More Blindsiding Drama for the Buckaroo

So on Wednesday before Thanksgiving, Bill and I drive to the clinic for a simple little Gemzar drip, estimated to take about 15 minutes.

I actually said the following to him on the way there: "Last time we tried this, we ended up sitting there for 7 hours while they used the flipping jaws of life on your kidneys, right? Ha ha ha!. Now THAT was a surprise, but now we're done with surprises," said the foolish, foolish I, then waxing foolisher immediately thereafter by uttering this statement: "There's absolutely NOTHING that can go wrong today, though."

WARNING: IF YOU HAVE A WEAK CONSTITUTION OR ARE EATING ANYTHING RED, LIKE, SAY, CRANBERRY SAUCE AS YOU READ THIS, DO NOT CONTINUE. STEP AWAY FROM THE COMPUTER. PROCEED IMMEDIATELY BACK TO YOUR DINING ROOM TABLE AND READ THIS TOMORROW.

So we sit down and the nurses call Bill's name, and he goes over and sits in the chair to have his blood drawn.

He's there a long, long time (I'm around the corner, can't see him).

Finally, here he comes and sits next to me. He's holding out his arm. It's wrapped up with a series of bandages from his wrist up to his elbow.

"What the heck is that all about?" I say to our cowboy.

"They couldn't get any blood to come out. They tried all different spots but the blood wouldn't come out. Finally they got a tiny bit and sent it to the lab. The nurse said she's never seen this happen before."

"Never seen this? But people have trouble all the time with their veins being hit right to draw blood."

"That wasn't it," he said. (If this were a spooky movie, the music would get really creepy RIGHT NOW.) "The problem is that my blood has coagulated."

"WHAT?!?!?! You mean, in the syringe???"

"No. In my whole body. All my blood has turned to goop. My blood looked like red pudding, and they couldn't get it out, and they've never seen this before."

Well, nothing like an image of THAT sort to relax a wife whose normal level of calm in the BEST of circumstances is along the lines of a bomb squad expert who, while disassembling a nuclear device, encounters the sound of an unexpected balloon pop.

Shortening the story here, it was 4 hours before we got out of there. Bill did NOT get his chemo. The test results came back with such an insane reading of his blood contents that they refused to believe it and wanted to retest him.

But to do THAT, they had to call in the head nurse to try to get enough blood out.

Not only could this nurse not get the blood out, but they had to attach an extra suction device to the syringe to try to FORCE some blood out, and when the blood came out...I am not exaggerating, now...it was completely congealed!

Jello. Heinz ketchup. Cranberry sauce. Cherry pie filling.

His blood was not liquid! It was gravy!

I was completely horrified.

The nurses were trying to act calm, and say assuring things--they're wonderful about that--but. I mean. WHAT WAS GOING ON?

So they got about 1/10th of a syringe full and gave up, and sent it to the lab marked *ASAP*.

It came back and showed that Bill's body was no longer running on blood but had become a Toyota Prius fueled solely by restaurant grease.

Okay, seriously, though, it showed that his blood was pretty much guano on a shingle.

So they sent him home.

Home?

I kind of thought that wouldn't have been my first move.

I was thinking more like the intensive care unit until his blood was actually liquid again.

And I never should have googled this when we did get home, because after what I found out about blood congealing during chemo, we're both sitting here in a panic, with the thermostat turned up to 110 degrees lest the air temperature fall too low and his blood solidify into one giant cinammon candle.

Or a lifetime supply of cranberry sauce.

Happy Thanksgiving!