I was prone on his platform in no time. We moved as one...
He sees right through me, though, and is holding out with just banana (barium chalk) flavored cocktails and a little (hypodermic) needling before our relationship fully develops...
CAT scan saw my inter-intestinal interloper clear as a bell and even clearer when they pushed the plunger down on the "contrast" dye from a remote glassed-in booth location. (Don't even think about the implications of that visual...Disconcerted even me with all my hail-fellow-well-met defense mechanism bravado and sick sense of humor.) Did you know that you can feel contrast dye as is travels from your arm to your extremities? It went right down, I kid you not, to my "lady parts" and gave me a little provocative nudge! I honestly thought if had gotten any warmer down there, I was going to embarrass myself with a little vocalization. But I controlled the urge. No yodeling in Radiology. Or cell phones. Says so on the wall. Radiation. Wonder if my credit cards are all stripped now....hmmmmm.
The space invader? It's a beaut! First impressions are always iffy, and this is no exception. The tumor is actually anterior, meaning toward my back in position more near little Miss Kidney and big ol Mr. Vena Cava. In fact, the thing is encroaching on Vena Cava's space like a stinking lumpy hygiene-challenged homeless person pressing right up next to you in a crowded subway car in the tunnel! All my other organs are organized just fine. I knew that! I am perfect!
There's the phone. Next step: (Mystery Science Theater reveal riff - duhn-duhn-DUHN!)
FINE NEEDLE BIOPSY.
We're going to stab it guided by CAT scan, yank out some cells, and chart the course from there. Today. All quick like and before I can obsess with what's going on.
Knock, knock? Who's there? Mr. Good Drugs. Well, howdy-do! Come right on in! Can I get you something?
As my son says, "It's just a big zit Mom. They'll pop it and it's all great from there!" Coolio.
I woke up this morning anxious. My plan was to shower, drop the kids at school, drive down to the Medical Center and sit outside the surgeon's entrance with a sign: "Have tumor, will amuse you while you slice it out! First come, first served." I am told by Dr. Norma Popsiclehands, who called me this morning at the butt-crack of dawn, this is not the best strategy. She's got some others up her sleeve, so I'll curb my renegade impatience just this once.