Saturday, December 13, 2008
sitting in the waiting room again. it's busy today. i am the youngest one here by at least 3 decades. today is to be my 75th abdominal CT scan. i am reading "Golf: for Women" while i drink down some tasty white barium, which has the consistency of paint. the magazine is telling me what women don't like about men on the golf course. riveting.
an old woman a few chairs down from me is telling her husband, who just arrived to the waiting room after parking the car, that "they" will make her drink the drink and how the test will take at least 2 hours and how she hasn't eaten since 7 and all of the other ways she will be mistreated. as she lists these things off, a technician calls her name and helps her off to whatever scan she is scheduled for. turns out she'll only be there for a few minutes. i toss the magazine onto the table and take a sip of Gesso and stare my hollow stare across the room.
i bring my knees up toward my chest and hold them there by grabbing them with my hands. it feels good to stretch. my knees feel hollow. i imagine sticking my fingers through the skin and crumbling my kneecaps to a fine chalky dust. i begin to visualize tearing my legs apart as if they are made of sheet rock.
hearing my name shoots me out of my thoughts. the tech is there to lead me back to the scan. she tells me all about it, though i've been through it so many times with her over the past 4 years. she keeps using my brother's name instead of mine. our medical records are most likely mixed up. maybe now i have children. maybe now he is fat. who knows?
after dressing into the gown (open rear), i think about how i should grab a few of these, so i can just show up for the scans every time ready to go. do away with the hassle of changing clothes each time. i start to think about the entire ordeal. why do i put up with the hassle? why am i here? what if they find more bad news? i wonder if they can see my soul with that machine - see that it's no longer there.