A Good Day for a Float

Today is Tube Day. I'll slide into the bowels of the MRI monster. He'll shoot beams into my brain (looking for signs of life? Good luck, motherfucker!). While my bean’s all lit, like Times Square on a Saturday night, the techs, the monster minders will snap pics of my fat pancake-like meningiomas. I gots three of 'em, all hovering ominously (of course) over me brain.

Given my claustrophobic freak-out history, I began the med prep yesterday – one lorazapam after I got home from the gym and half a pill at bedtime. I’ll down another half after brekkie and then a full pill 30 minutes before monster time.

The lorazapam works a treat but I help it along with a pre-tube cocktail and a shit ton of visualization exercises. Today’s internal vid action will include floating in the warm water of my Icelandic nirvana, laying in bed with my precious kitten draped across my chest, laying in bed with my beautiful, smiling man and sitting on the sea wall at dawn – sipping java and goggling at the sky.

I glanced at the headlines this morning but will read no further. I gotta be all mellow city, practically liquid in my peaced outness. Reading spectacularly deformed pretzel logics, spewed by the likes of gelatinous, fucking has beens such as, Rush, and his bestie, the boob known as Geller, would be like having a squad of kindergartners throwing pebbles at me while I float down Bliss River. AVOID, AVOID!

If today’s tube time goes well, and I think it will, next week’s will be a total nothing burger, a blip – no more taxing than a trip to the gym.

The downside of these magic pills which ease me into the monsters maw? I lose a day or two to the level 12 chilled out enervata. In the days before, of and after, compared to me slugs are traveling at warp speed.

That’s OK – nothing wrong with a few days of forced serenity. I think. Maybe. It's damned hard to wind me down.