I had my heart scan on Thursday and got a wicked bad poke by an absent-minded tech that is now a grisly murder scene on my inner arm. The tin and saline tasted just as bad as I remember from the last time, and hard to believe, but there seemed to be even more snoring old people in the nuclear med waiting room. Being radioactive knocks the stuffing out of you.
Friday was all about the CT scan and I was there 15 minutes early and done in less than 20 from start to finish. The poke was painless, I didn't have to drink the disgusting orange contrast cocktail and the tech took a moment to look at my chart and comment on how my diagnosis sucks the big one. Bonus points for the 80-year old in the waiting room who demanded to know where I got my hair cut. I reach a certain demographic and I accept that.
Tomorrow it's about dem bones and then April 1 I get my first PET scan in Vancouver, which has nothing to do with seeing something adorable like this:
But this post is really about the strange English boy I live with.
This lad, who figured he scored marrying a 30 year old when he was 40, is likely now thinking young chicks are nothing but false advertising. With one cancer diagnosis gone and buried, a near-death experience in the ICU and now another tumour taking over our lives, it's enough already.
But here's what I love about my boyfriend: he lets me say stupid shit like "when I was in my heart scan I started thinking that living another four years would be acceptable."
Instead of talk me out of such a stupid thought, or get disturbed or sad or angry or whip out the card of anyone but him to confide in about that garbage, he poured me another glass of wine and listened. And I didn't say it to get attention or a rise or test him. I truly had that thought and I knew he would take it as it was - just a momentary thought that speaks to all the death scenarios that run through a girl's mind when her cells are misbehaving again.
And this is love.
Oh, and this is love, too:
When an Englishman clears out a big space in the garden to let you do whatever you want with it, it's like an Italian letting you put ketchup on your pasta. We all know I'll destroy everything that's good in that soil with my half-baked planting ideas, but for some reason, this boy believes it'll all somehow turn out okay.