… has yet to start. We are waiting on the blood to come, which has already been ordered.

Her Hb was 7.9. The doctor called it borderline, giving us the option to wait a week to transfuse. The time we went 5 weeks she was 8.0 at 4 weeks, so we are kind of needing transfusions at 4.5 weeks right now. We decided to go ahead and do a transfusion today, rather than wait, since her IV was already in (the phlebotomists were mysteriously gone, their office closed today, so we couldn’t do a check of her blood levels before setting the IV this time.) It turned out ok – the IV tech was able to do it with one poke.

Her white cells were a little low, outside normal range, but her neutrophils were in normal range.

I won’t know her retic and ferretin for a few more hours, as they send those to the main lab for processing.

She is at least stable right now. Improving? No hard evidence says yes. Soft, subjective observation says possibly… but too soon to be sure.

Being in this hospital is difficult. Being on this floor (cancer/hematology) is a challenge. A baby in the waiting room is unhappy, sickly, making grunting and snorting noises, having difficulty breathing. Maybe only 3 months old, her right knee is hugely swollen and purplish blue. Was she dropped accidentally? Is it related to a cancer? Does she have an infection?

Taking Adahlia on a walk around the wing, we pass the 10 private transfusion “rooms,” created by erecting walls with giant curtains as doors. The feeling is a strange blend of being in the bays of a stable, and in strange, semi-private group shower areas. Each cramped bay contains a hospital bed, a recliner chair, an IV stand, a tray, a wall shelf of children’s books, and a wall mounted swivel TV. We typically close our curtain at least part of the time so Adahlia can breastfeed and (hopefully). (We are here for about 8 hours.) But a lot of people leave their curtain open.

In one bay, a young boy, maybe 10, lies on a bed on his side, playing a video game, a feeding tube in his nose. His left foot is missing, the unnatural stump of his ankle bandaged. Can leukemia lead to poor circulation and cause gangrene?

It’s part horror show of what could be, part consolation show of what could have been. And even typing those words I know I’m being selfish, and dramatic, but its how I feel looking around me — just this all-encompassing desire to not be here.

A little boy in a bay a few bays down cries and struggles as the nurse is attempting some sort of procedure. His dad tells him to lie still; he cries out that he doesn’t want to. His mom says it’ll be over soon; he screams. Hold still! His dad says. Ow!!! He shrieks while his mom hushes him. His cries fade into little moans. He whimpers, “it hurts…”

This goes on every tine we come here.

It is actually happening every day.

Multiple times a day.

From another bay, a wracking cough, full of phlegm, deep in the chest. It probably comes from a child between the ages of 8-12. But it sounds like it comes from a 60 year old smoker.

I know the nurses probably tell themselves they are doing it to cure the children, that the short-term suffering is necessary for a hopeful cure. But I don’t know how they stand it.

I hear a nurse outside.

“I just need to get this blood started!” she complains to someone. She sounds overwhelmed, or maybe just over-tasked.

I’m assuming she’s talking about us.

Adahlia will have to be woken, a shame — it’s so hard to get her to fall asleep here, and she’s actually sleeping deeply, tucked into organic blankets I brought from home.

But once the transfusion starts, we have only 4 hrs left.