It's cold out - which is a blessed relief as the recent warm weather brought large numbers of still untanned legs and deathly white breasts out onto the streets. You couldn't move for blue veined calves and Elvira like cleavage. Most unseemly.
Tests tomorrow and Wednesday - can't say that I'm looking forward to an hour spent in a corridor draining a glass of barium solution every ten minutes but c'est la via. An 'la vie' is what this is all about.
Last time I was there an old guy kept shouting
"I can't drink this, it's all too much"
To whit his wife replied
"You say that about drinking water at home, you've always been a whiner'
I'm always amazed at how people become so comfortable with their domestic dysfunction that they feel that they can play it out (loudly) in public.
The scans themselves are okay. The room is always freezing and a battery of doctors (is that the right term?) stand elevated and behind glass (is that symbollic?) no doubt catching glimpses up your gown and making disparaging remarks about the size of your spleen - I know I've been most evil when viewing people from behind a one way mirror - there's something about it that turns them into 'subjects' rather than real people.
PET scan takes a lot longer than the CAT scan - and involves laying down for an hour before being 'taken to the machine' but both are harmless.
Both though have a sticker, right next to the laser, that says in small print that you have to stare at to see 'do not look at the laser' - too late, I'm blind and about to be cut in half - Bond style.
Worst of all is visiting the oncologist. A long wait is punctuated by your being moved from waiting room to 'Suite' - then from 'suite' to consulting room, where you sit, usually for about 90 minutes, bored, cold and despairing as the doctor finishes off a plate of fois gras at his country club and meanders back to the hospital in his black German car.
Anyway lots of puff about nada
Time to wake up 'The Judith'
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