Scans

Ah, yes. The quarterly CT scan to see if the ugly lymphoma is trying to raise its nasty little head. Not a bad procedure, really. Nothing to eat or drink 4 hours before the test. Drink 2 containers of barium gunk over the course of an hour before the scan. Then 5 minutes for the 2 dips in the machine. Followed by the usual week's wait for the results from the oncologist.

I mention my scan to a friend and she grimaces. No, no, this is not scary, just routine. Oh, OK. Her relief is palpable. I smile, but in truth, I do have moments of concern despite there being no reason for thinking there is anything to worry about. I purpose to set such thoughts aside and not give them any leeway.

Today my appointment is at 5pm. Usually I have early morning appointments, so this is not my norm. The waiting room is full - mostly people waiting on someone who is in the back getting a test. A smiling technician appears with my 2 bottles of barium. I know the drill. He shakes the pudding out of the first container and pours me a cocktail with a flourish. I think of my friends on the French Rivera, and pretend that I am sharing drinks with them instead!

I glance at the carefully written schedule. Drink one glass of white lubricant at 5, 5:10, 5:20, [end of bottle one] 5:30, 5:40, 5:50. End of bottle 2. Done. The flat screen monitor blares the day's news about Bin Laden's death and recovery efforts in Japan (who would want to go inside that hot reactor?) while I imbibe. I take my time, savoring the slight hint of orange and mint in the gooey stuff.

The radiologist whisks me back, delighted that I don't need to strip out of anything (never wear anything with metal to these shindigs - no bra hooks, no zippers, nada). She instructs me to hoist my fat little butt up on the tongue of the scanner, then straps me in for the ten minute ride. First the neck area, then the chest and abdomen. Zip, zip. I watch the whirling sprockets, doodads and gizmos circle my face, spinning faster, then slower, the inching until just the right part is belly up.

Lights blink. A calm woman's voice, recorded of course, tells me to take a deep breath in and hold it. Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait. You can breathe. Whoosh! I exhale. The radiologist's voice floats towards me from somewhere over my head. All done. She extracts me from the machine and lowers the board on which I am helplessly ensconced. Velcro rips as she releases me. Insert earrings, retrieve purse, and I am out the door and on my way home.

Not bad. Although supper will have to wait a bit. I am too full to consider eating anything just yet.