As if stem cell infusions were not exotic enough, my neurologist told me months ago he wanted me to give Plasmapheresis, or plasma exchange, a try. I resisted as long as I could, just for the sport of it. This is not a new therapy, and I was told there is some evidence it is effective with secondary progressive MS. I have trouble saying no to this guy, so I figured, what the heck, though that is not precise, word for word.
All the patient has to do is get stuck in one arm with a big needle, with a smaller one hitting a vein in the other one. Piece of cake. Sort of. I was tethered to a whirring machine, a centrifuge separating plasma from blood cells. My own plasma was discarded and replaced by donor plasma or colloid fluid, whatever that is. The theory is that plasma from those with a range of illnesses contains dangerous antibodies.
Of course the machine stops if you give it a dirty look. It recalibrates, adding time to the procedure. This went on forever on my first day. I had not eaten for a day when I had the procedure that first time, and the centrifuge went on strike. This machine, I figured, is even more screwed up than I am.
Even in my frustration that day, it occurred to me that times certainly have changed. I had learned my fate in the Diagnose and Adios days, when treatments for MS did not exist. And here I was, getting state of the art medical care. Neurologists are not shooting blanks anymore. The question is, can they hit anything out there? Where I end up at the end of all this is not known.
There has been marginal improvement from the stem cell trial, which I will write about when the train reaches its destination. I do not know about the Plasmapheresis. At least I am doing something. My arms had been getting tired treading water for so long. I feel stronger and am in better shape psychologically. That counts.