tests. tests

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My doctor has set me up for a series of tests.  They’re checking my stomach, my teeth, my bone density.  They did another CT scan and they study my receptivity to radiation.  The idea is to gather all this data by Friday, together with the pathology report from the operation, and to set up a treatment program for me.  Great!

Still, every test feels like an occasion when something terrible could be revealed.  The guy who does ultrasound on my stomach is very unsmiling.  He slides the sonar sensor across my lubricated gut, pauses for an eternity around what might be my gall bladder, “abnormal shape,” he mutters to himself.  Oh no, I’m thinking.  I was never particularly close to my gall bladder, but I’d hate to see it go.  And I know, if I give them the gall bladder, they want my kidneys and liver next.

But the CT scan was worse.  I wasn’t allowed to eat or drink all morning and at 10 o’clock I was marched down to the outpatient clinic in the basement.  Everyone was looking at this big foreigner with a slit throat, thinking “poor sod, how did he end up this way?”  After an hour in their waiting room, I was ready to pass out, but they finally took pity on me and wheeled me into the scanner.  A CT scan is less noisy than an MRI scan and it’s quicker, but the contrast liquid they poured into me made me feel weird.  Diane took me back up to the safety of my room afterwards and I immediately fell asleep on the bed.

I overslept the dentist appointment by two hours, but when I eventually got there the dentist insisted my teeth looked fine.  No cavities and no problems.  I have never been more proud of my tooth brushing skills.

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