For six years now Mary and I have lived two blocks from the local hospital and today it finally paid off. Not that I’ve wished us ill, of course, but years of sirens blasting past the house felt like a reasonable price to pay today for the convenience of not having to schlep 70 miles to Indy (AGAIN). Instead, at 9:35 this morning Mary and I sauntered out the door arm-in-arm for my 9:45 appointment. By 10am a nice woman named Michelle was injecting me with radioactive liquid. Then Mary and I ambled back home, stopping to smell the peonies. Three hours later, after my bones soaked up the juice and were certainly glowing like a skeleton on Halloween, we eased back down the sidewalk again. The trip took 5 minutes door-to-door. The 22-minute bone scan left me plenty of time to try on a few of my new mantras, including “I am at peace with my decision [to get a bone scan]” and “Neal [the tech who scared the shit out of me last week] is a tool.” When the mantra-thing got old, Mary (who sat nearby but out of range) plied me with jokes from her new joke app. (My personal favorite: What did the Buddhist say to the hotdog vendor? Answer: Make me one with everything.) Bone scan? Check. Sense of humor? Check. Radioactive pee? Check. Not having to waste 2.5 hours of a beautiful Spring day in the car? Priceless.
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