Because my reflection doesn’t have to walk into a gym full of people who think basketball is the most important thing in the world.
It doesn’t have to pretend the wordhospiceisn’t sitting in the back of my throat like a splinter.
I leave my room, and the house is quiet. Pops’s door is shut. Logan’s isn’t.
I don’t look at it.
I don’t look at anything that might pull me out of the thin layer of control I’ve wrapped around myself like armor.
I make coffee. I don’t drink it.
I pack my bag. I check my phone.
Three new emails from the hospital. One voicemail from a number I don’t recognize. A calendar invite titledPalliative Care Consult.
My vision blurs.
I blink hard until it clears.
Then I open my browser.
Clinical trials. Glioblastoma trials. Immunotherapy. New radiation protocols. Anything. Everything.
My search history is a graveyard of hope.
trial eligibility age 59
tumor burden multiple lesions
phase 1 trial location california
experimental treatment outcomes
how to get into clinical trial fast
I scroll until the words stop meaning anything and become shapes.
The problem is every site says the same thing in different fonts:
Eligibility criteria.
Prior treatments.
Performance status.
Tumor location.
Progression.
Progression.
There’s that word again.
I find a trial at Stanford. My fingers hover over the contact form.
Then I read the exclusion criteria, and my stomach drops.
Not eligible.
