|The card I DON'T want|
Mind you, those two shots of Jamie with the Lorazapam chaser surely smoothed the ride.
Still and all, there was a point where the monster panic beast hit. Of a sudden, I was certain that the techs had gone home for the night and I was stranded in the tube. Did I mention alarm, confusion and radical horror? Yeah well, I was able to figuratively step back from my frenzy and give it a good sane once over. I snapped out of it and put my head back in chill central.
I get the results from Doc Plotkin on Tuesday. I’m not expecting any Go To MGH, Go Directly To The OR, Do Not Pass Go, yada yada yada but, eh, who knows.
This is how I went through my 30s — ten years of some amalgamation of chilled out peace and freedom and, at the same time, stone fear. Every six months I’d tense up like mad. The tumors WERE growing at a consistent pace but my luck held — growth wasn’t enough to risk surgery.
My 40s were a whole 'nother ball of earwax.
So, I’m making grand attempts at remaining calm and mostly succeeding. IF those sneaky bastid acoustic neuromas and my extra added meningiomas (living both in my head and on my spine — opportunistic fuckers that they are) have gotten fat and happy on me since we lasted check on ‘em — if they’ve partied their way up to Sumo-esque dimensions — we’ll deal with it.
I’m not alone. I’ve got The Amazing Bob, Jen, Oni, Helen and Celeste here, to say nothing of Coco and Rocco.
|What I want|