The week started slow but ended spicy.
And by spicy, I mean my ANC finally hit 0.05.
To the untrained eye, that number might seem small—because it is. But for me, it means my immune system is starting to stir from its medically-induced slumber like a groggy toddler demanding snacks. It’s the first real signal that my bone marrow is rebooting, and my body is maybe ready to rejoin society without the risk of being taken out by a sneeze.
The real highlight, though? Bone Marrow Biopsy #2—a.k.a. the final exam before graduation from Induction High. This test checks for any rogue white blood cells still cosplaying as promyelocytes. If we get an “all clear,” it means we’ve officially kicked those freeloaders out and can move on to the consolidation phase.
What’s consolidation?
Well, it’s basically the extended tour: 8 months of month-on, month-off treatment. Think of it like a really long-distance relationship with chemo. There were lots of breaks and occasional toxicity, but somehow, it still more predictable than my last romantic entanglement.
If all goes well, I’ll be discharged soon. With a clean marrow, a slightly stronger immune system, and maybe—just maybe—the digits of one of these heroic nurses.
Now, before anyone clutches their pearls, let’s be clear: I’ve been nothing but a respectful, neutropenic gentleman. But with this many nurses walking around in scrubs, it’s hard not to develop at least one chemo crush. So naturally, I’ve been workshopping some lines. Some might even make it past security.
Pickup Lines That Might Work on a Nurse (If She’s Sleep-Deprived and Charitable):
“I think you dropped something… my white blood cell count—and also my jaw.”
“Are you a hematology nurse? Because you’ve been running through my bloodstream all day.”
“Is it hot in here, or is that just your bedside manner?”
“I may be immunocompromised, but I promise I’m emotionally available.”
“You check vitals, right? Because my heart rate just spiked when you walked in.”
Lines That Should Probably Be Confiscated:
“Do you do CPR? Because you just took my breath away—and I’m technically not stable.”
“Is your name Methotrexate? Because you’re toxic, and yet I keep coming back.”
“Hey girl, are you an antiemetic? Because you make me forget how nauseated I am by life.”
“I’d offer you a drink, but all I have is saline and regret.”
“You, me, and a box of gloves—what could go wrong?”
Let’s be real: this journey hasn’t been easy. There’s bloating, fatigue, awkward gowns, IV pole entanglements, and an entire hospital wing that’s seen me cry, laugh, and get real philosophical at 3 a.m. But there’s also been so much good—friends visiting, texts that made me smile, and nurses who genuinely care (even if they don’t appreciate my A+ flirt game).
What keeps me going isn’t just the promise of remission. It’s knowing I’m not doing this alone. It’s laughter. Connection. Gratitude. And maybe a medically questionable amount of dad jokes.
Here’s to the end of one phase, the beginning of another, and flirting through the fog.
Week 4: Complete. I’ll post the breakout video.
Until then, No Quarter to Tapping out Cancer.
~Tyler
