Further Apart
No, this is not a romantic, emo post about how I’ve grown apart from one I love.
No, what I’m talking about is the distance between the ritual violations that the medical profession inflict on me to tell whether or not further torture is needed. Yes, I’m talking about another CT scan. With contrast. Coming and going. Or, for those of you who are indelicate about such things, it’s time for a really unhappy nurse to give me another radioactive enema. So, probably about the time that you’re enjoying your morning coffee, or at least taking a break before lunch, I’ll be ingesting barium laced apple juice and trying not to think about what’s lurking in wait for me behind the big, white doors. As I told someone not too long ago, by the time you’re done with cancer treatment, any dignity you have left is small and easy to carry.
Seriously, I’ve been poked, prodded and probed in ways that normally require the purchase of drinks, several drinks that contain goodly amounts of hard liquor, so often I think I could just about walk stark naked through the Galleria and feel less uncomfortable. And, I’m not in any shape to be seen naked in public, either.
I think I scarred some poor, dear thing at work when I was griping about this scan. She thought I was worked up about the possibility of finding out that my body had fatally betrayed me again. I explained to her, however, that death is the easy part. I mean, we’re all going to die. The only issue is where, when and how. Honestly, I take a fair amount of comfort in knowing that the one thing we all have in common is that none of us are going to make it out of here alive. No, it’s the indignity of the scan itself that I hate. It is frankly unbelievable to me that someone, somewhere can in some sad way find anything at all about getting an enema exciting. Because, let me tell you gentle readers, as far as I’m concerned, it is no fun at all. And, it is not any consolation at all that some sick twist pays extra when he sees “Mistress Candy, the erotic nurse’s aid” while my insurance is paying most of the bill. Truly.
On the other hand, for me, it’s just one day out of many. For the nurse… Well, let’s just put it this way, we may think we work with assholes every day, but that poor nurse really does. All day, every day. No wonder the poor thing never smiles.
Maybe if we had drinks first…
