I had been thinking about a title for my
blog for a while and “Booty and the Beast” was the only contender swimming
around my mind. However I was unsure so I thought I would run it by my
girlfriends to gather thoughts and opinions, as one does.
We had arranged to see each other on one of
my “last nights” out, back in the days when the evenings were still warm and I
could handle staying up past 8pm and most importantly, I could handle my wine.
After a jolly nice Prosecco I put the title forward to the board:
“But you don’t have cancer in your Booty.”
“Close enough, isn’t it?” I feebly defended
my choice.
“I think the title should be more relevant”
said another, followed by nods of general consensus.
“Yes, but tell me how the hell I can use “cervix”
in a title? It’s the worst word in the world!” I knew this would happen. And I
really had tried to find alternatives, but getting anything to sound humorous
or catchy with the word “cervix” in it was downright impossible, and ridiculous.
The evening continued with laughter and lots of clinking of glasses and hugs
and my title problem faded amongst the cheer, never to be mentioned again.
And it bothered me, I was sure there MUST
be a way to make it work.
Then something happened.
Now, I will go into all the dull and long
winded tests that have to be done when one is diagnosed with cancer at a later
date. Sadly, they are very necessary and I do thank the good grace of modern medicine
that they exist and that I am fortunate enough to have access to them. This is the tale of my PET CT scan; a rather
special scan that involved sitting very still for a good hour before whilst
being injected with a radioactive liquid that makes cancer cells light up like
a Christmas tree. Nice! Oh, and I couldn’t go anywhere near my child (or any
child for that matter) for 12 hours.
The nurse came in and handed me a green
gown and a weird pair of socks and told me the get undressed and put on the
gown. Undressed? As in, naked? Oh yes,
but I could keep my pants on. My eyebrows rose along with my suspicions. Yet
no! I had nothing to fear and 20 minutes later I was lying on my back
motionless staring up at the big noisy donut CT machine. Routine. Boring.
Then the nurse came in again with two male
doctors chattering merrily over my cold body. “Ok, if you’d like to pop onto
your front we’ll complete the scan”. Pardon? Ok! I turned onto my stomach and
prepared myself for another 20 minutes of bleeps. The bench slid into the donut
and stopped half-way. Now, I don’t know how many of you have had a CT scan, but
those who have will have noted that the tube is really quite narrow, making
turning back and looking over ones shoulders impossible. But why would I need
to look back? I was just going to be scanned again, wasn’t I?
At that precise moment my dreamy ignorance was
shattered: the gown was flung open and my pants were yanked down. At the same time my head shot up and whacked
the CT machine with a thud. “ARGH!”
“No need for alarm!” shrilled the doctor
Right! I am stuck in a CT machine and I
have just had my pants pulled down by total strangers with NO warning! To me
that is a great cause for alarm.
“Well, I am sorry, but this is the position
you will have to be in everyday for radiotherapy.”
“Come again? You mean, I have to be “ass
out” Every. Single. Day?”
“That is correct.”
Blow me down I thought. Who would have
known? Every day for 30 days, I would have to get my bottom out on display! Wait
a second… Flash!
My BOOTY.
And the rest is history.
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