Editor's note: This is the second in an occasional series in which Register outdoors columnist George Carl and his wife Andi Carl chronicle their experience as George goes through a bone marrow transplant.

Wow, the big day has come.

After all the excitement of finding a donor, I am in the hospital at Stanford, getting all my prep for the actual bone marrow stem cells transplant.

This is quite a journey, and also quite an education. I have heard about bone marrow transplants -- but I pictured them very differently than what is happening to me.

To back up for a moment, I was diagnosed in 2004 with two kinds of leukemia. We managed to get rid of both through chemotherapy.

Unfortunately, the acute myeloid type came back. My doctor said it will continue to come back until it kills me, unless I get a bone marrow transplant.

So, after seven months of treatment and a search for a donor, here Andi and I are at Stanford, ready to spend 100 or more days living in Palo Alto.

I was anxious to meet my donor and thank him or her, but I am not allowed to meet that person for two years. The reason: Just in case I don't make it, the doctors don't want the donor to feel bad.

(I'm still planning a big party for that donor, whoever it is. The only hint about the person's identity that I've been able to glean so far is that he or she may be from Europe.)

I'm sharing this all in hopes that it will help anyone who may have to go through a bone marrow transplant, and to offer people a little clear information as to what really happens. As I wrote last week, I thought cancer always happened to the other guy ... but the truth is that someone in one out of three families will have cancer of some type.

A 'Star Wars' moment

Years ago, we would die from most cancers. Today many types of cancer can be treated and cured.

There are now cancer centers all over the country.

I happened to have my health insurance through Kaiser, and when it comes to bone marrow transplants, they work with the Stanford Cancer Center in Palo Alto.

As you enter this building, there is a soothing air inside, blended with the music of live harp players. I get the eerie feeling that I am in a "Star Wars" theater, with all the people wearing different masks, and some faces having a grayish tint.

Many are bald, and all are here for the same thing.

What is all the prep? To start with, I had numerous blood tests, another biopsy, extensive x-rays and a 24-hour urine test. I also received a new catheter in my veins, just below my collar bone. Most infusions of blood and many medications will be fed through it.

Chocolate is OK

What I will receive is not exactly bone marrow tissue. Instead, it is a heavy blast of blood cells.

Because of my age, I will not receive total radiation and chemo. I'm fitted with a shield to protect my vitals of heart, liver, lungs and pancreas. The radiation is mostly for my lymph nodes. The first week I will be medicated, radiated, and prepped for the one-time blast. Then I will be living in Palo Alto and coming to Stanford daily as an outpatient.

The biggest concern is rejection -- that my body won't accept the blood cells from my donor. I will have low immunity to disease or infection, and must live in an almost sterile atmosphere with constant care for 100 days.

My diet is neutropedic, no fresh fruits, salads, dairy products of any kind, no beer or wine, and a long list of things I can't eat. But there are plenty of items I can eat that I like, including chocolate, so I will survive.

Even the water I drink has to be boiled and put back into bottles.

The tough regimen of testing by my 24-hour caregiver is the most crucial element.

For this my wife is taking a leave of absence for awhile. My sister and some friends will fill in, too, as I will be in semi-quarantine for 100 days. The routine includes washing my hands about 10 times a day and wearing a special germ-free air filter when I go to the hospital.

The book with instructions for my caregiver is 218 pages long, with inserts added weekly.

It is hard to imagine us living away from Napa and our home for more than three months, but that is how it will be.

I feel it may be tougher for my wife to babysit me 24 hours a day and correctly provide all the meds I have to take than it will be for me to be on the receiving end of her care.

Meanwhile, we will reflect on many good memories and make plans for more.