Redemption

Elgar would be spinning like a top in his coffin, but "Land of Hope & Glory" was playing in my head as I strode, triumphant, from the MRI suite at Princess Margaret Hospital, this afternoon.  My regal pale blue cotton robes floated around me, and the booties-that-look-like-hair-nets softened my imperial step on the cold linoleum, but the effect was as magnificent as circumstances would allow.

2mg of Ativan, the BFF, and a delightful technician I'll name "Darling" got me smoothly through the IV installation, then into -- and 25 minutes later out of -- the trauma tube.  What a relief to have it behind me.  But what a kick to finally achieve what had felt so difficult on previous attempts.  And how proud I am to have been able to do, at last, what The Dutchman requires of me.  I do so want to be the pefect patient.

I hope I'll be able to learn the results, before I head into OR on Tuesday.  I'm quietly concerned that the images will show further areas of concern, and the course of my surgery may change.  But I'll burn that bridge when I cross it.  'Til then, I'm happy to have tucked another success into my medical folio.  Now where's that pink champagne?