All is well on the CT scan. All hugs all the time. Nurse Practitioner R is 22 weeks pregnant and starting to show, and feel the baby kick. She is good at delivering kicks too – in the ass. “You’re tired?” she said. “You’re fine! Get over it! Start moving again!” I’m sluggish in the wake of no steroids, apparently – even though my last dose was six weeks ago.
She informed me that the weird little things that have shown up on my skin as a result of the dabrafenib can be removed by my dermatologist and it won’t be considered a “frivolous” cosmetic procedure, since these things are a result of drug therapy.
J and I had lunch and then came to the Morgan Library, where I’m meeting a friend for coffee soon. But I’d never actually visited the place in all my years in NYC, so we just took a very quiet walk around his library. In counterpoint to how I feel (like screaming and shouting from the rooftops), I quietly padded around on the rug looking at Mozart and Beethoven manuscripts, letters from John Adams and Thomas Jefferson, and one of the three Gutenberg bibles in the collection here.
Now, though, I’m heading upstairs to see a special exhibit on 150 years of Alice in Wonderland. That has been a book very close to my heart, ever since my dad and I read it together when I was seven or eight. And I’ve thought of it often in the past 11 months, when I’ve had treatments that don’t seem all that different from the EAT ME cakes and the DRINK ME potions that transport tiny or enormous Alice to previously unknown worlds.
I’ve encountered a lot of interesting things on this journey, but I wouldn’t be sorry at all to have it be at an end.