I found out two weeks ago that I have six donor matches. Six, in the stem cell transplant world, is a lot. Many people are happy for just one, and some have to settle for partial matches. Essentially, my doctors can choose the fittest of the six, and the determinations are not much different from those made during a high school dodgeball game. Candace and Simone are smoking in the corner, so they’re out. Besides, they’re girls, and so is Nikki, so they’re not getting picked first. Obviously. (No, seriously. Male donors are preferred because if female donors have ever been pregnant, their babies can expose them to foreign genetic material—their partner’s—which complicates the grafting process.) Johnny is on the fast track for liver cirrhosis, so he’s not the best choice. That leaves Flynn, the tortured artist, or Ryan, the Olympic swimmer. We’ll go with Ryan, thank you.
So, with six good matches, you would think I’d be packing my bags for a Tucson winter with all the other snowbirds. You’d be wrong. Because…a funny thing happened on the way to the transplant. Continue reading