I was referred for CT scans on my pelvis, abdomen and chest as well as an MRI for the pelvis. The pelvis scans were to see the extent of the tumour locally, while the abdomen/chest was to see whether shit was really fucked up and the cancer had spread (metastasised).
I’d had a CT scan previously, on my head, following a seizure, to see whether I had a tumour. Fortunately, Arnie was right on that occasion and “It’s not a tumour” was bang on the money. Sadly, Arnie was a lying sack of shit this time around.
I rocked up for my CT scan, armed with the advice from friends that the highlight of the day would be the feeling that I had pissed my pants, without ever actually doing so. Having consumed a milkshake sized beverage of contrast dye (read: water with a hint of liquid paper) and a full bladder, I was called in for my time to shine. Sure enough, the technician confirmed that, as per my advice, I would experience a sensation where I would think I had wet myself, but that I wouldn’t. I set out to prove them wrong.
Within moments of the additional contrast being injected through my cannula, I thought that I had pissed harder than Bronson in that episode of ‘Round the Twist’ where Bronson is taken over by the water spirit and haunted until finally he does their bidding for them and they repay him by enabling him to piss higher than all the other boys in the school.
Unable to move, and feeling trapped in my own urine, I obeyed the orders of the mechanised donut until such time as I was informed it was all over and I was free to check myself. Fortunately, I was drier than a retired prostitute in the Sahara and cautiously asked the technician for my results. “I’m not a doctor but it doesn’t look like there’s anything on the liver, which is where we’re concerned with”.
Relieved, Lyndell and I headed onward and westward to Cardiff, colloquially known as the Paris of of Newcastle, for my MRI scan.
The CT was supremely bearable. The MRI on the other hand was a whole new kettle of fish. For those who’ve never had one before, it’s a monstrously large cylinder in an equally large room surrounded by warnings left, right and centre about magnets and all sort of X-Men shit. I was led to this gantry like bed and then strapped in, reassured that I could signal at any time if it all became too much.
I was given headphones to deafen the sounds of the MRI. Sadly, I was forced to listen to KO-FM which consisted of shitty music interspersed with even shittier banal banter between the hosts. I tried using the visualisation tools learnt during our ‘Calmbirth’ classes prior to the birth of our Raptor, Annabelle.
I should digress to say that I love Hawaii. I mean, I fucking love that place. I went there a bunch as a kid, and I’ve been back four times as an adult. Hawaii is my happy place. I routinely tell people that it’s the only place in the world where I get off the plane and instantly feel at home.
So, it’s only natural then that I should think of Hawaii to get me through the terror of being in an oversized magnetic vagina. Sadly, not even the Aloha Isles could drown out the battle zone around me, which can only be described as a conscientious council work team (I know, right) using excavators during the filming of a battle scene from ‘Starship Troopers’. Even sadder still, I had to resort to delivering an opening address to an imaginary jury in a murder trial I was working on at the time.
Fortunately, the sound of my own inner monologue was such that the 40mins inside that tube of death passed rather quickly.
Thus, armed with my films from the CT, and a disc of my MRI, i left Cardiff, hopeful of never having to return.