Like an enlarged phallus, I lied upon the board and pleasured the General Electric Lightspeed VCT as best I could for a whole seven minutes. I was the proverbial hot dog thrown down the CT machine's hallway, not even grazing the sides of the gaping void, which I entered and exited at will.
I felt like I was in a Taiwanese bordello as I was greeted amicably at the door, filled out paperwork, and was given a drinkt o sip while waiting for my turn. I, however, was drinking what they call "Gastroview" a mixture of water, diet raspberry Crystal Lite, and some chemical in order to make my veins more visible during the scan. I imagined it to be a Sammy Sosa, though - a drink that Katie and I seemed to enjoy while we vacationed in the Dominican Republic last year. I remained tranquil while I sipped my beverage and read about how the auto industry is asking for yet another 13 billion dollars.
My name was called and I was taken to the back where I was instructed to strip down and put a gown on - gown facing forward. Not to worry, my helper put me to rest by telling me that I only had to remove my hat, my sweater, my undershirt, and my pants, but that I could leave on my undies, socks, and shoes. Thank goodness! How embarassing would it be to be peered at through a glass window while by numerous males and females if I couldn't have my socks on? I was then taken into yet another room where a very kind, Latin male nurse sadistically pierced my skin and decided to tape up my hairy arms while giggling, "Oops. Oh my sir, you have, like, too much too much hair." Oh my.
And then I see it. That big old hunk of plastic and the chill of air conditioning needed to keep the machine running. Yes I would like a warm blanket, thank you very much. It's time for me to lay down and get my money's worth out of this bad boy. Arms over my head, legs slightly bent, I'm slowly glided into and out of the hole under the instructions, "Take a deep breath... Hold it... Breathe." Like a college frat boy, I use the machine for my benefit only and I never stop to wonder, "Was it good for the Lightspeed?" What does it get out of all of this?
It is my familiar friend, though, no matter how latently sexual it all seems on a grand scale. I have received myriad scans - CT, PET, MRI. Each machine deciding the next however many months of my life. Will they be good or will they be bad? It all depends on what pictures these machines decide to take of my insides. It's no use being nervous while passing through the wide opening that spins around you, violating your organs, snapping pictures of them from their bad sides - their cancer sides. There is no reason to get flustered when the contrast dye is injected into your veins and you feel the warmth course through the arm raised over your head, then to the back of your throat, proceeding to cause a distinguishable feeling of heat throughout your body and to each extremity, finally settling in the violating, uncomfortable ring around your bottom-side forcing you to try and determine whether or not you just embarrassed yourself in front of everyone behind that window.
Tomorrow I go back to the chemotherapy after nearly a month and a half off of treatment. My schedule goes to every week as opposed to the every two weeks I did before. I'll tell you: I'm not looking forward to the upcoming gauntlet. Every week? Every Thursday from tomorrow until who knows when. But remember the thorn bush is full of roses, not the other way around. Tomorrow starts the unmitigating difficulties of treatment, but on some other tomorrow, in the future, starts the first steps of recovery.
Life will always be happy while we continue to have tomorrows. I have too much to be happy about - too much to look forward to - to stop believing that tomorrow is always a new day.
"He who has a why to live can bear almost any how." - Friedrich Nietzsche
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