Tuesday, Tuesday, TUESDAY

 I see my new neurologist, Dr. Scott Plotkin, this Tuesday. He replaces god, Dr. Robert Ojemann. You know, man, no pressure!

I’ll get the results of my latest MRI (brain) adventure and, most likely, get my next ones prescribed (two for my spine).

I’ve been all edgy for more than a few days -- struggling to stay buoyant, not collapse under a sea of fear and anxiety at the prospect of possible bad news. What does ‘bad news’ entail? Tumors (I've got that fun Neurofibromatosis Type 2) have grown and it’s time for more surgery with all the risks and gambles that involves.

Mind you, I’ve had three big ass brain surgeries and one astoundingly major back surgery. In that one, every major muscle in my back was severed and then reconnected after Barker (AKA son of god) debulked, the leviathan-esque, scum sucking, basthole meningioma that had wrapped around my spine (from the T1-T4). Recovery from that made other recoveries feel, in contrast, like relaxing spa holidays. No lie, that.

The point here is that I feel I ought to be used to all this by now. It should be no biggie, right?  Eh, sadly no.

Now that the majority of the tumors (schwannomas and meningiomas  alike) have been debulked (a word which just exudes such grace and charm, no?) my body is not AS MUCH of a ticking time bomb. So then, no worries, eh?

Ahem, my psyche has not caught up to the new, lower, Yellow Alert Levels  plus, the fucksticks grow back. They were reduced in size not eliminated. The persistent poops have a nasty rep for blossoming again like Black Eyed Susans in spring.

Why debulk instead of total removal (resection)? Svelteifying  (now, isn't that a better sounding term? Of course it is) poses much less risk to all the other tightly packed nerves in my head. As for my spine, total removal wouldn’t have given me even Vegas odds of being able to walk again or have any feeling at all below tit level. I’m gambling on that residual demon spawn, ratfucking spinal tumor being a slow grower.

I’m not necessarily expecting the ultimate in nasty news on Tuesday but still, I won’t know until I sit down with Plotkin and maybe not until after the, probably inevitable, next MRI or two. Like every year, I become hyper aware of my balance issues, every little new ache and pain, vision problems and more. And the low grade worry creeps in.

Funnily (NOT), I went through this stress tango twice, thrice and sometimes four times, yearly for decades. And I stayed sane...sort of...relatively. It’s only since the extreme svelteifying of that last enormously fat brain bastard, six years ago, that the Alert Levels are lower.

So, I need to relax already. Breathe in, breathe out and stop anticipating trouble. It’ll get here in its own bad time.