On Blood Transfusions, Linux, and the Art of Rebooting

August 29, 2025

Last Friday began with weariness that seemed to seep into my bones. Maria wheeled me up to the infusion center, the sound of the chair wheels against the tile echoing louder than it should have, a hollow rhythm that matched the heaviness in my chest.

I have not spoken much here about my limited mobility, perhaps because saying it out loud feels like admitting defeat. For months my legs have been reduced to short distances only. A few steps at a time, then pause, then steady myself against a wall or a railing, always cautious, always measuring each move against the dizziness that waits in ambush.

We suspect I even had an injury I cannot recall. The bruising and swelling on my left forearm tells its own story, one I cannot quite remember. That is perhaps the strangest part. The missing pieces. The blank pages in my own timeline that remind me how fragile my hold on strength has become.

The plan last Friday was straightforward. Two bags of blood. A few hours in the chair. Then home to rest. No surprises, no grand expectations. I sat there, exhausted, as the transfusion began. The nurses worked with quiet efficiency, adjusting lines and monitors while I tapped out my last post on the phone.

Writing in these moments is not just a distraction. It is both an outlet and an anchor. Words give form to what otherwise feels like helpless drifting. They let me shape the experience, give it edges, turn the act of being tethered to bags and machines into something that belongs to me.

By the end of the infusion, something shifted. I stood carefully, expecting the familiar wave of dizziness to come rushing in. But it did not. My muscles were shaky, my balance uncertain, yet still, I walked. First from the infusion chair to the waiting room. Then further. I told myself I would keep going, deciding, maybe out of stubbornness, maybe out of courage, that I would walk across the entire hospital campus to the car with Maria beside me, my security blanket. A week earlier, that distance had been unthinkable. We had to stop often, leaning more on willpower than on strength, but each restart mattered. Step after step, I made it.

It felt like a reset. For months my body had been running on empty, crashing without warning, locked in endless loops of fatigue. This transfusion gave me just enough fuel to start again. Suddenly, the simple acts of standing, walking, and moving forward were possible once more. Not smooth. Not easy. But possible. That possibility itself felt like a gift.

On Saturday, I chose rest, but I did not stay idle. I climbed up and down our stairs, several times, not because necessity demanded it, but because I wanted to. I wanted to test myself, to feel the pull in my legs and the burn in my lungs. It was not a chore. It was exercise for its own sake, a small rebellion against stillness. A way to rebuild what had been stripped away.

Incoming Computer Nerd Alert

That weekend brought another kind of reset. I wiped my main laptop clean of Microsoft Windows and installed Debian GNU/Linux. For some this might seem like a technical footnote. For me, it was a return to form, a gesture rooted in history. I have never been much of a fan of DOS or Windows. My very first PC, a 386 DX with four megabytes of RAM, arrived with them preloaded. I tolerated it, but quickly switched to OS/2. Later in college, when finances were tight and commercial software was out of reach, I discovered Linux. I installed Slackware on that machine and a door opened.

Slackware introduced me to a new kind of freedom. With tools like Gopher, Jughead and Veronica, Mosaic, and later Netscape, I learned what it meant to shape a system. I could configure it, build it, strip it down, add what I needed and leave the rest behind. That sense of control was intoxicating. It was not just about saving money. It was about understanding the how and the why behind the screen. That curiosity never left me.

Over the last three+ decades, due to personal and professional demands, I have moved from Slackware, to Red Hat (only because work paid for me to become a Red Hat Certified Engineer), back to Slackware (as the distribution of choice for my digital forensic platform at work, yes it was a dual boot system, I needed Windows for somethings), to Ubuntu (for the boys’ first few computers), and now to Debian. Each step was part of the same search: for a system that is stable, simple, and truly mine to direct. Debian is simply the latest chapter in that long-running preference.

That weekend, the transfusion and Debian spoke the same lesson. Progress does not always mean adding more. Sometimes it means paring back to what is essential. Shedding the unnecessary. Starting clean. Beginning again with only what matters most.

On Sunday I put that lesson to the test. We went with Ethan to the Fairfax Comic Book Convention. The convention center buzzed with color and sound. Costumed fans moved through aisles lined with artwork and collectibles. The hum of conversations filled the air, punctuated by bursts of laughter and excitement. Surrounded by people celebrating their heroes, I walked. Three hours, give or take. I took breaks, yes, but still I walked for three hours. The longest stretch in eight months. My legs trembled, my balance wavered, but I kept going. Each step felt like proof. Something inside me had been restored.

In the days since, I have kept stretching, rebuilding, and learning how to move with purpose again. My muscles ache, fatigue still lingers, but those sensations no longer feel like defeat. They feel like signs of life, evidence that my body is reawakening. I am not where I was.

Of course I remain realistic. My next round of chemotherapy may bring dizziness back. I am doing everything I can to prevent that, but if it returns I will accept another transfusion without hesitation. My body is fighting to heal, but it cannot do everything on its own. Sometimes help is required. I am learning that accepting help is not weakness. It is survival.

The larger journey continues. My blood counts will be watched closely. The next step takes us to Memorial Sloan Kettering, where I will undergo my bone marrow transplant. The paperwork is complete. Mid-September we will travel north for the consultation. The transplant itself will not be easy. It is a rebuild at the deepest level, more demanding than any reset of a computer or even a transfusion. It is not just adding strength. It is rewiring what keeps me alive.

Yet today, I can say this. I feel good. Not perfect. Not whole. But good enough to walk across a hospital campus. Good enough to climb stairs for no reason other than to prove I can. Good enough to stand beside my son in a convention hall and remain on my feet for hours. Good enough to believe that forward progress is real.

Like my laptop running Debian after a fresh install, I am not the same system I once was. But I am leaner, clearer, and more focused on what matters. I have shed what I do not need. I have restarted. I am running again. For now, that is more than enough.