This weekend, my ever-patient husband and I will make the 8-hr. trek back to Bethesda for my first post-treatment follow-up. This is the appointment that everyone from the principle investigator, to the attending, the immunotherapy fellows, the nurses...they all caution, "Don't expect results this soon."
Somehow, the forewarnings of a handful of highly trained medical professionals do not penetrate the skulls of tenacious engineers, however. Our plan is (as always) to get copies of the scans as soon as they're available and continue to track the progression of the tumors' growth. Even if shrinkage isn't yet apparent, we are hoping that the growth-rate will be measurably slower. If the tumors' sizes fall short of the expected growth-curve, we'll dance for joy. (Patrick will dance, I will...clap enthusiastically. I'm a little too weak still to be doing any dancing. Also: neuropathy.)
We pray earnestly that no new tumors will have become evident since the previous scan.
We shall see.
I am not keen to go back, honestly. My strength is improving ever-so-slowly, but it is nowhere near what it needs to be for me to exist "as usual" (pre-treatment). Secretly, I am afraid they might kidnap me and keep me in the hospital for another month. ack! ack! ack!
No. That won't happen. I mean...wait! No, I'm just imagining things.