Chapter 7 - The Infusion
Transplant day is referred to as "Day Zero" in the oncology ward. It sounds like the beginning of an apocalyptic movie, but for us, it was the beginning of a second life.
The actual procedure was remarkably anticlimactic. There was no surgery. The donor's bone marrow, harvested in Chicago and flown to Boston in a cooler, looked just like a bag of blood.
I sat beside Elena's bed, holding her hand tightly, as the nurse hooked the bag up to her central line.
"Here we go," the nurse smiled gently, opening the valve.
We watched in absolute silence as the pinkish fluid traveled down the plastic tube and entered Elena's body. I stared at it like it was liquid gold. Inside that tiny bag were millions of healthy stem cells—cells that would travel to her bones, set up a new home, and begin producing a healthy, cancer-free immune system.
Elena looked at me, a fragile, hopeful smile touching her lips. "Happy birthday to me," she whispered.
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"Happy Day Zero," I smiled back behind my mask, feeling a profound wave of awe. A stranger a thousand miles away had just given my wife her life back.
Now, all we had to do was wait.
