|Looks like a wee mouse, doesn't it?|
I’ve got a three month reprieve. I still need to do something about the meningioma du jour. Sadly, it hasn’t evaporated in a happy cloud of sparkling fairy dust. That’s the bad news but, rilly now, I wasn’t actually expecting the sparkly fairy clouds. Having said that, neither has it grown much in the past few months.
This is wicked GOOD news (as they say around these here parts)!
If this devious, motherfucking, rat bastid of a tumor holds off on its next demonic growth spurt I may be able to take it down with radiation versus surgery. As much as I love my awesome surgeon, Fred Barker, I’d really like to stop meeting him in ORs. (a nice pub would be my preference, ya know!?)
The down side to radiation is that I’d need to step into the magic claustrophobia machine again. I’m having minor freakage at the very thought of it. Can I make it through the tube in order to avoid surgery? Fred, unlike the radiation dudes, only needs the CT scans. Why? Not sure but I think it’s because he’s been in my bean enough recently that he knows where everything’s at.
In case I need to get into evil the MRI, I’ll lorazepam myself up, do a mess of deep breathing ex and hope.
In other possible good news from yesterday, I found other sparkly silver shoes that MAY fit over my goddamned brace. They’re glittery silver crocs. From what I’ve been told, crocs aren’t hip. My answer to that is SO WHAT. If they’re comfy, fit over my brace and are sparkly silver, I’m good. Also, I’m 63 bloody years old—a little past my hip years (if I ever even had any of those). If these aren’t fab enough I can always, as a friend suggested, bling them up. Oh, yes I can!