When my stem cells were harvested and put in the deep freeze in June 2010, my hematologist said the timing for the transplant was not yet critical.  As long as my blood counts remained reasonably level, and as long I could tolerate the side effects of Revlimid ^[1] (lenalidomide) and dexamethasone ^[2] (Decadron), he felt I could postpone the procedure.

A few weeks after the stem cell harvest, I retired from my job because of dexamethasone-related side effects (see my related Beacon ^[3] column).  I also believed the stem cell procedure would take place fairly soon after the harvest, but it did not happen as quickly as I expected.

My wife and I took full advantage of the delay.

In the summer of 2010, we rented a cottage on a lake in the Adirondack Mountains and enjoyed time with our three children who joined us.

In March 2011, we spent 16 days touring Israel.  A few months later, in July, we repeated hikes we had taken in Banff National Park in Alberta, Canada, 40 years earlier, though this time we stayed in hotels instead of tents. (During the trip, I learned that 62-year olds have no business learning new sports.  While mountain biking downhill, I flew off the trail head over heels and landed on my sturdy backpack.  It apparently protected me from any physical damage other than some scratches.)  Late summer days were spent swimming in the ocean at beaches in and around New York City and ponds in nearby Connecticut.

Alas, it appeared that the delay for the stem cell procedure would not last forever.  My blood counts were not moving in the right direction.

During the late fall of 2011, my hematologist was becoming more insistent that the time for the transplant was approaching.  He also was not amused by my steroid adventures and insomnia.  A brief switch from dexamethasone to prednisone ^[4] seemed to make my state of mind – and my blood counts – worse.

I continued to swim a mile four or five times a week in a pool in Manhattan.  I found that cool water (79 degrees) was great therapy, both mentally and physically.  The rhythmic breathing during the 45-minute swim was akin to meditating.  The water and the exercise were fabulous for my neuropathy, which was getting worse as the chemotherapy continued.  For the period of the swims and for several hours afterward, my symptoms substantially abated.

On January 1, 2012 – in New York a day more like spring than mid-winter – my wife suggested we go out to Coney Island to clear my head and give support to our 25-year old son, who was joining the Polar Bear Club with a plunge into the ocean.

I grabbed my backpack (which usually contained a swimsuit), and we took the subway out to Coney Island.  By the time we arrived, the air temperature had risen to 60 and thousands of people were on the beach.

Undoubtedly still under the influence of my weekly dexamethasone doses, I joined the hordes.  I changed into my bathing suit and plunged into the water.

This was perhaps my last bit of steroid insanity.  I unfortunately dove into the water with my eyeglasses on, which I barely managed to grab before the ocean took them away.

Although joining the polar bear club had not been on my “must do” list, it did make a welcome distraction from the myeloma: It relieved me of the neuropathy for a few hours and provided a great conversation topic for a few days.

Nevertheless, all these activities didn’t keep the stem cell procedure at bay.

In February, two years after my initial myeloma diagnosis, the hematologist said it was time to schedule the procedure.

A mere three weeks later – far more quickly than I had anticipated – I was admitted to the 11^th floor of Mt. Sinai Hospital in Manhattan.

I was surprised to be quickly shipped down to surgery on a gurney for the implant of a catheter in my neck.  The catheter was to serve as a port for the constant stream of fluids and medicines I was about to receive. I don’t think I had been forewarned of what seemed to me to be a pretty dramatic if quick surgical procedure.  Perhaps just as well.  It went without mishap.

The catheter was immediately put into service:  I received my dose of melphalan ^[5] (Alkeran) and thus was on my way to the loss and rebirth of my bone marrow.

Nineteen days and many gallons of IV fluids through the catheter later, I was discharged.  I emerged from my 15-square foot room 12 pounds lighter, a lot weaker, and a lot balder.   I also emerged with a profound respect for the nursing profession.

While the procedure did not go without complications or difficulty, a mere four weeks after discharge, I am in a state of semi-euphoria.  I am sure this emotional state cannot last, but the pain is abating, my stamina is returning, and I’m thrilled to be on the road to recovery.

In my next column, I’ll post the details of the procedure.