Some Day We'll Look Back on All This and . . . Puke
UPDATE: Saturday, August 12, 10:20 a.m. Mere seconds before swallowing my keep-calm drugs, I just got a call from A. Radiology, telling me they don't have a technician to do my "open MRI." That's OK, because I'm not having an open MRI. The New Rollogist said it has to be closed. Uhoh, they scheduled it for open. Well, can I come in and do a closed? Um, NO. Skip to end of the conversation: closed MRI, Monday, 4 p.m. After I had already done rounded up my CDs, my drugs, and my blogfriends! So, those of you coming around to pray and vibrate and just generally cheer me on or check on me, thank you and God bless you, and go have a great Saturday. And those of you planning to attend just for the Speedo'ed pudding rasslin', please contact William and Nilbo directly to find out if any other such events are scheduled this weekend.
The title of this post is not original. I remember it from a greeting card I sent my dear brother and his wife, many years ago, shortly after their home burned to the ground. Most members of my family of origin share a very warped sense of humor. My sister-in-law saved the card for years.
On Monday, I saw a New Rollogist. He was very nice. He spent an hour with me, and we did fun things. First, he had to make sure I wasn't drunk. Had me do the heel-toe walk, touch my nose, that kind of thing. Once I convinced him I was below the legal limit, he continued with other unusual activities. He tickled me with sharp things and buzzing things. We made funny sounds together and wrote each other notes. Then hopped, barefoot. Hey . . . I wonder if he was a doctor at all. I might have stumbled (and I do mean that) into a Gymboree.
How sweet was he, that he had a big cornucopeia full of Hershey Kisses in the waiting room? And how sick was I, that I didn't even take one?
The New Rollogist could neither confirm nor deny any of the allegations that my symptoms are making against me. He must do an investigation. There's a test tomorrow, then there's a TEST on Saturday. An MRI of my brain. The point being, I am sure, to verify its existence. I know it's a necessary test, and I believe it will provide some helpful information. The thing is, this is the one test I've managed to avoid all these months. I'm claustrophobic, and prone to panic attacks when "contained" in such a way. Sigh. I won't be doing the "open" MRI because he said the closed one gives better results. I'm too far into this mess to risk wasting time with less than the most efficient tests.
So, I will stick my head in a noisy box for 45 minutes on Saturday morning. Good times. I know that some of you have stuck your head in a box before. Got any tips for how to get through it? (And Bucky, I SWEAR . . . don't you even start . . . )
Thank you for all the praying, and vibrating and loving. I abso-damn-lutely KNOW that it makes a difference. It does. I'll let you know when I know something.
You rock, Ratsasstafarians :)
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