Well not quite.
I was really nervous, so nervous that I forgot the injection fluid. I was afraid the machine would totally enclose me and the claustrophobic part of my personality was threatening to overtake me.
"Pas grave," the nurse told me about my forgetfulness. I still find it interesting that in France you bring your shots to the hospital having purchased them at any pharmacy.
We had been amused at the parking in front of the building.
Unlike most hospital gowns, this one had long sleeves and was warm against the AC, which considering we're having a canicule felt good. Heat and I will never be friends.
The machine was open. The waiting room had had a picture of its delivery on the wall. Was it wrapped in the breast cancer pink on purpose?
There were two holes for my breasts that would have been okay for a person with 44DDDD boobs. "I'm not THAT big!" I said in French.
I lay on my stomach, inserted my breasts and told not to more for 15 minutes. I shut my eyes and felt an ever so slow movement. A little later I felt the coolness of the liquid in my veins used to show things up in color. Who wants a black and white MRI reading anyway?
Divert my thoughts. First I thought of Obama singing "Amazing Grace" then I thought of Leonard Cohen singing "Hallelujah" at the Montreux Jazz Festival. He skipped off stage at the end after several encores, but I couldn't think of all the lyrics.
My next mind trip to keep me from moving was to pretend my body was slowly turning dusty rose starting at me feet and slowly swirling up to my neck and back again. Dusty rose is my favorite color.
Sometimes with the banging and humming of the machine the color retreated a little but by the time my body was covered and uncovered and back to its normal color, it was over.
The doctor told me my left breast was clean. One of the tumors is close to the lymph nodes, which worries me. I want those bastard cells not to make the leap over. It will be what it will be.
Rick was waiting for me. What a comfort to see his face.