinic today, but they run it like absolute clockwork. I rarely start up a conversation with people, anywhere, but I gave it a try. Plus this is Mississippi, and man, I totally forgot that in Mississippi, meeting people in checkout lines at grocery stores and exchanging recipes is just The Way It Is. Everyone here talks to each other. And my Southern drawl is firmly back in place. I sound like Barney Fife from Mayberry.

Anyway, hard as this is to believe, I rarely speak unless spoken to. But when in Mississippi, I decided to do as it is done -- so, here goes:

I zero in on him, zippin' around on a metal-flecked, cherry-red electric scooter, a chemo-balded man in his early 60s, carefully-dressed but with no particular color scheme in mind, with his pressed, striped dress shirt and wide, black suspenders, pants too short, baby blue socks that went with nothing and his suit coat draped on the back of his scooter seat. Me, with cancer? I'd be in my bathrobe and fuzzy socks, looking like a newly-hatched, chewed-up baby chick.

So immediately, I figured he was my kind of guy. I sat down to wait my turn now. "Hello there. How're you feeling, huh?" Looking down around at himself, he says, "I'm ok, I guess." Then I got him to talk about how cool his scooter was. I could tell he was proud of it by the way he was driving it. Tried to talk like my dad, "Boy, that thing looks like it turns on a dime. You really do fly on that thing." Then he got proud of the whole ride. Has another, too, with four wheels, "More stable, but not like this one." That one was His Baby. "Well, I personally like the color." He smiled, suffered me gladly I hope, got his shot of Procrit, and we bid each other farewell, telling each other we're both going to be well, and he punched an extra-squeaky, rubber wheelie around the corner for me and down the hall. Burn rubber, young man, burn it well.

I get my blood drawn, they run my bloodwork, then the nurse comes in and before she tells me my winning number, she asks how I feel. What, so then I get this instant headache in the center of my head. "I feel like a 36. You tell me." She says, "You're at 17k, come on back, we'll getcha some platelets. You o-positive?" Me, "Oh yes, so very."

Hey, if nothing else, numbers-wise, I'm catching on to this thing. I was right with the 17k prediction. But the Yardener in me is impatient to start growing her own.

The way I look at this, either way, the day was a winner.


Last stats:
01/21/01, scored big with loss only down to 20k
today, 17k but scored big with a nice, dark batch of platelets from some divine donor,
and ended up with a post-count of 91k, which is the highest platelet count I have probably had in months, unknowingly


short-term goal: 100k
long-term goal: 315k