Husband's Log - February 16th-17th, 2026

On the morning of the 16th, Angela and the Group 3 squad of patients set out to the chemo clinic for their fourth and final round of chemotherapy.  As Angela slept in her medical-grade La-Z-Boy,  I went to the nearby break room and witnessed a British man struggling to use the communal k-pod coffee machine.  I felt empathy for the British man, especially with my own reputation for past coffee machine mishaps.  I had also used this machine three times before, once for each round of Angela's chemotherapy.  I imagine this machine causes grief for many a users as it is no standard issue k-pod coffee machine.  

For starters, it's appearance is akin to a vertically standing metal donut, like the top-half of a CT scanner.  While placement of the k-pod is easy to anyone familiar with a Keurig machine, placement of the cup is another experience entirely.  The metal donut features a black open-topped box in its center hole where we are apparently supposed to place the coffee cup inside, but the box is too skinny to hold any cups wider than my fist.  We also cannot place the cup in the donut hole without using the provided box because the base has a spike rising from it which  serves no function.  We can also see the box sits at a small angle inside the donut hole, further reducing our confidence in the machine.  Once we put the cup in the box, we're presented with a large mouse wheel on top of the donut which determines the quantity of liquid to pour.  On first use, nobody has any idea how much coffee is going to come gushing out of the donut as the only indicator of liquid volume is these green LED lights which shine below the mouse wheel.  It's an idiotic measurement by all accounts as nobody has ever described a cup of coffee as being 4 green lights full, but that's just my opinion.

After helping the British man overcome the metal donut and achieve his caffeination goal,  Ang and I took her chemojuice pole for a couple walks, then killed the remaining time doing meaningless activities on our phones.  We then took the van back to the home clinic and did little to nothing for the rest of the day as Ang was tired and a wee bit nauseous.  Despite the nausea,  I consider this day a win as it was Angela's last round of chemotherapy.  Her white blood cells had been completely obliterated, so there is no more biological warfare on her brain and spine.

The next day, February 17th, was a momentous day for Angela and the other Group 3 patients.  It was the day they received their stem cells back into their bodies.  The HSCT doctors call it their stem cell birthday.  This day began around 10:00 AM with a field trip to Hospital Angeles, the newest bougie private hospital in Puebla.  Riding to this hospital, we saw a different side of Puebla, a rich side filled with nice condos, fancy restaurants, and a plethora of high-end car dealerships.  Upon arriving at this hospital, the Canadians and Germans in the van were all in awe at the hospital's size and architectural beauty, something we're not accustomed to in our nations of taxpayer-funded healthcare.  In the hospital we were led to a waiting area, then the patients were separated from their caregivers and led to another room.  I was barely able to complete one crossword puzzle by the time the patients returned.  It only takes half an hour to put stem cells into someone's body, despite taking a couple hours to remove them.  The cells are like coins for our piggy bank bodies.  It's quick and easy to put them in as there's no sorting involved, but taking specific ones out of the piggy bank takes a bit more time and effort.  Thankfully the simile stops there as Ang would rather the doctors not shake her profusely to extract her stem cells.

After the patients received their stem cells, we were driven to the chemo clinic to get the catheters removed as they were no longer needed.  We were sat in a series of chairs on the main floor like parents at a school Christmas concert and waited as the patients had their catheters removed one by one.  Before the catheters were removed, the patients were given matching orange shirts stating "HSCT Fighters" on the front, as if they were all enlisted into Dr. Ruiz's disability league soccer team.  I give him props for coming up with a strong team name on the shirts, but the acronym might confuse the soccer moms watching them play.  After Dr. Ruiz added the patients to his team roster, they each had their picture taken with him on the opposite side of the chairs.  

Once all the catheters were removed, we were taken back to our home clinic and officially entered the neutropenic period of our stay here at MS summer camp.  The neutropenic period is a timeframe in which each patient undergoes strict quarantine and dietary measures because they have little to no immune system until their stem cells rebuild it from scratch.  It's similar in practice to the Covid protocols during the early 2020's, except the patients are nauseous, they can't eat fresh fruit, and there's no convoy of half-ton trucks to protest our lack of freedoms.  This period is expected to last about 7-10 days, after which Angela will be free to re-enter the world in a limited capacity.