Flying Solo

My usual dates being otherwise engaged -- the BFF and Jockette both onsite with programs -- I put on my big girl panties and showed up for my evening MRI, chaperoned only by my 2mg of Ativan.

The process never changes.  Two hospital gowns -- one open front, one open back -- no jewellry, an IV where the dye goes in, lying face down in the tube, blah, blah, blah.  Unfortunately, the anxiety never changes, either.  I'm not the least bit worried about the outcome of the MRI:  whatever the results, we'll deal.  It's the half hour in the tube that I find tough.  Nevertheless, with the drugs to take the edge off and the knowledge that I'm in the care of the pros, I assume the position (face down, arms at my sides, head first) and away we go.

Soon enough, the whirring and clicking is over and I emerge from my magnetic cocoon none the worse for wear.  Now, it's just a couple of weeks to anticipate the appointment with The Dutchman to receive the results, and I can forget about cancer for another few months.