MDS: The Chorus of Little Voices

"Your platelets are down a bit," Dr. Onco said yesterday.

"To what?" inquired I.

"Sixty-five thousand."

"Say what?"

Going from 145,000 to 65,000 sounds like more than "a bit" to me. But, Dr. O assured me, this was not unusual during and right after the Vidaza injection sequence.

"It is a form of chemo, after all," she said, as if that excused/explained everything.

Well, at least the hemoglobin and white cell counts remained pretty constant—and good.

Still, this up-and-down count of a blood element about which I'd known nothing just three months ago can be disconcerting. The little voice in my head keeps insisting that "this should be fixed by now." Of course, the little voice knows nothing—same as me.

How can I convince it that it will never be "fixed"?

And, that's not the only little voice. A Chorus of Little Voices is babbling in the background like crickets in the night. The most vocal voice despairs that anything (and everything) is connected to MDS and/or Vidaza.

A fluid-y lump has appeared on my right elbow. It's not painful, but is a bit obtrusive. I have no idea from whence this bubble has come (no bangs, knocks or over-exertions are recalled).

No matter, the Little Voice of Panic jumped to the front of the Chorus of Little Voices and began to nag.

Could this a reaction be?
To Vidaza?
To MDS?
To low platelets?
Or to all three?

It's none of these, Dr. Onco insisted. It's fluid in the bursa sack, a kind of bursitis. Probably from playing golf.

Okay. Sounds fair, even logical, although it's been two weeks since I played golf.

But the Chorus of Little Voice chants on.

About every little thing.

Each voice intoning its specialty:

• Sneezing
• Coughing
• Itching
• Aching
• Sleeping
• Not sleeping
• Doubting
• Fearing
• Wondering why the Mets can't win.

Enough! Enough, I say to the Voices.

Do they listen? Of course not. They're generating too much noise babbling at me to hear me. I need Judge Judy to come and gavel myself to order.