Wheelchairs and Scanxiety

Stupid temperature!  After 24 hours of it behaving, it decided to ping up again, but its back down now and I'm feeling pretty decent appart from the stomach twisting fear of scanxiety.  I've mentioned scanxiety before (sadly, not my own term, but if no one comes along in the next 30 days with proof of original invention of it, then I'll claim it as my own, damn it, and fight till the death to defend it, hurrah!).

Anyway, why am I feeling scanxiety?  Duh!  Cus, I've just been scanned (some people are so slow, really!).  I was woken up at 6, as per usual.  Blood pressure and temperature were taken by one nurse, who then disappeared to be replaced by another who made sure blood was taken, magic liquids from the hospital apothecary were infused into my line and the normal hospital approved dark rituals were performed, the usual sort of thing.  Then I was left alone for a bit.  I dozed off for about 30 minutes and was awoken by the breakfast trolley.  Not literally by the trolley but by the nurse in charge, who was trying to determine if I was awake (and so should be quizzed about breakfast preferences) or alseep (so she could sneak away, one less ingrate to deal with).  I said "hello" and after a short negotiation was handed two weetabix and left to eat them.  Blimey, it's all excitement so far!  I'll try and calm it down a bit.  

To cut a long and not very exciting story short, I fell asleep again (something I'm getting pretty good at) and was awoken by a rather sturdy looking dude hollowing in through my door.

"Can you walk mate", he asked.

"Not amazingly well, but I can", I replied, wondering what I was getting myself in for.

"I've come to take you for a CT scan.  They said to bring the bed, but if you can walk a bit, then we can get a wheel chair", he replied.

I was a bit confused.  Why would I need to walk so we could get a wheel chair, but apparently wheel chairs are like gold dust and some of the other porters have hidden stashes of them for their patients.  So basically, we'd have to walk the route, hunting for wheel chairs.  Now, unknown to most people, the wheelchair is not a social animal and prefers to spend its time alone, roaming the corridors.  They are however, well versed in urban camoflague and can be aggressive if approached head on.  So, we set off.  After walking down the first corridor we had a sighting.  I could feel the excitement of the hunt.  There it was, in its natural environment.  Beautiful and unfettered.  Graceful even.  My porter approached, keeping to the corridor walls, trying not to spook it.  His obvious experience in such matters coming to the fore as said wheelchair was quickly captured and loaded (with me).  We then headed to the CT scan department.  Unusually there was no queue of faintly miserable people, just me (the wheelchair) and a bloke in a bed who was asleep and very very pale.  I was whisped in very quickly.  Normally they have wanted to put contrast into my vein to show up blood vessels etc, but not this time, just bang on the table, in and out of the machine and bosch, thank you very much.  I felt a little used.  Anyway, a porter was rapidly on the scene and I was quickly back in my room.

Now is the scary bit.  The CT scan will show whether Mr. Tumour-face has shrunk or not.  If he has then things will continue on plan.  On friday will be the final RICE (thank the lord!).  If it has not shrunk, then it will show the little sh*t is immune to chemo, which will be bad bad news, as that is the main weapon they have.  Kind of like saying the enemy are immune the bullets and explosives, Mr President.  That gives the president a bad day.  So, I'm hoping hoping hoping the bast*rd has shrunk, otherwise it goes a bit Pete Tong.  A time for experimenting with mercury and infusions of sycamore root.  Eek!