Day +7

Because my verbal replies are monosyllabic these days, and my verbal statements curt, at best (with some clumsy hand gestures), it would be natural to assume that I have lost my sense of humor. Nothing could be further from the truth, however, so today I am inventing a new type of joke, the kind that (conveniently for me) doesn’t have to be all that funny to seem worth composing. Welcome to the next big thing in blog comedy: Day +7 stem cell transplant patient jokes. I know this is a genre that will have limited appeal, but then again maybe that’s just as well.

Some random examples (or classics) of the genre:

Q: Finding the arena empty, where did the Day +7 stem cell transplant patient choose to sit?

A: In the nosebleeds.

 

Q: Why was the Day +7 stem cell transplant patient not welcome back in certain public restrooms?

A: Because he just assumed you should take your urinal with you.

 

Q: Why was the Day +7 stem cell transplant patient accused of being overly skeptical?

A: Because he found everything hard to swallow.

 

Q: Why did the Day +7 stem cell transplant patient cross the road?

A: To get to the cyclophosphamide.

(Of course, the real answer is, “What was he doing near a road? Doesn’t he know that’s where those filthy, germ-ridden chickens hang out?)

 

Q: What runs, jumps, and spikes, but has no clear connection to anything else (including volleyball)?

A: A Day +7 stem cell transplant patient’s fever.

 

Q: How do you know when you’re a Day +7 stem cell transplant patient?

A: When “to Netflix and chill” really means “to Netflix and chill.”

 

Of related interest are Day +7 stem cell transplant patient riddles…

 

Q: What gets taken from Day +7 stem cell transplant patients at least 3 times every day without being either replaced or diminished?

A: Their vitals.

 

I guess there ought to be a knock-knock joke in this vein, so here goes:

 

“Knock knock!”

“Who’s there?”

“Day +7 stem cell transplant patient.”

“Day +7 stem cell transplant patient who?”

“My sentiments exactly.”

 

OK, so maybe that last one was less a joke than a comment on the sense you sometimes get in here that your life as a patient is your entire identity. It’s not that the care-givers and staff don’t see you as a full human being, or that they make you feel less than human or individual, but rather that it feels like every single visible aspect of your life (and many that are invisible) is being examined minutely through the lens of this all-consuming, unbelievably complex procedure.

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