Waiting for the man

I had my latest CT scan on Thursday and I'm hoping it's the last for at least a year.

There aren't very many experiences more lonesome than lying on the bed of a CT scanner waiting to be scanned, unless it's the bed of an  MRI scanner, which takes a bit longer and is noisier, like an old broken down machine trying to clank into life. The radiologist tries to put me at ease as he fits me up with yet another tube to deliver the contrasting fluid, or whatever it is they pump into my arm, talking about his football team, which happens to be Sunderland, for he's from that part of the world. Hard for me to build up any enthusiasm for his team or it's present plight. 

Then he disappears behind his protective screen with his mate and they leave me to contemplate my fate, as some disembodied voice tells me to stop breathing (or else), and then instructs me to breathe again, very rudely methinks. Can one say methought? Probably not; sounds stupid. Wee semi-colon there just for a laugh. It's all over in a matter of minutes, five or so, and then it's off to get tubes removed by a nurse whom I recognise from last year. He doesn't remember me and seems not to give a shit. 

The scan takes place in a mobile scanning unit which is run by a private company from North East of England and goes round the country helping NHS cope with the huge demand put on its services by us cancer patients. I don't remember any mention of this little bit of privatisation in recent referendum campaign when Alex promised no privatisation. It's not the only one that goes unmentioned either. But more of that another time, maybe.

So now I wait. I see Mr Speake on Wednesday afternoon to be told the best or the worst. The best I keep telling myself, though sometimes it's hard to keep believing. I'm impatient to get it over and done with and put all this behind me. The worst time, if there is indeed a worst time, is the thirty or so seconds as I sit down in the chair opposite Mr Speake and wait for him to start. I've usually had a good idea what to expect of him and Dr McLean, but this time it's a mystery. No point in trying to guess from his facial expression what's about to hit me. And it's no time for small talk or chit chat. Fortunately he is sensible enough to know this. I've just realised I don't even know what team he supports. All I know is that he is married and has a wee boy of whom he is very proud. 

Here's to good news on Wednesday and maybe 2015 I can travel again. Meantime I think I will visit the Botanic Gardens this afternoon, for it's a beautiful day here in Edinburgh. Hopefully Val's harp is blowing in the wind, if not singing even.