My doctor doesn’t know I am a sniveling coward. On the bravery scale, I rank somewhere below a minus one. I had to stop reading the warnings on drug labels or I’d have every reaction posted. I’ve been known to invent new ones.
This practice has served me well; I never have drug reactions.
Last year the discovery of a small node appeared on a scan. My doctor said we would re-visit in a year. MRI scans locate even the most insignificant imperfection. This can be a blessing or a curse, depending on your level of bravery.
Fast forward a year and it’s node checking time. Saturday morning I drag myself to the nuclear lab. I tell myself all is well. I haven’t smoked in twenty years. I exercise. My vodka intake is not excessive. Why should I worry?
The nurse pumps radioactive material into my veins. I wonder what the side effects of that stuff are. I check to see if I am turning green.
Seems to me the technician is too solicitous. Maybe the doctor told her my condition is grave.
The scanning device is making an alarming pinging sound. Does that mean the node has new recruits who intend to play havoc with my immune system?
It’s going to be a long weekend. I turn to the television for a diversion. Most of the commercials are for life threatening disease treatment centers.
It gets worse; the treatment center partners with a commercial for the number one new drug to treat nasty nodes.
This cannot be a coincidence; Father Time has decided to take his vengeance on me and now it’s time to pay. Chocolate and vodka have taken their toll. Monday morning, I write my obituary.
Tuesday morning, I am declared node free; I don’t have to do this particular dance again. I put the liquor store on speed dial and order a crate of Godiva.
The next time I wait for test results, I’ll go to the movies.