Yesterday my oncologist persuaded me to have a PET scan, which is one of those shoot-you-up-with-radioactive-isotopes-and-lie-absolutely -motionless-in-a-giant-metal-tube-for-an-hour dealios. Supposedly it will tell her (the oncologist) where else my disease has migrated, but according to the technician the results are classified until I have had a chance to enjoy 48 hours of panic attacks.
The PET scan experience was unpleasant, but I survived, largely due to a prophylactic Valium. The worst part was the dark little room where they parked me for 45 minutes while the glowing chemicals coursed their way throughout the Twisty physique; during this interim I was not allowed to move a muscle, which instruction extended even unto the thumbing of an issue of People magazine or the using of a cell phone or the lifting of the Twisty melon off the headrest. No, I was enjoined to recline on the ubiquitous Barcalounger and "relax," the latter of which was impossible due to the persistent cacophony of (a) a flaccid new age musical composition on permaloop and (b) a trickling tabletop fountain which sounded like an incontinent old man.
Then I had Cancer School, in which a chemo nurse addressed a group of the newly-diagnosed (seated, of course, in Barcaloungers) with a gripping litany of the repellent side effects of chemotherapy ("sores on your bottom"), recipes for home-made mouthwash ("for the sores in your mouth"), and suggestions for concealing one’s inevitable baldness ("lots of women use turbans").
Then I had a flu shot. Damn, that hurt. Almost as much as the idea of me in a turban.
Afterward my sister and I adjourned to P. Terry’s Burger Stand–currently my favorite burger stand–and ate burgers in P. Terry’s little outdoor burger-garden. The weather here in South Austin is still pretty clement, and the siren call of the outdoor burger-garden is difficult to resist. P. Terry makes a small, two-dimensional, crispy burger which I can recommend without hesitation.