I call Ginny to tell her I made it into the trial.
“Yay!” she wheezes. “We are now both official guinea pigs of the medical system.”
The tumors in Ginny’s lungs have grown enough to cause her chest to fill with fluid—pleural effusion—which makes it hard for her to talk or breathe deeply. Or maybe it’s the immunotherapy flare. Either way, they put in a drain to make her breathing easier.
“I basically have a tap in my back now,” she says. “I’m never having sex again.”
“Oh come on,” I say. “I bet there is a whole subculture for people who are into that. Medical equipment fetishes. You just need to search the Internet and find them.”
“Do you really think I haven’t done that already?” she says—laughing, coughing.