I'm tense and nervous and I Can't relax WITH Uppydate!

Home now, post Claustrophobia Inducing MRI. Guess what? It went great! I did my better-living-through-chemistry regimen PLUS a long morning trike ride AND a nice cup a Chianti at Clink just before tube time.

While in the cylinder I concentrated on how I could get the best wave shots—both from inside the curl and out. I think, possibly, I need clear container, like one of those adult size hamster bubbles. It'd need to be water tight so's I could bring my cameras inside. I could paddle out into the deep surf, insert myself itno the curl and go wild snapping away.

Could this work? MUST research!

In any case, MRI not only wasn't scarifying, it was productive. Yea me!
 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
For the last few days Talking Head’s Psycho Killer’s been spinning on my internal turntable. Specifically this part:

I can't seem to face up to the facts
I'm tense and nervous and I
Can't relax
I can't sleep cause my bed's on fire
Don't touch me I'm a real live wire

I feel as though I don’t know how to relax anymore. My chill chops are off playing Baccarat at Foxwoods. I expect they’re losing, badly, desperately doubling down on all bets. They can’t even begin to remember their responsibilities here at home,. Bloody, self involved chill chops.

I suppose this is to be expected. After all, this is the time of year when my coping mechanisms start vogueing the wispy, evanescent look, so popular on New York runways. They wax anorexic, wrap a sparkly gauze scarf around themselves and allow that they'll be in Barbados—Call if you need us Chica, they yell while ducking out the back. Cell service is crap down there so I know they're just gone, baby, gone.

And what time of year is that, you ask? It’s MRI time! Not to be confused with Howdy Doody Time which is, possibly, more scary.

Last year, good ol’ Doc Plotkin said that the meningiomas, these slow growing bastids, up top, are finally getting to a point where he’s “concerned” and “we’ll need to keep a close watch” on them/me. Joy.

Given our (TAB and my) MGH addictions, I’m curious. Is it my turn this year? TABs been hogging up all the medic action. Perhaps it’s my time to leap onto the playing field.
I won’t know the results of today's tube time until October fifth when I see Plotkin. I see McKenna before that, on the 21st, so I might get a hint.

What am I doing during this limbo-ish, don’t-know-no-definites time? Planning. TAB will need a little help around the house while I’m gone as well as rides to and from MGH. I can make check lists for TAB of what needs to be accomplished while I’m away (feed cats, take pills, water plants, EAT FUD, etc.) Jen and Oni can give him lifts to the store and into the hospital. They’ll probably cook a few meals for him too. After I get home? TAB will take care of me. Plus, like last time, we’ll have visiting nurses and Physical Therapists in to help me get up and walking (and TRIKING!) again.

While mostly bed bound post surgery, I’ll have a stack of new books, stationery for snail mail writing, sketchbooks, my laptop and a couple of tuxes to keep me company.

We’ll get through this. We’ve a lot of experience with this sort of thing.

But, ya know, it may not be this year after all. I think my handsome hero TAB and I could do with a year off from all the MGH hoopla.

Now, in preparation for my claustrophobic fit inducing tube time, I'm going for a ride. Then I'm going to sit on the sea wall stairs and see if I can capture the light as it shoots through the curl of the wave. AND I'll drop another tab of lorazapam.

OK, maybe I still have a few coping mechanisms on board after all.