My MRI is scheduled for 1pm today and I’m only working an half day. My immediate group of friends knows what’s going on but I’m not looking to advertise it. I’m trying to maintain normalcy until I know what will happen. The results from the MRI will dictate the next steps. I’m already settled in at my desk when the phone rings. I’m a night owl by nature but since I work 8:00-4:30-ish, and given that I need time to settle in for the day, peach black tea and the morning news, I am there before 7:45 am. Probably more like 7:30 am. Anyhow, a quick look-see on MSN news and enough time for my tea to cool surface of the sun to molten lava, and I answer the incoming call on my cell. It’s a familiar unfamiliar number. The exchange, I can tell it’s coming from either the hospital or one of my many doctor’s offices.

I answer and it’s the Radiology Department at the hospital. We know your appointment is scheduled for 1:00 pm, but we were wondering if you can come at noon instead. Typically, I’m pretty agreeable with making changes, but seriously, this is the day of the appointment. I’m not willing to reschedule, I have been through so much already. I have used so much of my vacation time dealing with this. So I take a stand, sort of. No, I cannot come at noon. The best I can do is between 12:30 pm and 12:45 pm. And they agree without rescheduling me.

It’s a pretty typical day in corporate America. We’re preparing our Medicare clients for the changes that will happen for 2015. I am immersed in a world of EOCs, SOBs, PowerPoint presentations, client demands, and balancing what was once a pretty mundane personal life with what is now a very complex situation. I put in my time and hoput b in my pretty German car, purchased because it was a great deal we couldn’t  resist, and head off to the hospital.

Am I a diva because I valet when I get there? For god’s sake, it’s a hospital, not a hotel, casino, or swanky club in a big city. I blame the Mercedes-Benz. I walk into the lobby in search of where I need to go. I’m early for a 1:00 pm appointment, but cutting it close for a 12:30 pm appointment. After two unsuccessful stops, one at the front desk and one at a different radiology department, I find the check-in area for the Radiology department. I sit in the waiting area until they call my name. After a few questions, I am led into the inner sanctum of the Radiology Department. Once I check in with the nurse/receptionist, I am led further into the inner sanctum. Around the corner, up the elevator, and down the hall. Easy enough. After a few wrong turns and a really nice gentleman who recognizes a damsel in distress, or at least a Benz-driving woman whose sense of direction invariably takes her the exact opposite direction of where she’s supposed to be, I find where I’m supposed to be for my MRI. I’m early for my 1:00 pm appointment and early for a 12:45 pm appointment. Late for 12:00 pm or 12:30, though.

Fate has a way of smacking me in the face just when I start feeling sorry for myself. When Dr. Impossible to See’s very cute, but very serious resident told me that I needed to consider a mastectomy, I couldn’t help but feeling a little sad, a little sorry for myself. But, that’s just not who I am. Maybe I should be, but that’s not who Big Mike raised me to be. In my opinion, I am just as tough as or tougher than, as smart as smarter than my brothers.  Both older. I love them both. But I love them differently. And I have flip-flopped over the years. Big Mike is gone now, so I only have them. Perhaps they’ll never know how fiercely I love them. That’s also not who I am. But I do. Anyhow, the Radiology Department is somehow connected to the neonatology unit. Moms who cannot hold their babies. I see the moms and dads filing in and out but I don’t have a visual on the babies. So, it’s not really real to me. But in the waiting room for the MRI, there’s only one other patient. He’s not quite two years old. Clearly, he’s got some problems. He isn’t walking and he cannot support his head on his own. He’s agitated. Smack. There it is, the smack in the face that tells me that I need to stop feeling sorry for myself. I’m not going to die. I’m 41 and have had a pretty charmed life. Hopefully this little guy can follow suit.

I fill out the paperwork/questionnaire.  No I don’t have any tattoos. No I don’t have any metal implanted in my body. After a pretty short wait (someone really wants to go home early today hence the call I got earlier today) the nurse calls me back and shows me to the dressing room. There is an enormous pair of scrub pants and a hospital gown waiting for me to change into. Once I’m dressed, the nurse takes me back to the room where the MRI will be. She prepares me for what will happen. The machine will be noisy and I will need to be still for 45 minutes to an hour. She shows me the wedge that I would need to lay on face down. Then we do a test run to make sure I don’t freak out while I’m in the machine. I don’t. Then she injects the contrast material in my arm and gets me positioned on the table that will slide me into the MRI machine. I’m on my belly, my chest on the wedge, and my neck at an awkward, uncomfortable angle. When I’m properly prepared, she slides me in the machine and we begin. I need to be still. I am so uncomfortable but I’ll be still. I’m not doing this one again.

After what seemed like an eternity, I’m done and I’m in a foul mood. I change back into my clothes and I have the rest of the day to myself. But since I’m miserable, I decide to go home and log into My Habit. Why YES, yes I do need a new pair of cowboy boots. I most certainly do. Two clicks and three days later, I’ll add them to the collection. A fabulous collection, I might add. I have an appointment with the surgeon next week. I still haven’t made my decision, hopefully this will make it easier.