Crap.
Good news, bad news... who knows.
You know that story, right? The farmer's horse runs away, and then it comes back with some wild horses, and then the farmer's son breaks his leg trying to tame the wild horses, and then army doesn't take him because his leg is broken. And through all this the farmer just keeps saying, "Good news, bad news... who knows."
You think I'm talking about not being drafted. Ha, I wish. Oh and, my leg is not broken.
Right before Thanksgiving, my sister's friend saw a story on the news about a clinical trial for a genetic mutation of the type of the lung cancer that my sister has. A few weeks later, my sister was flying to Boston to be tested; there was just a thirty percent chance that she would test positive for the mutation, and she tested positive. It was agreed that she would continue with her current therapy as long as it kept working, and then she would have this clinical trial.
Oh my god, you're talking about cancer? You're juxtaposing the draft to your sister's cancer?
Man, I didn't do it. I was cool with the draft. I just got home and there was this email—
That's mean, Poppy. Go back to talking about your weird charts!
So the current therapy is not working. The cancer is, apparently, bad. But. The current therapy not working was the necessary condition for her getting to get in the clinical trial. On the news they said that in the trials the cancer was melting away from patients even more advanced than my sister.
Good news. Bad news. Who knows.
It's a great philosophy, but I'm sick of it—
