Gone fishin'

Well, not exactly. We're going to New York again tomorrow for a six-week brivanib doctor's appointment. I will have a CT scan and we will decide where we are at. It's a little hard to know what to hope for in light of the placebo issue. Part of me wants there to be absolute minimum progression, just enough to break the code and re-prescribe the live drug. Part of me thinks that stability (and by this I mean the tumors more or less staying still, not growing 14 percent for technical "stability") on placebo would be great, since I'm dealing with a lot and need all the rest I can get. And, of course, there's the fear that the tumors have broken out of the box and run wild over the last six weeks. I'm trying to deprive that thought of oxygen, though.

And, hell, the tumors could just all be dead. That would be fine. Preferable, in fact.

All this to say that I will probably blog the results if I can, but not much beyond that. L. introduced the dream of seeing the late Picasso show at the Gagosian, which would be amazing if physically possible. (Here's an audio slideshow about the show.) There will also be dinners, of course, hopefully amazing ones. And yes, cocktails on the Soho Grand's luxe couches, where the lighting is so sweet and the ceiling so beautiful that for minutes at a time I can sit there with my lovely wife and feel glamorous, a sensation in short supply in my real life.