Two Nights at MDACC

Welcome to the 15th floor of the MD Anderson Cancer Center. This is where I eventually ended up last Thursday morning, although when I arrived, my vantage point was somewhat different as I was lying flat on my back on a hospital gurney watching the fluorescent lights flash past overhead on my way from the Acute Care Center (ACC). That’s what MD Anderson calls its ER. Years ago, they had to change the name because ambulances kept bringing in gunshot victims, women in labor — all kinds of emergencies they weren’t equipped to handle at a cancer-only hospital.

As it was, the hospital was nearly full when I arrived on Wednesday evening with a fever of 102.7 and one of the worst headaches I have ever experienced. All the ACC rooms were occupied as well, so I was relegated to a hallway along with several other patients.  My nurse wasted no time accessing my port and starting an IV of tocilizumab (“Toci” for short), a drug used to prevent cytokine release syndrome — a common side effect of CAR T therapy. Sometimes they pair it with my least favorite steroid, dexamethasone, but thankfully the dose this time was small.

It took a while, but my fever finally broke. I remember rolling over on my left side, my shirt sticking to my back with perspiration, beads making rivulets on my chest and sliding down the side of my face. John leaned down at one point, his eyes filled with worry and sympathy as he gently wiped the sweat away.

"I hate seeing you like this," he said.

I wished I could take away the burden of concern, but it was all I could do to process what was happening. I wasn't afraid. I just wanted to feel better. I wanted the chills and sweats to end and not feel like a dirty wet rag.

From somewhere behind me in the hallway, a frustrated voice broke through: “I want to get out of here!” His accent was heavy, his tone impatient, and the nurse explained gently that he could leave if he signed AMA papers. John later told me the man wasn’t just upset — he felt others were in greater need of a hallway space than he was. I didn't think so at the time, but soon enough, I would share the same feeling.

Eventually, I was moved into Room 8, a little glass-doored cubicle with a curtain for privacy. The upgrade was welcome, but supplies were tight. I didn’t even have an IV pole — my IV machine was strapped to the bed, which meant I had to call a nurse every time I needed the bathroom so they could disconnect and reconnect my port. And since I was getting fluids along with the Toci, those trips were frequent. Six steps across the hall never felt so far.

Finally, I was wheeled upstairs to Room 1572 on the 15th floor. The halls seemed endless as we navigated through, and I couldn’t help but notice my new nurse — Arvin — scrambling to find an IV pole. He finally appeared with one, claiming he’d swiped it from the room of a patient headed into surgery. I never knew if he was joking, but either way, I was grateful. Hospital survival tip: resourceful nurses are worth their weight in gold.

Arvin turned out to be quick, funny, and reassuring — the kind of nurse who senses you’re not going to be a needy patient and treats you with an easy confidence. Besides, John was a constant presence and more than capable of catching me before I fell. The night nurse, Johneily, was gentler still, tiptoeing in during the wee hours with a penlight to swap IV bags or “play vampire,” as I thought of her 2 a.m. blood draw. It struck me, lying there with my eyes closed, hearing her inhale and exhale steadily as she worked, that her task seemed almost macabre — to be quietly stealing vials of your blood in the dark of night.

By morning, I was feeling much better, albeit tired, but I managed to take a walk around the floor with a physical therapist whose name I can't recall who gently reminded me about the importance of activity, like our walk.

"Fatigue is a huge issue, I know," she said, "and it's so easy after lunchtime when two o'clock rolls around to give in to the nap."

Her point was certainly not lost on me, but I can tell you in no uncertain terms that nearly every day around two o'clock when the nap bug bites, there ain't nothin' gonna keep me from it.

I was beginning to pant a little by the time we made it back around to Room 1572, but it did feel good to get out and walk a little. And if I'm going to scuba dive again, I'm definitely going to need more stamina.

Over the next day, I was visited by APRN Ann, Dr. Dendy and Dr. Patel. Even masked, Dr. Patel’s smile showed in her eyes. She and Ann were the ones who returned Friday morning with the news I’d been waiting for: I could go home. My numbers looked good, my vitals were steady, and the risk of more complications was low.

Grateful doesn’t even begin to cover it. Between John’s quick reflexes and strong arms, Arvin’s IV pole heist, and Johneily’s stealthy vampire skills, I was in good hands every step of the way. Two nights at MDACC reminded me that healing takes medicine, yes, but also kindness, humor, and the occasional act of larceny. And with that kind of team behind me, I think I just might be ready to tackle those 2 p.m. naps with a little less guilt.