CF3

You know you’re in deep shit when the guy at the diagnostic center knows you by name.

Yep, the MRI technician recognized me as “Mr. Bessman” when he walked in this morning and saw me sitting there in the waiting room.

“Mr. Bessman? You were just in for….” “Prostate,” I cut him off.

“What do we have you for today?” he countered.

“Liver.”

Don’t ask.

Only because all I know is that the first two scans—CAT and bone, ordered and performed three weeks ago at St. Luke’s after  my diagnosis—turned up something or other that the oncologist said had to be clarified before we could figure out what to do next. Also some “sand” in the bladder, but that test is Wednesday.

In other words, I don’t know anything either.

Other than I didn’t need an enema this time, like I did for the “rectal probe” exam two mornings ago. Otherwise it’s kind of a routine procedure: Take off your clothes, put on an exam gown (they let me keep my socks on because it’s cold in the scanner room), have the technician stick an IV in your arm and then slide you in an out of the huge donut-shaped MRI machine for half an hour while it zaps you with obnoxiously loud beeps and blasts and trills, kind of like a theremin on steroids–or am I the one on steroids.

The technician also remembered which arm to stick me with, that he “went though” on a vein in the right arm before finding a better one in the left.

Like I said, you know you’re in deep shit.

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