I've harvested. No, not wheat, bone marrow!

I did it. I donated my bone marrow (aka product, harvest and other gross, clinical terms that the medics here use) to the little unknown troll. For those of you who don't know me well, "troll" is a term of endearment for any child under the age of my current age (i.e. 33).

The day of the harvest, John, Irma, my caseworker, Andie, my Chinese, male limo driver and I showed up at UCSF hospital at 5:30 a.m. I have enough luggage to put Shelley Long from Troop Beverly Hills to shame. By the way, if you don't know what I"m talking about, rent the movie. Still rocks my world.

What is up with all the cute doctors? Even the Asian doctors are cute. What is going on? And, no, I was not on any drugs at the time they were primping me for the OR so I had my faculties about me.

My anthesiologist, Andy (who is also a Chinese male) was very cute except that he 1. couldn't find a vein in either arm (he tried for 30 minutes) so he decided to go through my foot.

GROSS. ICKY. BAD ANDY.

Then, to add insult to serious injury, he asked me what I weigh.

In front of people. Cute people. Cute, medical people.

Andy must die.

So, I told him that I would tell him but that he should be ashamed of himself and that he should not judge me becuase I'm not fat, I'm just fluffy.

Yes, I was on the beloved laughing gas at this point.

When I came to, I felt a bit like I'd been run over by a Mac truck (I don't even know what that is but it sounds dramatic so I'm going with it) and that I has been reincarnated as a dung beetle.

John, my steadfast roomie and mommy, walked me to and from the bathroom and watched me push my bladder to pee as my bladder was still sleeping from the anesthesia. I begged him to leave the bathroom but he told me to get over it and held my gown up for me. I hate him...okay, but I hate him in a loving way.

Apparently, I lost a lot of blood and my blood pressure is among the levels of corpses so Doc Marten (not making his name up) asked me to stick around versus get discharged. No problemo.

When I was finally released to the Holiday Inn at Fisherman's Wharf in the care of Amberlyn, my sweet friend who is terribly excited to be my new best friend, she monitored my Vicodin intake, my other medications, my lower back for ice pack needs, my juice intake and refolded all my clothes while I slept.

Last note: thanks a pantload for all y'all's support, interest, good wishes, visits, etc. I'm truly touched and I would say I'm emotionally overwhelmed except that I can't feel anything. My bladder says "hi" as it is slowly waking up from its 40-hour nap.

As I was being helped to the bathroom last night at 3:30 a.m. by a nurse, she asked me if it was true that i didn't know the recipient of my product. I said it is true.

She told me she couldn't believe that anyone would do that (a bit disheartening to hear from a nurse...at 3:30 a.m....killing my Morphine buzz). She then told me that her husband declined donating bone marrow and she supported his decision. I don't want to judge so all I'll say is this - i'm happy to help someone else and I"m sad that so many people are surprised that I would do it in the first place and do it for someone I don't know.

Gandhi said "Be the change you wish to see in people". This constipated, exhausted and fluffy gal is hoping that she's doing right by him.

xoxo, the harvester