Well, the spousette flew to Southern California on Tuesday for another battery of tests and scans yesterday, and returned last night. Unlike dilatory CæsarCare, Cedars-Sinai has got right back to us. One could wish that they had returned good news.

Her “cancer antigen (CA-125) numbers are up. “Normal” is under 35. Last summer she was >2500; by January the magic number was 18. In March, 81. Yesterday, 322, not a good trend. But the scans? Tumors are sprouting anew, now in the liver and lymph nodes. “Well,” she sighs, “at least now I know why I can’t seem to gain any weight.”

We knew that the surgeon was perhaps unduly optimistic. His younger colleague, the oncologist, always cautioned us that it was more realistic to hope for an extended interval of remission. But three months? “Extended?” We weren’t really prepared for so brief an interregnum.

We’re still off in two days, with the doctors’ blessing, for a planned weeklong tropical holiday, although the news is bound to cast a pall as we sip those beachside beverages with the funny little paper parasols. We’ll drive down to the Southland the day following our return for further consultation and evaluation. Probably we’re facing another several months of these trips (and lordie, the LA summer heat!) for another regimen of chemo, but they’ve hit the beast with their best shots, and it’s hard to know what it now intends, having shrugged off these blows. Nothing good, I’m thinking.

cordially,