SPINNING PLATELETS

I said platelets. Platelets!

Three weeks after the COVID vaccination, I had my annual physical. While my usual concern is cholesterol, this year the numbers for blood platelets -- the little things that help clotting -- were lower than the normal range. 

Seeing that everything else was fine, the doctor wasn't overly-concerned, and suggested I return a month later for more blood-work.  The platelets, he opined, might have just been jammed up -- kind of like the FDR Drive at rush hour, I suppose.

The second time around, the numbers were a little higher, but still outside the range of what is considered acceptable. This was no traffic jam. The official name for what I had, I learned, was thrombocytopenia. 

Now you know Carrie's problem.

That the rest of the physical turned up aces mattered not. Any medical condition I can neither pronounce nor spell concerns me, particularly one that could cause, among other things, bruising for no reason and easy bleeding. 

Well, my ego bruises easily enough, so that's no surprise. But by easy bleeding, he meant spontaneously from my eyes, nose and skin pores.

Oh, and internal bleeding. Can't forget that.

My doctor referred me to a hematologist. That's another thing that concerns me -- when doctors send you to someone else, you know that whatever you have exceeds their pay grade (or bill).

It's pretty cool that a blue thing reading
THROMBIN is floating around my veins.

About a week before my visit with the hematologist, I read about Israeli doctors reporting that many vaxxed patients were showing signs of too much blood clotting. 

Well. If that was one side effect, could the opposite be another? I found out just moments later, when reading a piece in the Wall Street Journal. Doctors in the US were suddenly seeing vaccinated patients with -- drum roll -- low platelets.

Until now, the only side-effects I knew I had following the COVID shots were the initial 48 hours of  chills, aches and overall blah feeling. Not really bad; just enough so that my wife took over the cooking. And when that didn't happen, we ordered in dinner. I like these side-effects!

Thrombocytopenia, however, I could do without. After a round of blood work at the hematologist, I was given a little plastic cup and told return the following day with a stool sample.

Not that kind of stool!

A stool sample?! This was the most disgusting medical order I had ever received. At least there were still plenty of latex gloves we stocked up on during the early days of the pandemic.

Knowing my internal combustion as I do, the discommoding would have to wait until the following morning. Which is when I found myself in the bathroom with cup in hand and chagrined all over. 

Reaching around, I took aim, fired... and hit the bullseye first time! And I wasn't even looking! My pride was matched only by the repulsion I felt screwing on the cap.

When I dropped it off later that morning, I felt a little sorry for the folks whose job it was to examine this thing. But this is what they signed up for, right?

Soon to be a Netflix movie.

For the next three or four days, my hospital's app gave me regular test results. The names of some of the tests -- immunofixation electrophoresis, helicobacter pylori antigen -- made my eyes cross. Others -- nuclear antibody, immunoglobulins -- sounded like something from a horror movie. The kappa/lambda free light chains with ratio simply sounded like it had to do with a fraternity. 

But whatever they were, all came back negative. It took a phone chat with the hematologist a week later to find out what to do next.

To begin with, the name of what I had was now upgraded of a possible case of idiopathic thrombocytopenic purpura. So now I was an idiot?

Well, I didn't have to take the blame. It seemed that my immune condition had gotten confused, believing that the platelets were the enemy. Idiot! This could indeed have been caused by the vaccination, although the doc said he's had plenty of patients with ITP without shots. 

The platelet count, he explained, could wax and wane. There are cases that resolve themselves in six months. Sometimes treatment is needed, either with (gulp) a bone marrow biopsy, or a round of steroids.

Me, before and after treatment.

 

Wait, steroids? Cool! I could transform from a 145-pound weakling to a beastly, bellowing, oiled maniac, smacking down opponents with hand slaps, headbutts, and metal chairs. This ITP thing might be paying off!

 These treatments, he emphasized, were unnecessary now. All we had to do was monitor the situation. 

Come back in four months. If things are holding steady, return in another four months. If it's still looking good, give it six months. "We don't have to treat it unless it becomes a problem."

Actually, I thought it was a problem now, but I guess he meant a real problem. I've made my next appointment for November 29 -- the Monday after Thanksgiving. I'm hoping for a test result to be thankful for. 

Oh, I forgot to mention: those latex gloves? Turns out I didn't need them! Perfect aim! If giving a stool sample becomes an Olympic sport, I've the gold medal locked up!

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