Dr. G made some calls and pulled some strings to get me a next-day 8pm MRI appointment. The CT scan was a good ride spoiled, but the MRI machine is an instrument of torture masquerading as medical equipment. You're unlikely to encounter anything else in normal life as claustrophobia-inducing as being strapped down and slid into a tube that's a few inches away from your face. And when the machine is taking an image, there's an "Is this really necessary?" loud banging sound. You, of course, are wearing headphones so that you can be told by the techs when to hold your breath, and that you're "doing great."
Actually, the MRI didn't bother me at all. I'm not claustrophobic, I'm used to holding my breath from swimming, and I was so damn tired that I was happy to lay down for a while.
Then I went home and went into suspended animation. Even when everyone tells you that it's quite unlikely that you have anything in your body worth worrying about--like...CANCER!...a word that no one would use, even though we were all thinking it--waiting for results is like carrying around a big planet. Jupiter, maybe. You feel real, physical pressure pushing you into the ground, and your thoughts can get away for brief little flights of fancy before--slurp slurp gravity--they're sucked back down into portentous waiting. I must have played a few hundred games of Tetris that weekend. Reading was too hard, television wasn't sufficiently distracting. I just wanted to leave my mind alone, and let it get on with the tricky of business of hoping and preparing.