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God’s beautiful creation
Jun. 15th, 2018 12:08 amPull up a chair, my lovelies, and allow me to regale you with my tale of my MRI this evening.
As you may know, I have to have an annual MRI to check to see if Maggie (my spinal tumour, for those of you new to my journal), has reared her ugly head again. Like anything faintly terrifying, this gets routine when it’s repeated often enough. The MRI lab runs 24/7, so sometimes—as I was tonight—I get lucky and get an appointment late at night and I don’t have to miss any work. The late night staff tend to be the most interesting anyway. As for the test itself, I am pretty blasé; it’s the closet I ever get to resting, and the noise doesn’t bother me as I can just lie back and think of Blixa Bargeld.
When I checked in tonight, there was a very lovely receptionist. I gave my full name and birthdate, as is procedure.
”[Tabby],” she repeated. “Is this a man’s name?”
Confused, I replied, “No, it’s my name.”
”Interesting,” the receptionist said. “In my culture, usually you only keep the man’s name.”
Figuring it out, I said, “Oh! You mean my surname! Yes, that’s my surname.”
She nodded. “How do you think you look?” she asked.
To be quite honest, Gentle Readers, I have not been happy with my appearance lately, especially since the panhandler Louis asked me if I was pregnant. “Tired, I guess,” I replied.
“You look great,” she said, “for your age.”
I laughed. Ah, I’d figured it out. She was hitting on me. Nice! “Thanks,” I said. “You too.”
Gentle Readers, I both regret and am mildly gleeful to inform you that, in fact, she was not hitting on me.
“You should thank God for making you so beautiful,” she said, gesticulating at either the majesty of creation or the medical imaging reception area, one of the two. “Hopefully, you won’t have to come back here again.”
“I have to come back here every year,” I said.
“God made all of this,” she continued. “Do you really think He would make a mistake with you?”
I thought a freak spinal tumour counted as a pretty major mistake, but I’m sure she could see that in my chart. “Probably not,” I said, “but it doesn’t hurt to check His work.”
Religious nutter or not, she found this pretty funny. “Check His work?!”
“Sure,” I grinned. “You know. Just in case.”
Then I had to go into the MRI and not tell anyone about this encounter for 45 whole minutes, whilst trying to remain perfectly still and not lose my shit laughing. Gentle Readers, God may fuck up, but I am proud to say that I did not, and managed to accomplish this task. I may have been asked if I was pregnant three times this week (once by Louis, one on the form I had to fill out, and once by the tech who is legally obligated to ask), but at least I can bask in the glow of being God’s beautiful creation.
As you may know, I have to have an annual MRI to check to see if Maggie (my spinal tumour, for those of you new to my journal), has reared her ugly head again. Like anything faintly terrifying, this gets routine when it’s repeated often enough. The MRI lab runs 24/7, so sometimes—as I was tonight—I get lucky and get an appointment late at night and I don’t have to miss any work. The late night staff tend to be the most interesting anyway. As for the test itself, I am pretty blasé; it’s the closet I ever get to resting, and the noise doesn’t bother me as I can just lie back and think of Blixa Bargeld.
When I checked in tonight, there was a very lovely receptionist. I gave my full name and birthdate, as is procedure.
”[Tabby],” she repeated. “Is this a man’s name?”
Confused, I replied, “No, it’s my name.”
”Interesting,” the receptionist said. “In my culture, usually you only keep the man’s name.”
Figuring it out, I said, “Oh! You mean my surname! Yes, that’s my surname.”
She nodded. “How do you think you look?” she asked.
To be quite honest, Gentle Readers, I have not been happy with my appearance lately, especially since the panhandler Louis asked me if I was pregnant. “Tired, I guess,” I replied.
“You look great,” she said, “for your age.”
I laughed. Ah, I’d figured it out. She was hitting on me. Nice! “Thanks,” I said. “You too.”
Gentle Readers, I both regret and am mildly gleeful to inform you that, in fact, she was not hitting on me.
“You should thank God for making you so beautiful,” she said, gesticulating at either the majesty of creation or the medical imaging reception area, one of the two. “Hopefully, you won’t have to come back here again.”
“I have to come back here every year,” I said.
“God made all of this,” she continued. “Do you really think He would make a mistake with you?”
I thought a freak spinal tumour counted as a pretty major mistake, but I’m sure she could see that in my chart. “Probably not,” I said, “but it doesn’t hurt to check His work.”
Religious nutter or not, she found this pretty funny. “Check His work?!”
“Sure,” I grinned. “You know. Just in case.”
Then I had to go into the MRI and not tell anyone about this encounter for 45 whole minutes, whilst trying to remain perfectly still and not lose my shit laughing. Gentle Readers, God may fuck up, but I am proud to say that I did not, and managed to accomplish this task. I may have been asked if I was pregnant three times this week (once by Louis, one on the form I had to fill out, and once by the tech who is legally obligated to ask), but at least I can bask in the glow of being God’s beautiful creation.
