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Again Brain
Feb. 11th, 2009 01:31 amSo: there is to be more waiting. HA HA! WANK! What a burn on me!
No conclusion. Which is different from "inconclusive" in that whatever my results are, they are being kept a secret from me, until it is time for my regular neurologist to reveal them, perhaps by swooping a kerchief off of them and saying "Ta-Da!" Because if something was wrong, the radiologist...
Who I will talk about now. Ridiculously hot radiologist bear was hot. Ridiculously so. Ask John. When Mr. Hot Radiologist walked into the waiting room and said my name, I almost laughed, he was so hot. I thought I was being punked. It was obviously a set up, right? So where are the cameras?
But he was just a hot radiologist, and a married one at that, so no punking ensued. Anyway, if something was wrong, the radiologist would have gasped a manly gasp, and told me not to move, and he would have rushed out of the room, looking concerned, his bearded jaw clenched, and with his thin, thin, paper thin green scrubs barely containing his beefy shoulders and back muscles as they pumped and roiled with effort, and he would have left, and then come back with three more equally beefy and bearded nurses, and they would have strapped me, roughly— quite roughly— to a gurney, and wheeled me into an operatory, and they'd have done something, right there, at that moment, while I was weak and helpless from the anesthetic.
So because none of that happened, I choose to believe that everything is great, that he saw nothing during the scans, and that I am perfectly well, just whiny. This is what I force myself to believe, because if I allow myself to worry about it until the neurologist tells me what's really going on, my insides will spasm and devour themselves until I die in my sleep from spontaneous balloon-knot blossom. Which is unfair to John.
So no news yet. Updates as events warrant.
Other, somewhat related developments: I know it's not an MRI, but I was happy to actually fit in the CT scanner, since I had serious reason to suspect that I would not. However, I was not happy to have x-ray dye injected in me. Mr. Hot Radiologist warned me that the dye would make me feel hot all over, which made me clench my teeth so I would not say something to earn a punch in the face. The only thing the dye made feel hot was my nether regions. Hot and tingly. Which sounds great, but it wasn't, not under those circumstances. It was just worrisome. Like I was being chemically sterilized or something.
Post Script: Fuck. I just read on the Davis website that the radiologist is not allowed to discuss anything about the scans. My doctor has to do it, regardless of results. Fuck. Fuck. Anger Butt, here I come.
No conclusion. Which is different from "inconclusive" in that whatever my results are, they are being kept a secret from me, until it is time for my regular neurologist to reveal them, perhaps by swooping a kerchief off of them and saying "Ta-Da!" Because if something was wrong, the radiologist...
Who I will talk about now. Ridiculously hot radiologist bear was hot. Ridiculously so. Ask John. When Mr. Hot Radiologist walked into the waiting room and said my name, I almost laughed, he was so hot. I thought I was being punked. It was obviously a set up, right? So where are the cameras?
But he was just a hot radiologist, and a married one at that, so no punking ensued. Anyway, if something was wrong, the radiologist would have gasped a manly gasp, and told me not to move, and he would have rushed out of the room, looking concerned, his bearded jaw clenched, and with his thin, thin, paper thin green scrubs barely containing his beefy shoulders and back muscles as they pumped and roiled with effort, and he would have left, and then come back with three more equally beefy and bearded nurses, and they would have strapped me, roughly— quite roughly— to a gurney, and wheeled me into an operatory, and they'd have done something, right there, at that moment, while I was weak and helpless from the anesthetic.
So because none of that happened, I choose to believe that everything is great, that he saw nothing during the scans, and that I am perfectly well, just whiny. This is what I force myself to believe, because if I allow myself to worry about it until the neurologist tells me what's really going on, my insides will spasm and devour themselves until I die in my sleep from spontaneous balloon-knot blossom. Which is unfair to John.
So no news yet. Updates as events warrant.
Other, somewhat related developments: I know it's not an MRI, but I was happy to actually fit in the CT scanner, since I had serious reason to suspect that I would not. However, I was not happy to have x-ray dye injected in me. Mr. Hot Radiologist warned me that the dye would make me feel hot all over, which made me clench my teeth so I would not say something to earn a punch in the face. The only thing the dye made feel hot was my nether regions. Hot and tingly. Which sounds great, but it wasn't, not under those circumstances. It was just worrisome. Like I was being chemically sterilized or something.
Post Script: Fuck. I just read on the Davis website that the radiologist is not allowed to discuss anything about the scans. My doctor has to do it, regardless of results. Fuck. Fuck. Anger Butt, here I come.
